In every stream His bounty flows,
Diffusing joy and wealth;

In every breeze His spirit blows,-
The breath of life and health.

His blessings fall in plenteous showers
Upon the lap of earth,

That teems with foliage, fruit, and flowers,
And rings with infant mirth.

If God hath made this world so fair,
Where sin and death abound;
How beautiful beyond compare,
Will Paradise be found!

The Patriot's Pass-word.

At the battle of Sempach, in the fourteenth century, when the Swiss were struggling for their freedom against the Austrians, who had a superior army and were better equipped, defeat to the Swiss appeared certain; until Arnold de Winkelried a native of Interwalden, after commending his family to his countrymen, rushed against the enemy's line of spears, and grasping as many of them as he could-made a breach in the enemy's line, that his friends took advantage of. Stimulated by the courage and devotion of their countryman, the Swiss gained a complete victory and secured their freedom.

660

MAKE way for liberty!" he cried,
Made way for liberty, and died.

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood;

A wall,-where every conscious stone
Seem'd to its kindred thousands grown,
A rampart all assaults to bear,

Till time to dust their frames should wear :
A wood,-like that enchanted grove
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possess'd
A spirit imprison'd in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Might startle into hideous life :

So still, so dense, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood.
Impregnable their front appears,
All-horrent with projected spears,
Whose polish'd points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendours run
Along the billows to the sun.

Opposed to these a hovering band
Contended for their father-land;

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,

And beat their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords,
And what insurgent rage had gain'd,
In many a mortal fray maintain’d.
Marshall'd once more, at freedom's call
They came to conquer or to fall,

Where he who conquer'd, he who fell,
Was deem'd a dead or living Tell;
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod,
Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burn'd within,
The battle trembled to begin;

Yet while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for assault was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet:
How could they rest within their graves,
To leave their homes the haunts of slaves!
Would they not feel their children tread,
With clanking chains, above their head?

It must not be; this day, this hour
Annihilates the invader's power;
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield,
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.

Few were the numbers she could boast,
Yet every freeman was a host,

And felt as 'twere a secret known,
That one should turn the scale alone,
While each unto himself was he,
On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him-Arnold Winkelried;
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.

Unmark'd he stood amidst the throng,
In rumination deep and long,

Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face,
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the bursting storm,
And by the uplifting of his brow

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 'twas no sooner thought than done, The field was in a moment won; "Make way for liberty!" he cried, Then ran with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp ; Ten spears he swept within his grasp; "Make way for liberty!" he cried,

Their keen points cross'd from side to side; He bow'd amidst them, like a tree,

And thus made way for liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly, "Make way for liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rush'd the spears through Arnold's heart, While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic seized them all; An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus death made way for liberty.

HON. MRS. NORTON.

BORN 1808.

The Arab's Farewell to his Steed.

St. Pierre tells us of an Arab who possessed a beautiful mare, which the French Consul at Said (the ancient Sidon) offered to purchase. The terms were agreed upon, and the money laid down. The man, who had been driven to this course by poverty, looked first wistfully at the gold and then at his mare; and exclaimed, "To whom is it I am going to deliver thee? To Europeans! who will tie thee close, who will beat thee, and render thee miserable! Return with me, my beauty! my jewel! and rejoice the hearts of my children." As he pronounced the last words he sprung upon her back, scampered across the desert and in a few minutes was out of sight.

This is the story which the Hon. Mrs. Norton has put into poetry.

Y beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,

With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;