Where was the storm that slumbered till the host
Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their march below?

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!
Ye that at Marathon and Leucra bled!
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van;
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own;
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return,

The patriot TELL-the BRUCE of Bannockburn!

PADDY AND THE BEAR.

ABOUT the time I was a boy, Archy Thompson lived in Cushendall, lower part of the county Antrim. He was a great man; kept a grocer's shop, was like Jack Factotum, sold every thing portable; he was a ponderous fellow, wore a wig like a beehive, and was called king of Cushendall. He one night found a male child at the shop door some months old; he embraced it-swore he would keep it, and was as fond of him as ever Squire Allworthy was of Tom Jones. A woman was sent for to nurse him; they called her Snouter Shaughnessy, because she wanted the nose.-Snouter had no suck, and poor Paddy (for so he was christened) was spoon-fed, and soon grew a stout, well-built fellow : and to show his gratitude, (for Paddy had a heart) would do all about the house himself. He was like Scrub in the Beaux Stratagem, servant of all work ; he milked the cow; he dunged the byre, and thatched it; he went to market; he soled the shoes; he cleaned the knives; he shaved; and powdered his master's wig, which, after being drenched in a journey, hé would put a poker in the fire, and change it from its state of flaccidity to its pristine form, as well as Char

ley Boyand, or ever a peruke maker among them. Paddy's delight was in frequenting wakes, listening with avidity to any thing marvellous.-His master being at Belfast, he went to old Brien Sollaghan's wake, where a lad just from a foreign voyage was telling stories out of the course of nature, improbable. Paddy believed all but something about blackamoors, he was relating; for he swore twas impossible for one man to be black and another man white, for he could not be naturally black without he was painted; but I'll ask the master in the morning, when he comes home, and then I'll know all about it." So he says in the morning, "Master, is there any such thing as a blackamoor ?" "To be sure there is, as many as would make regiments of them, but they're all abroad." "And what makes them black ?" "Why it's the climate, they say." "And what's the climate?" "Why I dont know I believe it's something they rub upon them when they're very young." "They must have a deal of it, and very cheap, if there's as many of them as you say. The next time you're in Belfast, I wish you'd get a piece of it, and we'll rub little Barney over with it, and then we can have a blackamoor of our own. But as I'm going in the Irish Volunteer, from Larne to America, in the spring, I'll see them there." Paddy went over as a redemptioner, and had to serve a time for his passage. He was sent by his master six miles from Baltimore, to the heights of Derby, on an errand.-Paddy, thinking and ruminating on the road that he had not yet seen a blackamoor, forgot the directing-post on the road, and got entangled in a forest; it happened to be deep snow, and there was a large black bear lying at the foot of a tree, which he did not observe till within a few yards of him. "Hurra, my darling!" says he, "here's one of them now, at last -queen of glory! such a nose as he has: they talk about Loughey Fudaghen's nose; why, the noses of all the Fudaghen's put together would not make this fellow's nose. I never saw one of your sort before,"

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says Paddy; "why, man, you'll get your death of cowld lying there; I have an odd tester yet left from Cushendall, and if there's a shebeen near this I'll give you a snifter, for I'd like to speak to you." Boo," says the bear. "Lord what a voice he has-he could sing a roaring song." "Boo, boo!" again cries the bear. "Who the devil are you booing at? if it's fun you're making of me, I'll ram my fist up to the elbow in you." Up gets the bear, and catches Paddy by the shoulder. "Is it for wrestling you are?-Cushendall for that-soul, but you grip too tight, my jewel; you had better take your fist out of my shoulder, or I'll take an unfair advantage of you." Paddy went to catch him by the middle; "O sweet bad luck to you, you thief, and the tailor that made your breechesyou're made for wrestling, but I'll neck you." Paddy pulled out his tobacco-knife, and gave him a dart in the right place-down he fell to rise no more. "O sweet father! what will become of me now?" says he-"I've killed this black son of a bitch, and I'll be hanged for him. O sweet Jasus! that ever I left Cushendall! O murder, murder! O what will become of me!" A gentleman, proprietor of the place, and who had blacks on his estate, comes up at the moment. "What is all this about ?-what's the matter, sir ?" Nothing, but I'm from Cushendall, saving your honour's worship; I never seen a blackamoor before, and I just asked one of them to take a drop with me; but he would do nothing but make fun of me, so I gave him a prod, for I could not get a hould of him.' -"Stop, stop; there's a bear lying take "Faith he was going to make me bare, sure enough; see where he tore my coat." "Was that the blackamoor you were wrestling with? why, sir, that's a bear, that ten men in the forest could not kill." " "By the holy father, I'll drop them to you for a tester a dozen," says Paddy. The gentleman admired his courage and honest appearance so much, that he went to Baltimore, bought off his time, and made him an

care."

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And every bud and blossom of the spring,
Is the memorial that nature rears

Over a kindred grave.-Ay, and the song
Of woodland wooer, or his nuptial lay,
As blithe as if the year no winter knew,
Is the lament of universal death.
The merry singer is the living link

Of many a thousand years of death gone by,
And many a thousand in futurity,—
The remnant of a moment, spared by him
But for another meal to gorge upon.
This globe is but our father's cemetery-

The sun, and moon, and stars that shine on high,
The lamps that burn to light their sepulchre,
The bright escutcheons of their funeral vault.
Yet does man move as gayly as the barge,
Whose keel sings through the waters, and her sails
Kythe like the passing meteor of the deep;
Yet ere to-morrow shall those sunny waves,
That wanton round her, as they were in love,
Turn dark and fierce, and swell, and swallow her,
So is he girt by death on every side,

As heedless of it. Thus he perishes.
Such were my thoughts on a summer eve,
As forth I walked to quaff the cooling breeze.
The setting sun was curtaining the west
With purple and with gold, so fiercely bright,
That eye of mortal might not look on it-
Pavilion fitting for an angel's home,
The sun's last ray fell slanting on a thorn
With blossoms white, and there a blackbird sat
Bidding the sun adieu, in tones so sweet
As fancy might awake around his throne.
My heart was full, yet found no utterance,
Save in a half-breathed sigh and moistening tear.
I wandered on, scarce knowing where I went,
Till I was seated on an infant's grave.
Alas! I knew the little tenant well:
She was one of a lovely family,

That oft had clung around me like a wreath
Of forests, the fairest of the maiden spring-
It was a new-made grave, and the green sod
Lay loosely on it; yet affection there

Had reared the stone, her monument of fame.
I read the name-I loved to hear her lisp-
'Twas not alone, but every name was there
That lately echoed through that happy dome.
I had been three weeks absent; in that time
The merciless destroyer was at work,

And spared not one of all the infant group.
The last of all I read the grandsire's name,
On whose white locks I oft had seen her cheek,
Like a bright sun-beam on a fleecy cloud,
Rekindling in his eye the fading lustre,
Breathing in his heart the glow of youth.
He died at eighty of a broken heart,
Bereft of all for whom he wished to live.

THE BARBER'S SHOP.

I'm a dapper little shaver,
Who in manners and behaviour,
Bear the bell from all the trade.
I'm descended from the Razors,
Who, as most people say, sirs,
A fortune should have made.
For be it known, my father
Such numbers used to lather,
And so briskly plied his trade,
And so briskly plied his trade,
That, by hair dressing and shaving
Though his family was craving,
He a decent living made.

Spoken.] Mr. Razor, says my poor deceased mother; My duck, says my father. Vy, lovy, I've been thinking as how ve should send Tony to a larned seminary, for