hand, press softly on his feverish, throbbing head, to reassure him. And when he took that little hand in his, and begged, in humble, imploring words- the first he uttered consciously that she might never leave him, Margery's eyes swam full of tears, for the fairy ring blazed forth like a star from beneath his wasted fingers.

Margery's courtship wasn't long; not half the words, not half the vows, not half the maidenly dissimulations, the hesitations, the doubts, the manly pride and dignity, the womanly reserve and fickleness, that the world very properly requires in affairs of this sort, were deemed necessary. Nor do I know that Margery regretted the omission, nor considered it incumbent upon her to make amends in future, when a little plain, thin gold ring, as modest and as unpretending as could be, was placed upon the finger next to Titania's, which beamed with a softer radiance by its side. But the people for a great many miles did think it very strange that she should refuse so many excellent matches-that she rejected wealth, and high places, and brave handsome men, and had come at last to wed a poor, wounded, battered stranger, whose name, and whose birth, and whose life were dark mysteries to them. And there were not a few judicious mothers who improved the lesson given them by poor Margery, in warning their own giddy daughters not to harden their hearts against the prayer of seasonable suitors, lest they too might be left, in their extremity, to the tender mercies of the outcast and the stranger.

'But Margery, to do her justice, bore her misfortune very well; and, to reward her, the lively dowager-queen Mab called one day, as she was paying her visits in the forest, in the oddest, prettiest little coach that ever was seen, and came laughing and tripping in with a very mysterious bundle in her arms, all wrapped up in fine white flannel, which she put carefully in Margery's arms, with the air of one with a very great secret. And Margery turned back the folds of the wrapper, and there, Nelly, lay the most beautiful, smiling, roguish little boy, not a day old, who, winked at his mother as if it was a good joke, and went off to sleep in her arms without another word. And I suppose Margery thought she would have to keep the little stranger, since good queen Mab had taken the trouble to bring it, and since the little fellow himself seemed to feel so much at home with her. But, however that may be, though he gave her a great deal of trouble, and had to be washed, and dressed, and fed, and sung to, and bounced up and down, and tickled, and have his nose pinched, and be poked under the chin, and father's finger put into his mouth, and his hair curled all over his head, and all manner of strange things held over his head to stare at, and let slide down his back to excite his curiosity; although it was necessary to pet him, to persecute him, and shake him and cuddle him, to make him laugh, and scold him for crying, and take him up when he was awake, and lay him down when he was asleep, and make an enormous fuss over him whatever he did, still Margery was a very kind-hearted little woman; and rather than let the poor baby die, she took all this trouble for him, and a great deal more besides.

But now, children, I have told you so much about Margery, that really I must leave you to find out the rest for yourselves; how her

husband turned out to be a great, wealthy, brave man, worth all that had come to see her before; as indeed he must have been, or the fairies wouldn't have let her wait so long for him: and what a noble lady his mother was; and his sisters, how proud they were of the new one their brother brought them home, and how happily they lived together for ever and ever so long. But for Harry- has n't he a grand sword of his own, and, besides, a stout little heart in his bosom, and King Oberon for a friend? There's a long story about Harry that Willie can make up for himself as Uncle would lie on his bed awake, many's the still night, when he was a child, spinning out an endless second part to the dear old Swiss Family Robinson.'

Historic fame is thine- -a name in story:
Half-conscious art thou, in thy calm repose,
Of thine own heritage of deathless glory,

With him who lived 'the terror of his foes,'
Whose daring soul had never known defeat,
Whose deeds have deep on every heart impressed,
Where Western hearts in Western bosoms beat,
The name of CLARK - - the watch-word of the West!

I wander on still farther up thy shore:

Here, underneath this old and glorious shade,
A mansion stands, built in the days of yore:

A hero's home, whose name can never fade,
While gleams the Wabash in the morning sun,
While prairies bloom, and woods grow old and great.
Here, HARRISON, thy name is loved, as one
Foremost in battle-loftiest in the State.

THE OLD FORT.

BY ISAAC MACLELLAN.

THE fading sun-set's ruddy gold
Athwart the ancient rampart glows,
And o'er the moss-grown, crumbling wall
Its soft, suffusing splendor throws;
And gilds with its expiring light

The mound where, resting from life's fight,
The soldier-dead repose.

No longer from the tall flag-staff

The starry banner flaps its fold;

No longer from the cannon's lips

The thunderous battle-peal is rolled;

But many an old dismantled gun,

Half-sunk in earth, lies brown with rust;

And long ago the cannoneers

Have mouldered into dust.

No longer at each break of day

The loud alarming drums resound;
No gay-garbed ranks are here arrayed,
No sentinels parade their round;
But hooting owls disturb the night,

The fox in these old barracks hides,
The piping quail here rears her brood,
The striped snake securely glides,
The partridge seeks her food.

Years, years ago the flash of arms

From trench and bastion gayly streamed,

From palisade and embrasure

The sword and sharpened bayonet gleamed: And here the Indian war-whoop rang,

And here the Indian arrow flew,

And here the British bullets sang,
And Continental rifles slew.

But long and long ago the strife
Of armed battalions ended here;
Gone hath the Indian's gleaming knife,
Vanished the English spear:

The wilderness no longer hides

The marching squadrons in its gloom;
The woods themselves have vanished,

And farms are tilled, and gardens bloom,

And cities all around are spread.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE POETS AND POETRY OF AMERICA. By RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. In one volume. Sixteenth Edition. Philadelphia: PARRY AND MCMILLAN.

WE can ask no better attestation of the value of a book so pretentious and expensive as this, than the simple words, 'sixteenth edition,' upon the title-page. The successive editions of 'The Poets and Poetry of America' have all been, more or less, improvements upon their predecessors; but the present one is so much, and in all cases changed for the better, as to have the appearance of a new work. The author very justly estimates the importance of such a production in his preface, in which he remarks: "The value of books of this descriptiod has been recognized from an early period. Besides the few leading authors in every literature, whose works are indispensable in libraries, to be regarded as in any degree complete, there are a far greater number of too little merit to render the possession of all their productions desirable. The compilations of English poetry by Mr. SOUTHEY, Mr. HAZLITT, Mr. CAMPBELL, and Mr. S. C. HALL, embrace as many as most readers wish to read of the effusions of more than half the writers quoted in them; and of the qualities of all such indications are given in criticisms or specimens, as will intelligibly guide the lover of poetry to more comprehensive studies. In our own country, where there are comparatively few poets of a high rank, the majority would have little chance of a just appreciation but for such reviewals.' And Baron FREDERICK VON RAUMER, the eminent German historian and philosopher, remarks: 'It is performing a valuable service when a man of taste and information makes a suitable, wellassorted selection, and guides the friend of poetry in his rambles through ⚫ those groves from which he might otherwise be deterred by their immensity. Such service has been rendered by Mr. GRISWOLD, in his 'Poets and Poetry of America." Mr. BRYANT, who has himself been carefully over the same field, remarks that he 'has executed his task with industry, skill, and taste. No man in this country is probably so familiar with this branch of American literature, not only in regard to its most ancient but most obscure authors.' The late Mr. HORACE BINNEY WALLACE says: 'We differ from Mr. GRISWOLD