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Anecdote of Washington.-ANONYMOUS. IMMEDIATELY after the organization of the present government, Gen. Washington repaired to Fredericksburg, to pay his humble duty to his mother, preparatory for his departure to New York. An affecting scene ensued. The son feelingly remarked the ravages, which a torturing disease had made upon the aged frame of his mother, and thus addressed her.

• The people, Madam, have been pleased, with the most flattering unanimity, to elect me to the chief magistracy of the United States, but before I can assume the functions of my office, I have come to bid you an affectionate farewell. So soon as the public business, which must necessarily be encountered in arranging a new government, can be disposed of, I shall hasten to Virginia, and?

Here the matron interrupted him. “You will see me no more. My great age, and the disease, which is fast approaching my vitals, warn me I shall not be long of this world. I trust in God, I am somewhat prepared for a better. But go, George, fulfil the high destinies which Heaven appears to assign to you; go, my son, and may that Heaven, and your mother's blessing be with you always.'

The President was deeply affected. His head rested upon the shoulder of his parent, whose aged arm feebly, yet fondly encircled his neck. That brow, on which fame had wreathed the purest laurel virtue ever gave to created man, relaxed from its lofty bearing. That look, which could have awed a Roman senate in its Fabrician day, was bent in filial tenderness, upon the time-worn features of this venerable matron.

The great man wept. A thousand recollections crowded upon his mind, as memory, retracing scenes long past, carried him back to the maternal mansion, and the days of his youth; and there the centre of attraction was his mother, whose care, instruction and discipline had prepared him to reach the topmost height of laudable ambition; yet how were his glories forgotten while he gazed upon her, from whom, wasted by time and malady, he must soon part to meet no

The matron's predictions were true. The disease, which


had so long preyed upon her frame, completed its triumph, and she expired at the age of eighty-five, confiding in the promises of immortality to the humble believer.


To the North Star.-ANONYMOUS.

The brightest jewel on Night's ebon brow,

thou hast gazed, as thou art gazing now,
On this world's feverish jar.
Far in the northern pole
Thy clear and steady flame burns without end:
While other planets on their journeys tend,

Forever doomed to roll.

But thou, O beacon bright in heaven's blue sea!
Dost never from thy moorings break away;
But hangest out thy constant flame for aye,

That shipwrecked men may look to thee.
The mariner, when his bark
Is driven across the ocean, bleak and drear,
And cheerlessly the breeze screams in his ear,

And midnight shrouds his billowy track,
Casts o'er the waste his straining eye,
And through the driving tempest looks to thee;
From the torn deck, and from the boiling sea,

He turns for guidance from the sky.
The moon shines when the eve grows dim;
She fills her golden horns with light, and then
Fadeth away, and is obscured again

Through all her curved rim.
But thou dost never pale thy flame,
But steadily, throughout the lapse of time,
Dost keep unmoved thy lonely throne sublime,
-Forever still the same!

The planets in their orbits disappear,
The twinkling stars haste on their cloudy path,
The round red sun an endless journey hath,

But thou art fastened in thy sphere.
Thou art a beauteous type, bright Star!
Of that pure star, Religion! on whose ray
The Christian looks for guidance on his way,
When human passions wage

their war.
Upon the troublous seas of life,
When tumults stir the bosoms of mankind,
Then to Religion's steady light, his mind

Turns for a refuge from their strife,



· The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising; the name of the chamber was Peace ; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang.'


Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long,
In fiery armor, up the heavens high
Stood watch, thou com’st to wait the morning's song.
Thou com’st to tell me day again is nigh.
Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye;
And yet in the broad day it must grow
Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why
My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim;
Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him.

Canst thou grow sad,'thou say'st, 'as earth grows bright?
And sigh, when little birds begin discourse
In quick, low voices, e'er the streaming light
Pours on their nests, as sprung from day's fresh source?
With creatures innocent thou must, perforce,
A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure.
And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse,

Of ills and pains of life, must be the cure, And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure,'.


I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue
Along that eastern cloud of deep, dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold-and' heavy dew;
And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed.
Still -save the bird that scarcely lifts its song-
The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead

The silent city emptied of its throng,
And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong. .

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth, Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife, With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth With discord strange, and all that man calls life. With thousand scattered beauties nature 's rife; And airs, and woods, and streams, breathe harmonies:Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife; Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties: He, feverish, blinded lives, and, feverish, sated dies.

And 't is because man useth so amiss
Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;
Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this,
Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,
From her fair face?— It is that man is mad!
Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine,
When Nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad.

Thou look’st towards earth: but yet the heavens are thine; While I to earth am bound:--When will the heavens be mine?

If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense
Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern
Teach him be thoughtful; then, with soul intense,
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed,
Remembering, humbly, why it is, and whence:

But when I see cold man of reason proud,
My solitude is sad—I 'm lonely in the crowd.

But not for this alone, the silent tear
Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn,
Nor for this solemn hour:-fresh life is near,-
But all my joys!—they died when newly born.
Thousands will wake to joy; while I, forlorn,

And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye,
Shall see them pass. Breathe ca\m-my spirit 's torn;

Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high!-
Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh.

And when I grieve, O, rather let it be
That I-whom Nature taught to sit with her
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea-
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir
Of woods and waters, feel the quickening spur
To my strong spirit;—who, as mine own child,
Do love the fower, and in the ragged bur

A beauty see—that I this mother mild
Should leave, and go with Care, and passions fierce and wild!

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
Shot 'thwart the earth!-in crown of living fire
Up comes the Day !-as if they conscious quaffed
The sunny flood, hill, forest, city, spire
Laugh in the wakening light.-Go, vain Desire!
The dusky lights have gone; go thou thy way!
And pining Discontent, like them, expire!

Be called my chamber, Peace, when ends the day; And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and pray!


Alpine Flowers.--MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Meek dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs!
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,
Whence are ye?-Did some white-winged messenger,
On Mercy's missions, trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows?:
Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?-

-Tree nor shrub
Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice,

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