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Six years from this time, and Mary was a beautiful woman of three-and-twenty, and not only beautiful, but educated and accomplished; for her own efforts had procured for her advantages of culture superior to what it is the lot of many to attain. George returned to his native village, a newly admitted lawyer, with the offer of a partnership in a very extensive business in Boston. Of course, everybody in the village altered their minds about him directly. His old mother laughed and almost blushed when complimented on her son, and said that somehow George always did seem to have it in him, and his neighbours, one and all, remembered how they had prophesied that George would be a remarkable man. As to Jonathan Parsons, he shook hands with him in extra style, invited him to drop in and see him any time, and even inquired his opinion as to one or two measures of Congress, about which he professed he had not yet made up his mind; and Mary- ah, well! Mr. George and Miss Mary had a deal of business by themselves in the little front room, from which came in time as gay a wedding as ever made an old house ring with merriment; and then they took a house in Boston, and Mr. George Evarts began to make a figure in the papers, as a leading young man in the political world, which made Jonathan Parsons a more zealous reader of them than ever; for, as he often took occasion to remark, "he felt that he had some hand in forming that young man's mind."

Many years after this, the Earl of Beresford and our heroine again met at a court drawing room in his own land, and to her, as the wife of the American Minister,

his Lordship was formally presented. He was now a regular married man, somewhat gouty, and exceedingly fastidious in the matter of women, as his long experience on these subjects had entitled him to be. He was struck, however, with the noble simplicity of Mary's manners, and with a beauty which, though altered in style, time had done little to efface; nor did he know, till the evening was over, that he had been in close attendance on the little village beauty of New Hampshire and the wife of a Yankee Pedler.

11

CLASSIC MELODIES.

BY J. G. PERCIVAL.

[I have attempted, below, a series of imitations of four of the leading classes of ancient measures, namely, the Dactylic (Elegiac,) Iambic, (including the Anacreontic,) Anapestic, and Trochaic. The first I have adapted, after the manner of Tyrtæus, to the Patriotic Elegy; the Iambic proper, to a subject, not unsuited to its tragic character; the Anacreontic, to its not inappropriate purpose, as a Dithyrambic. The Anapestic has the proper movement of a march; in the longer lines, that of a dead march; in the shorter, that of an onset. The Trocahic I have adapted to the sentimental; in the longer lines, to the more tender and pathetic; in the shorter, to the lighter and more exhilarant. Here, too, in lines of equal length, at least in the shorter, the character varies, as the measure is complete or incomplete, (Acatalectic, or Catalectic;) in the former case, the movement being more gentle; in the latter, more spirited. I have aimed at classical imagery and sentiment, in all these pieces, except the first Trochaic, the character of which is rather modern; but such is the dominant influence of the Subjective, in modern poetry, that I am conscious I have not attained, as well as I could wish, to the purer Objective of the ancients.]

ELEGIAC.

O! IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending:

Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for

aye

Glory, that never is dim, shining on with a light never ending

Glory that never shall fade, never, O! never away.

O! it is sweet for our country to die-how softly reposes Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love, Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands of roses,

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perished:

Hebe awaits him in Heaven, welcomes him there with

her smile;

There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished;

Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile.

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river;

Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue rolling sea; But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted for

ever;

There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant and free.

O! then how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish,

Firm with our breast to the foe, Victory's shout in our

ear:

Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory

cherish;

We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the

sweet music to hear.

IAMBIC.

My heart is sad, my hope is gone, my light has fled;
I sit and mourn, in silent grief, the lingering day:
Ah! never more he comes, my love; among the dead,
O! far, O! far, his fleeting shade has flown away.
Far o'er the dark and dismal wave, whence no return,
In deepest night, he wanders now, a shape of air:
He hears me not; hears not the sighs, with love that burn:
I see no more that form, so bright, so young and fair.

O! bright and fair, as shapes that oft from heaven descend,

And on Parnassus stand before the setting sun:

Bright, when he moved in shining arms, home to defend ;
Bright, when a champion strong, the eager race he run :
O! fair, as rose and lily fair, when they entwine,
In asphodelian meads, their wreath of virgin bloom:
His heart was kind as brave; O! he was doubly mine,
But now I only weep beside his early tomb.

Death, with inverted torch, the young and gentle death, Weeps o'er him now, and mourns the plucked and withered flower:

All bloom must fade- the south wind breathes its with

ering breath,

And the clear-blowing north sweeps on, with blasting

power.

I too must soon be gone; in grief I glide away:

The rose has left my cheek; my eye looks dim through

tears.

Come, gentle death! here with the youth, in silence lay My form, ere it has felt the icy touch of years.

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