201

HOPE.

BY WILLIAM GRIGG, M. D.

HOPE is the bird that we fondly chase
Through the day from early dawn;

When night has come and we 're sure of him,
We grasp, but the bird has gone.

So when the lake on its surface shows
The bubble some spell has woke,
We endeavour to dip up the fairy shell,
But alas! the bubble is broke.

The simple child as he strives to grasp
The sunbeam upon the wall,

Is astonished to find that the light is gone,
Unknowing he shades its fall.

Just so with man;-for the bird of hope
He follows, though still it flies,

The bubble he breaks, and the light he shades,
And when they vanish, he dies.

But hopes that spring in the lover's heart,
When dreams of misery lower,

Beam bright on his soul as the glaring light
That breaks through the summer shower-
And dear to him is their hallowed smile

As the holy rays that shine

On the flower that 's doomed through the chilling storm, For that nourishing light to pine.

In their welcome glow the future seems

Arrayed in her best attire,

And his ear is filled with the rapturous sound

She flings from her golden lyre.

Alas! should the blissful spell be broke

And those hopes be quenched in tears,

Oh! never again will their brightness shine
As in scenes of early years.

The soldier's hope is the down that 's borne
On the breeze from spray to spray,

Though wooing the hand and eluding the grasp,

Still taking its flight away,

Till the soldier sees the brittle thread

Connecting success with power,

When the monarch resolves that the free born soul At his footstool's base shall cower;

But the down will sport on freedom's breeze,

And float o'er liberty's shore,

Until, wet with the gush of the hireling's blood,
It can skim the breeze no more;

And when on the earth it quiet lies,

Where slumber the freeborn brave, It is dearer by far to the soldier's eye, Than the gem that decks the slave.

The scholar's hope is the praise that comes
From the lips of his fellow men,

Until Echo has whispered from distant climes,
The enchanting sound again;

That voice is heard, and his bosom heaves

With pleasures unknown before;

But that voice will be hushed, and Echo die,
And tell of that praise no more;

And the richest wreath that art can weave
O'er the scholar's furrowed brow,

Will let fall its leaves when the wintry winds
Shall wither hope's verdant bough;

But Time shall gaze on the scholar's book,
And shall read the scholar's name,

And he will decide if that word be writ
On the scroll of deathless fame.

203

A BURIAL AT SEA.

BY S. G. GOODRICH.

THE shore hath blent with the distant skies,
O'er the bend of the crested seas,

And the gallant ship in her pathway flies,
On the sweep of the freshened breeze.

Oh! swift be thy flight, for a dying guest
Thou bearest o'er the billow,

And she fondly sighs in her own blue West
To find a peaceful pillow

"T is vain!—for her pulse is silent now, Her lip hath lost its breath,

And a strange, sad beauty of the brow

Speaks the cold stroke of death.

The ship heaves to, and the funeral rite

O'er the lovely form is said,

And the rough man's cheek with tears is bright,

As he lowers the gentle dead.

The corse floats down alone-alone,

To its dark and dreary grave,

And the soul on a lightened wing hath flown,

To the world beyond the wave.

'Tis a fearful thing in the sea to sleep

Alone in a silent bed,

'Tis a fearful thing on the shoreless deep Of a spirit world to tread.

But the sea hath rest in its twilight caves,
To the weary pilgrim given,

And the soul is blest on the peaceful waves
Of the star-lit deep of heaven.

* *

The ship again o'er the wide blue surge
Like a winged arrow flies,

And the moan of the sea is the only dirge
Where the lonely sleeper lies.

THE SIEGE OF SOLEURE.

THERE can hardly be any traditions more interesting to Americans than those which relate to Switzerland. The love of liberty, which animated this brave and hardy race for so many years, is of too kindred a spirit to our own contest for freedom, not to awaken the most lively emotions. We read their history, and we feel that they are brethren-not from the common stock of Adam, but from sympathy and that power of mind which proclaims all men free.

The town of Soleure is situated amongst the mountains of Jura, and along the fertile and romantic vale of Balstal. It is the capital of the canton which bears the same name, and is watered by the beautiful river Aar. The town is small, but neat, and surrounded by stone fortifications. It claims the honor of having been built originally by our great father Abraham; and its public repositories exhibit inscriptions and medals, that give it the highest title to antiquity.

Perhaps it is not merely in moral qualities that some resemblance may be traced between our favored land and this land of beauty. We have rivers that may vie with theirs in scenery and grandeur, nor can our mountains be considered mole hills when compared with the dark Jura or snow crowned Alps. Even the celebrated fall of the Rhine must yield to our cataract of rushing waters. That there is more of wild and sublime scenery condensed in Switzerland is undoubtedly true; and he who has stood on its summits and lingered in its vallies, has enjoyed a happiness which will give new associations to the romantic scenery of this western world.

HUGO VON BUCHEG was a venerable burger and chief magistrate of the town of Soleure. He had long been regarded as father of the Council, and the people placed their reliance upon him in every time of danger. His habits were plain and simple. He had amassed no wealth, for his services were given and not sold. One treasure he possessed which he considered beyond all price, and that was his only child, Ellen. She had early lost her mother, and had spent her time almost as she pleased, in wandering about the suburbs of Soleure, gathering plants for her collections, and accumulating a stock of health, energy, and cheerfulness. It must not be supposed that this life of freedom was without system. It was consistent with Swiss habits and opinions. 'My daughter,' said the old Bucheg, 'is studying the wisest book in the world-that of nature.' And so thought Ellen; for, except a common school education, she had had few advantages; yet her mind had expanded beyond her years, and every object filled it with new thoughts and associations.

She was yet at a tender age, when her father received a most earnest letter from his only sister, who resided