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No! while their rustled pinions fan
The eyrie's dizzy side,

Like you and me, my Jonathan,

It's all for Love and Pride!

"God save the Queen" delights you still,

And "British Grenadiers ;'

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The good old strains your heart-strings thrill,
And catch you by both ears;

And we,-O hate us if you can,
For we are proud of you,—

We like you, Brother Jonathan,
And "Yankee Doodle" too!

There's nothing foreign in your face,
Nor strange upon your tongue;
You come not of another race,
From baser lineage sprung;

No, brother! though away you ran,
As truant boys will do,
Still true it is, young Jonathan,
My fathers fathered you.

Time was,—it wasn't long ago,—
Your grandsire went with mine
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line ;

Or tripped to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship mighty Bess!

And you and I, good Jonathan,
Went with them then, I guess.

Together both,-'twas long ago,-
Among the Roses fought;

Or charging fierce the Paynim foe,
Did all knight-errants ought;
As Cavalier or Puritan

Together prayed or swore ;

For John's own Brother Jonathan
Was only John of yore!

There lived a man, a man of men,
A king on fancy's throne;
We ne'er shall see his like again,
The globe is all his own ;

And if we claim him of our clan,
He half belongs to you,

For Shakspere, happy Jonathan,
Is yours and Britain's too !

There was another glorious name,
A poet for all time,

Who gained the double-first of fame,

The beautiful sublime;

And let us hide him if we can,
More miserly than pelf,

Our Yankee brother Jonathan
Cries" halves" in Milton's self!

O Brother, could we both be one,
In nation and in name,

How gladly would the very sun
Lie basking in our fame!

In either world to lead the van,

And go-a-head for good,

While earth to John and Jonathan

Yields tribute gratitude!

Add but your stripes and golden stars

To brave St. George's cross,

And never dream of mutual wars,

Two dunces' mutual loss;

Let us two bless when others ban,

And love when others hate,

And so, my cordial Jonathan,

We'll fit, I calculate.

What more? I touch not holier strings,

A loftier strain to win;

Nor glance at prophets, priests, and kings, Or heavenly kith or kin.

As friend with friend, and man with man,

O let our hearts be thus,

As David's love to Jonathan,

Be Jonathan's to us!

IV. THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

(ALARIC A. WATTS.)

Alaric A. Watts was born in London in 1799. He has been long connected with the newspaper press, and for some time edited the "United Service Gazette."

My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes, When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble

cries;

For I thought of all that I had borne, as I bent me down to kiss

Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss!

I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and pain,

And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding

brain;

I thought of friends, grown worse than cold-of persecuting foes,

And I asked of Heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's repose!

I gazed upon thy quiet face, half-blinded by my tears,
Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my

fears;

Sweet rays of hope, that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them,

As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them.

My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er,
And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more!.
And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at
thy birth,

They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of earth!

'Tis true that thou wert young, my child; but though brief thy span below,

To me it was a little age of agony and woe;

For, from thy first faint dawn of life, thy cheek began to fade,

And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were wrapped in shade.

Oh, the child in its hours of health and bloom that is dear as thou wert then,

Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in pain;

And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost,

Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst cost!

Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee, day by day,

Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste away; And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not breathe aloud,

Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud!

It came at length: o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,

And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow-the deepest and the last;

In thicker gushes strove thy breath-we raised thy drooping head:

A moment more—the final pang-and thou wert of the dead!

Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me, And murmured low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attained by thee;

She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so blest as thine,

Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine!

We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow

Culled one soft lock of radiant hair,-our only solace now; Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers not more fair and sweet

Twin rose-buds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.

Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou, With all the beauty of thy cheek, the sunshine of thy brow, They never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst: They may be lovely and beloved, but not, like thee, the FIRST!

The FIRST! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring,

Of hopes that blossomed, drooped, and died, in life's delightful spring—

Of fervid feelings passed away-those early seeds of bliss That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world as this!

My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my First! When I think of what thou mightst have been, my heart is like to burst;

But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart,

And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!

Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth,

With not a taint of mortal life except thy mortal birth, God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,

And bliss, eternal bliss, is thine, my fairest and my First!

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