At the mansion doors

Shiver, full of woes;
With its life they grew,
Guarded well its gates;
Now their task is through,

Down the old house goes!

On this honored site

Modern trade will build,

What unseemly fright

Heaven only knows!
Something peaked and high,
Smacking of the guild:

Let us heave a sigh,

Down the old house goes!

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Erie, the Lake, N. Y.

THES

LAKE ERIE.

HESE lovely shores! how lone and still,
A hundred years ago,

The unbroken forest stood above,
The waters dashed below,
The waters of a lonely sea,
Where never sail was furled,
Embosomed in a wilderness,
Which was itself a world.

A hundred years! go back, and lo!
Where, closing in the view,
Juts out the shore, with rapid oar
Darts round a frail canoe,
'Tis a white voyager, and see,
His prow is westward set

O'er the calm wave: Hail to thy bold,
World-seeking barque, Marquette!

The lonely bird, that picks his food
Where rise the waves and sink,

At their strange coming, with shrill scream,

Starts from the sandy brink;

The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky,

Floats o'er on level wing,

And the savage from his covert looks,
With arrow on the string.

A hundred years are past and gone,
And all the rocky coast

Is turreted with shining towns,
An empire's noble boast;
And the old wilderness is changed
To cultured vale and hill;
And the circuit of its mountains
An empire's numbers fill!

Ephraim Peabody.

B

PERRY'S VICTORY ON LAKE ERIE.

RIGHT was

the morn, - the waveless bay

Shone like a mirror to the sun;
Mid greenwood shades and meadows gay,
The matin birds their lays begun :
While swelling o'er the gloomy wood
Was heard the faintly echoed roar, -
The dashing of the foamy flood,

That beat on Erie's distant shore.

The tawny wanderer of the wild
Paddled his painted birch canoe,
And, where the wave serenely smiled,
Swift as the darting falcon, flew;
He rowed along that peaceful bay,
And glanced its polished surface o'er,
Listening the billow far away,
That rolled on Erie's lonely shore.

What sounds awake my slumbering ear?
What echoes o'er the waters come?
It is the morning gun I hear,
The rolling of the distant drum.
Far o'er the bright illumined wave
I mark the flash, - I hear the roar,
That calls from sleep the slumbering brave,
To fight on Erie's lonely shore.

See how the starry banner floats,
And sparkles in the morning ray:

While sweetly swell the fife's gay notes
In echoes o'er the gleaming bay:
Flash follows flash, as through yon fleet
Columbia's cannons loudly roar,
And valiant tars the battle greet,
That storms on Erie's echoing shore.

O, who can tell what deeds were done,
When Britain's cross, on yonder wave,
Sunk 'neath Columbia's dazzling sun,
And met in Erie's flood its grave?
Who tell the triumphs of that day,
When, smiling at the cannon's roar,
Our hero, mid the bloody fray,
Conquered on Erie's echoing shore?

Though many a wounded bosom bleeds
For sire, for son, for lover dear,
Yet Sorrow smiles amid her weeds, -
Affliction dries her tender tear;
Oh! she exclaims, with glowing pride,
With ardent thoughts that wildly soar,
My sire, my son, my lover died,
Conquering on Erie's bloody shore!

*

*

*

James Gates Percival.

Fire Island, N. Y.

ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE
MARGARET FULLER.

VER his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli ! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy to youth restored,
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge
Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach
Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all
Precious on earth to thee, - a child, a wife !
Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.
She would not leave behind her those she loved:
Such solitary safety might become

Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renowned for strength of genius, Margaret!
Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,
And shortly none will hear my failing voice,
But the same language with more full appeal
Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song
Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains
Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;
Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.

Walter Savage Landor.