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Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen grandeur seems to gather round his memory. We picture him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking place.. Defeated, but not dismayed-crushed to the earth, but not humiliated he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to receive a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he even smote to death one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately despatched to the swamp, where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had began to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet; all resistance was vain; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt at escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own nation.

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate king Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonoured when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character, sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect for his memory. We find, amid all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiments of friendship. The captivity of his "beloved wife and only son" are mentioned with exultation, as causing him poignant misery; the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and bereaved him of all further comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil- -a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs-a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untame able love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forest, or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit

to submission, and live dependant and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities, and bold achievements, that would have graced a civilized warrior, and rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a foundering bark, amid darkness and tempestwithout an eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle.


Higher, higher will we climb,
Up the mount of glory,

That our names may live through time,
In our country's story;
Happy when her welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil,

In the mines of knowledge;
Nature's wealth, and Learning's spoil,
Win from school and college
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward may we press,
Through the path of duty,
Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty;
Minds are of celestial birth,
Make we then a heav'n of earth.

Closer, closer let us knit

Hearts and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit,

In the wildest weather;
O, they wander wide, who roam
For the joys of life from home.

Nearer, dearer bands of love,
Draw our souls in union,
To our Father's house above,

To the saints' communion :
Thither ev'ry hope ascend,
There may all our labours end,


List not t' Ambition's call, for she has lur'd
To death her tens of thousands, and her voice,
Though sweet as the old syren's, is as false :
Won by her blandishments, the Warrior seeks
The battle field, where red destruction waves
O'er the wild plain his banner, trampling down
The dying and the dead ;- -on Ocean's wave
Braving the storm-the dark lee-shore-the fight-
The seaman follows her, to fall-at last-
In victory's gory arms. To Learning's sons
She promises the proud degree-the praise
Of academic senates, and a name
That Fame, on her imperishable scroll
Shall deeply 'grave. Ô, there was one who heard
Her fatal promptings-whom the Muses mourn,
And Genius yet deplores! In studious cell
Immur'd, he trimm'd his solitary lamp,
And morn, unmark'd, upon his palid cheek
Oft flung her ray, ere yet the sunken eye
Reluctant clos'd, and sleep around his couch
Strew'd her despised poppies. Day with night
Mingled-insensibly and night with day:
In loveliest change the seasons came-and pass'd :
Spring woke, and in her beautiful blue sky
Wander'd the lark-the merry birds beneath
Pour'd their sweet woodland poetry-the streams
Sent up their eloquent voices-all was joy;
And in the breeze was life. Then summer gemm'd
The sward with flowers, as thickly strewn as seen
In Heaven the countless clustering stars. By day
The grateful peasant pour'd his song,-by night
The nightingale ;-he heeded not the lay
Divine of earth or sky-the voice of streamsed
Sunshine and shadow-and the rich blue sky;
Nor gales of fragrance and of life that cheer
The aching brow-relume the drooping eye-
And fire the languid pulse. One stern pursuit,

One master passion, master'd all-and Death
Smil'd inly, as Consumption at his nod
Poison'd the spring of life, and flush'd the cheek
With roses that bloom only o'er the grave;
And in that eye, which once so mildly beam'd
Kindled unnatural fires !

Yet Hope sustain'd
His sinking soul; and to the high reward
Of sleepless nights, and watchful days, and scorn
Of pleasure, and the stern contempt of ease,
Pointed exultingly. But Death, who loves
To blast Hope's fairest visions, and to dash,
In unsuspected hour, the cup of bliss
From man's impatient lip,with horrid glance
Mark'd, the young victim, as with flutt'ring step,
And beating heart, and cheek with treach'rous bloonr
Suffused, he press'd where Science op'd the gates
Of her high temple.

There, beneath the guise
Of Learning's proud professor, sat enthron'd
The tyrant-DEATH :—and, as around the brow
Of that ill-fated votary he wreath'd
The crown of Victory-silently he twin'd
The cypress with the laurel; at his foot
Perish'd the "MARTYR-STUDENT."


Where olive leaves were twinkling in every breeze that blew,
There sat beneath the pleasant shade, a damsel of Peru ;
Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air,
Came glimpses of her snowy arm and of her glossy hair
And sweetly rang her silver voice amid the shady nook,
As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.


"Tis a song of love and valour, in the noble Spanish tongue,
That once upon the sunny plains of Old Castile was sung:
When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish route below,
Had rush'd the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe
Awhile the melody is still, and then breaks forth anew,
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note—of freedom and Peru.

For she hath bound the sword to a youthful lover's side,
And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his bride,
And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right,
And held the fountains of her eyes till he was ought of sight;
Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled,
And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth,
And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly towards the


Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden; the sharpest eye would fail,
To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;
For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat,
And the silent hills and forest tops seem reeling in the heat.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone,
But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on,
Not as of late, with cheerful tones, but mournfully and low-
A ballad of a tender maid, heart-broken long ago,
Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave,
And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave.

But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride,
See the torn plume, the tarnished belt, the sabre at his side
His spurs are in his horse's sides, his hand casts loose the rein,
There's sweat upon the streaming flank, and foam upon the


He speeds towards that olive bower, along the shaded hill, God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill.

And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear,
A shriek sent up amid the shade-a shriek-but not of fear;
For tender accents follow, and tender pauses speak,
The overflow of gladness when words are all too weak,
"I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive grove with thee."


The festal blazes, the triumphal show,
The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe,
'The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale,
With force resistless o'er the brave prev

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