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* gSMf From the Augusta Chronicle. “ There U a holy vengeance aiul lis doubly just \V heiie’t r it falls upon a murderer’* head. dark si .till’d (la.; it streaming high \ho\<- the Pirate's glaring eye, Ami main, ,1 slioiil mid v. niton jeer 3, lmi ‘!r;trt vile UmultiTd there ; t .it ere nnoiher sotting sun J ‘till many a miscreant's course is run 1 Hul if at son, hail, ’twas thine t!ie deed, Yml VLLEN’S spirit bade tliee speed, Thy glorious vengeance thereto wreuK, And many ti rufiinns dying shriek Proclaim’d thy valor and thy aim As each avenging bullet came. ’1 heir may petulant dv’d the wave, Hurl'd o’er each ruthless murderer’s “rave. Where inem’ry long shall mark fHe spot, ‘Tn as thine the I'riund, the avenger’s lot, My ste.rious heaven unerring threw Its dreadful vengeance flashing true Jn thee and in thy gallant crew. For angels there, with hallowed spell, Mtall nerve each arm when- Allen fell, And long the pirate * straining eye LTiull fly tliat spot in day* gone by ; And there the mariner's minstrelsy Chilli float around the azure sea, \nd bargemen's voice there oft shall ring As round the dashing waters spring, \\ Idle freedom's banner long shall wave, Triumphant o’er her gallant brave. M ELVINA. Tilt following exquisite Song has been set to it, uric by Mr Gilfcrt of New- York. Take back, take back, tlierosy wreath, And bind it on some gayer brow ; The anxious eve that droops beneath ould make it seem but mockery now. Takc track thy roses, gay and lair, ‘I Ire chaplet is not inert for me ; Tins pallid cheek, so bleach'd with care, A sad, sad contrast offers thee. ‘t akc back thy gift—some lighter brow, Way'prize thy wreath of blooming flowers; To me they but a pang impart, Recalling earlier, happier hours ! t uke back the dewy gem's again : VV hile o er my brows I see them wave, 1* eems like decking victims slain, •1-ike twining garlands o’er a grave ! I saw a falling leal ,0011 strew the soil to which it owed its birth ; 1 saw a bright star falling too, Ikit never reach the quiet earth. Such is the lowly’s portion blest, Shell is ambition's foil'd endeavour; The tailing leaf is soon at rest, W hile stars that fall, fall on forever! jo? ©at&jL Asnr* From the Saturday Evening East. Till: WILD ROSE OF THE VALLEY. The evening air blew chilling cold ; —Dorothy threw her apron over her shoulders, and went to the wood-house for faggots. Ellen was left alone,her eye fell on the stump of the withered rose tree : “ That was Edward’s gift,” said she, mournfully, “peace is resto red, he will soon return, lie will think I have neglected it: for alas! it has withered, But no! Edward must come no more to our cottage. ” Hear ing the returning step of Dorothy, she wiped away the starting tear, for well she knew her good mothei wouldchide. Dorothy entered trembling, “ .Mercy ! my child, come and listen, sure I heard the church bell toll.” Ellen pule—she listened with breathless expectation; again the heavy bell struck with aw ltd reverberations.— “ Ob !” cried Ellen, clasping her hands together, “ the news lias arrived that Edward is killed.” Vainly now did Dorothy -cal 1 up n the name of her child, who lay senseless on the cold earth. Ellen was the lovely, virtuous child of honest parents; but she was lomleily beloved by the son of the wealthy Dr. Hamilton. In the rural j sports of the green, in front of the mansion house, Edward had often gladly joined, often pressed the fair hand of Ellen with rapture to his lips, and breathed in her ear, accents of unchangeable love—but paternal au thority interposed ; Edward was or dered to accepttiic hand of the rich, the haughty Miss Lyndall. His heart proudly revolted, yet to disobey a fa ther, hitherto fond and tender, was death, lie implored a respite : Dr. Hamilton granted his petition, and the regiment, in which Edward ser ved, was ordered to the lakes; yet his departing words breathed fervent, constant aiVcction to his Ellen, anti his parting gift was the rose tree which Ellen now bewailed. ‘ For Heaven's sake my child,’ t-uid Dot nth v, ‘ be 1 oioposed, l wiil step to the gate and ce it any one passes Iroot the mansion house. Do now be comforted.’ Dor othy stepped to the gale. ‘ Mess me ! as 1 live, hove comes a soldier down the hill !’ The word revived Ellen ; She Hew to her mother’s side. The soldier desended the hill, he seemed to walk feeble and leaned on the shoulder of a boy. ‘ Sure,’ thought Ellen, * that is Edward’s form hut a* he approached nearer, conjecture changed ; his dress was shabby and tlisoidered, his hair uncombed ; and a bandage passed across his eyes, mark- eJ the Buffeting he endtaCd in the dreadful scenes to which he had been exposed :—for Edward it was, and lirve soon revealed him to the wonder struck Ellen. In a moment both of his hands were seized by Dorothy and her child, who forgetting in the joy at first sight of him, the shocking change of his appearance, led him in triumph to the cottage ; but enuqiry soon sue ceeded ; and while El fen fixed her eyes upon her withered rose tree, in anguish reclaiming, “ alas he. cannot see it now,’ Edward began his reci tal. “ Whin 1 left you, mv dear friends in compliance with a father’s com mands, I marched with my regiment to the Canadas. Our troops were ge nerally successful in their operations. I alone seemed doomed to feel the pangs of disappointment and sorrow. An enterprise in which I was engaged required despatch and caution ; when in a moment of general attack, my dearest friend, and earliest compan ion of my happy days, fell, covered with wounds: Disobeying the orders (if our commander, not to quit our posts, I bore him in my arms from the scene of horror ; for this I was broke and discharged with ignominy.”— Ellen wept; her heart was too full for utterance ; the poor old woman sobbed aloud. ‘ I returned,’ said Edward, ‘ bv the first conveyance that occurred, and returned but to see my lather breathe his last.—Even he too conspired against my happiness, for, would you believe it Ellen, he. has disinherited me.’ Hotv !’ exclaimed Ellen, ‘ is it in nature to be so wicked ! A child lie ever loved so dearly !’. * True,’ replied Edward, , but now behold me in sickness and sorrow, without a friend to comfort,or a house to shelter me.’* Never my clear young master,’ cried Dorothy, ‘ while the sticks of this poor cottage hang to gether.’ Ellen clasped his hands closer between her’s but spoke not. On a sudden some recollection dar ted across her mind ; she let his hand fall, and sighed deeply. ‘ What ails my Ellen?’ asked Edward,'will she not confirm the words of her mothe*- ?’ ‘ Ah me !’ said Ellen, * I am thinking how happy Miss Eyndal will be, to have the power of restoring you to wealth and comfort—she can do all that your wishes dictatate.’ ‘ But if my Ellen gives me her love,’ re plied Edward, ‘ I will not seek the favor of Miss Eyndal.’ And will vou stay with us f Oh we shall be happy enough in that case, and our 1 debt ofgratitnde be in part dischar-j Brd : for to you Edward, we owe all. j Your instructive care first raised my! mind from ignorance, and if a virtu-j ous sentiment animates my breast,! from your it derived its source.’— j ‘ You are unjust to yourself, Ellen : J instruction, it bestowed where there is not innate virtue, is like the vain attempt of cultivating a rocky soil. But how, my love can you think of supporting an idle intruder?—Your means are but scant, though your heart is ample.’ ‘ We will work the harder,’said Dorothy we knit and spin, and have a thousand ways of getting a penny,’ and when you get strong and healthy, vou shall*work.” Edward work !’ exclaimed the in dignant Ellen. ‘ And why not my child ?’ rejoined Dorothy ; ‘ is there any disgrace in honest industry ? Edward is not proud ; and when, with some juice of simples, which you, El len, shall gather, we have bathed his eyes, who knows but, by the favor of heaven, his sight may be restored ? Thus Ellen, he will assist our labours, see our cheerful endeavors to make him forget our past misfortunes ; and u c shall be the happiest family in the village.’—‘Excellent creature! cried Edward, ‘ iny whole life shall pass in active gratitude. But 1 must away, on the brow of the hill I left a weary traveller; I will bring him to taste “a cup of your beer, and speed him on his journey. Ellen was unwilling that he should leave her so soorT, though but for a few minutes—but when Edward continued absent above two hours, her terror was inexpressi ble. The night closed in, and Ed ward did not return. Ellen’s couch was covered with tears, and morning found her pale and sad. She waited at the door with anxious expectation, and with a scream ot jov exclaimed In* is coining!’ He was supported by an elderly man ; and Ellen hastened forward to give her assistance also, while Dorothy prepared their homely breakfast. Edward seemed breathless with fa tigue and the stranger accounted for the delay, by saving that he had wan dered up the country, fearing his companion had forgotten him. ‘You are cold and wet,’ said Ellen. ‘No my love ; you see 1 have a great coat, 1 found my'little parcel at the house w here 1 rested last night.’ * And that house, which was once vour cruel lather’s, should now be yours,’ said Kll*i\. ‘ But no, he was not cruel, lor he has given you to us.’ ‘ Come, come, this is line talking,’ cried Doro thy, * while the poor youth is cbld and hungry ; and see the tears how they How down his cheeks.’ ‘Do your eyes pain you, Edward r inquir ed the'fair one ; Met me wash them with spring water.’ * i hey do indeed, said he. in the tenderest manner,she removed the bandage;and his ex pressive ha’/.le eye met her’s beaming I joy and love. She’ receded w ith a scream of joy and surprise. He threw otl’his coat, and discovered his dress decorated with every military honour. ‘ Forgive this deception, it was my father’s stratagem ; and here he is, a to witness you*.’ disinterested affection. I am not dishonored, but promoted by mv commander to a high military rank.’ ‘lt is true indeed, said the old gentleman ; ‘ 1 -suspected mv son of an unworthy choice, and dictated this stratagem as a means of confir mation. Miss Lyndal disdained a poor infirm soldier, and now my son has to sue you for your acceptance of him.’ Dumb gratitude seized the agitated Ellen. She fell at the feet of Dr. Hamilton, bathed his hands with her tears, and tried in vain to express the sensations oi her heart. The rustic breakfast remained for some time unregarded, till composure was restored, and the generosity of his intention, gave to the doctor an increased relish for the repast. * Your rose tree is withered,’ said Ellen, ’ indeed I could not preserve it.’ 1 Heed it not,’ returned Edward; it was a hot house plant, and could not endure the pinching breeze of mischance.— You are the blooming wild rose of the valley, whose native sweetness is but increased by the imperfect culture it received. —“ Let me transplant thee to n richer soil, “ And of my garden be the pride and joy.” Ellen with joy the most pure, gave her hand to Edward, who that day conveyed to the mansion-house, where the rejoicing inhabitants ol the neigh borhood came to make their sincere congratulations; amt in the happiness of the young pair, Dr. Hamilton found his cure ; and the aged Dorothy sunk into a peaceful grave, beloved and revered by her dutiful daughter; and to the arms of Dr. Hamilton is now added wilh proud triumph, the bloom ing wild rose of the valley. ELEGANT EXTRACT. From an Address to the Members of Solomon’s Lodge, No. 6, of Poughkeepsie, on the an niversary of St. John the Baptist. June 24, A. L. 5823, by James G. Brooks, Esq. It is now nearly three thosaml years I since the foundation of Masonry ; as yet it has resisted the destroying hand of time* Kingdoms have arisen, flourished, and fallen—the rock of power, the adamant of genius, have I crumbled—moral earthquakes have dashed in ruin the strongest, the fair jest fabrics of human enterprises and of human wisdom : Masonry lias re mained unbroken—it has not bent to the storm, nor hath it died in the slug gish calm. If we examine the nature and progress of man's institutions, we shall find them all partaking of that mutability which characterises his ow n strange, and fitful, and feverish existence: perishable himself, how can he confer eternity upon his works? lie erects his statue of brass, the co lossus of ages—triumphant time ! thou hurlest it to the dust ! ‘t rue, he can ascend the ever-during arch of Fame, and inscribe there the letters of his Immortality—he can kindle the fire of his own renown which biases for ages, a beacon to the universe ; but lie cannot recall the last faint sigh of existence, nor protect his trophies against the scythe of destruction. Go, and learn this truth from the inelan ch oily picture of History! Go, and moralize amidst the ruins of Thebes, and ask where are her hundred gates, her thousand of chariots, and her mill ions of warriors! “ All ! there in devolution cold The desert serpent dwells nlone, Where grass o’er grows each mould’ring stone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Are grey and death-like old.” Go and learn wisdom from solitary Tyre, and ask where are her golden palaces and her numberless navies ? Go and ask of Egypt where are her twenty thousand cities, her temple of the sun, her Oracle of Ammon, and her sacred fountain ; there the sun now shines on a bleak waste, the voice of the oracle hath been silent forages, and the wild weed hath long waved in the bed of its fountain ! Let Macedon produce the trophies of her conquer ing son—let Persia show the diadem of Cyrus and the spear of Cambyses; they are enveloped by the oblivious pall,and the mournful voice of History tells only that they have been. So it is with man, and with the works of man—child of doubt and danger the spectre of uncertainty bends over his cradle slumber, darkens the warm noon of his manhood, and extends his dusky arm over the evening of his decline—he walks forth in his majes ty, the image of God, and the Lori of creation-—lqs path is on the mighty deep—his foot steps are on the loftv mountain—-!ic stupids on his proud eminence, aiul looks Howto on a sub ject world. Look once again, and where is he ? The mysterious fire of his existence is extinguished—the cold clod presses on his colder bosom —the dull worm banquets on that brow where once sparkled genius and beauty —and the charnel slirowd enwraps that form where once glowed the star of honor and the purple ut dominion ! Since, then, instability is inherent in the very nature of man, and spreads itself over all his works, we can best judge of the value ot all institutions by their longer or shorter resistance to subduing Time. We arc sale in the assertion, that no society can compete with ours in duration —it hath resisted every change and braved ev ery tempest —it hath stood firm and beheld the wide-spreading pine ot Assyria strewing the earth with its blanches, in a vast and gigantic ruin —it hath seen the rising Hood ot mighty hosts desolate imperial Baby lon—it hath seen the starry throne ot of the just Harouu broken dow n—it hath seen the majestic eagle of the Romans extending his dark form over battle fields. Where death’s brief pang w as quickest, And (lie battle's wreck lay thickest, Skew’d beneath the advancing banner Os the eagle’s burning crest; ‘ There, w ith thunder-clouds to fan her, Who could then her wing arrest, Victory beaming from her breast?” Ah, that w ing was arrested, and the proud bird struck down, a prey to the vultures of the northern forests. So it bath been—the pomp, the pageantry, the mightiness of nations have been humbled ; the hand of obscurity had spread its folds oyer palace, and tem ple, and tower. The fierce storm of war and the lazy moth of luxury have united in this work of destruction ; and the impetuous w ave of Time hath ever been chequered by the fragments of glory arftl the wrecks of magnifi cence, floating along in fearful and me lancholy ruui. FORTY TEARS AGO— Literature meant learning, and was supported by common sense. Refined nonsense had no advocates and was pretty generally kicked out of doors. Forty years ago—men of proper ty *could labor, and wear home spun to church. Women could spin and weave—make butter and cheese, whose husbands were worth thousands. Forty years ago—there -were but few merchants in the country — few insolvent debtors and very rarely imprisoned for debt. Forty years ago—the young la dies of the first respectability learn ed music, but it was the humming of the wheel, and learned the ne cessary steps of dancing in follow ing it. Their forte piano w r ?-s a loom, their parasol a broom, and -heir novels the Bible. Forty years ago—the young gen tlemen hoed corn, chopped wood at the door, and went to school in the winter to learn reading, writing and arithmetic Forty years ago—there was some respect paid to old age, to the min isters of the parish, and to Sunday. Forty years ago—there were no such things as balls in the summer, and but few in the winter except snow balls. Forty years ago—if a mechanic promised tb do your work, you might depend on his word, the thing would be done. An old author has unfortunate ly recorded the fact, that a man ap parently in the best health, fell dead as he was paying an old debt. This serious affair has filled thousands with fear of a like accident, and consequently they never have and never will pay their debts. From a London paper. An Irishwoman, named Katty Creedon, came before Alderman Cox, and charged her husband, ‘ for having killed her on Saturday night.” Katty said to Alderman Cox, that her villain of a husband was in the habit of ‘ maciating’ her and ‘ tearing her limb from limb,’ and that he had often ‘ cut her to pieces,’ but in particular on Saturday, when he quite kilt her, and she never more expected to go about, she felt so much destroyed in the in side. Alderman Cox, to whom this sort of exaggeration was quite a novelty, desired the poor woman to describe her cruel husband’s con duct more correctly, for badly as he might have acted, the object of his inhumanity was still in the land of the living. * Mrs. Creedon persisted in say ing that her husband had killed her, and she wondered how v one could think othtiwi se y heard her saythat he‘ maciated hi Alderman Cox was at a loss 7 the exact meaning of the w or( ] ° r ciate : but Mrs Creedon’s explained it, by showing the of nails upon his face, which ? partner had scratched into c , “ s panion with the Indian tattoo?.’ He said, his wife put him i n t y condition, and that he never in k life kilt her. hls Mrs. Creedon—Oh p ac j c ] , how can you say that, whe nv ' ts , know you’re always murtheriiw^ Mr. Creedon—well! and hot can I help it? Ar’nt you ah v J murthering me ? ■ Mrs. Creedon—Never Paddy never, hut when you desarves it i. Your Worship, I know what li’ e ’ s about, I keep him in victuals and drink: instead of keeping me] L wants to keep a woman. Alderman Cox—Oh ! now I set how it is : there’s a little jealousy in the case. Mr. Creedon declared there was a great deal. His wife was a little ould, and did’nt like to see him look at a young woman. She had but a few days ago thrown a pail 0 f dirty* water over him as he lay in bed : so I thought your Worship I might give her a slash or two, and I only touched her just promises ous, and she hoppened to fall. Alderman Cbx —Well! the best thing I can do is to bind you both over to keep the peace towards each other. Mrs. Creedon declared she didn’t care what became of her, so that her ‘ thief of a husband was locked up: and Mr. Creedon thought any state happy from which his wife was ex eluded. They were then ordered to find bail, which failing to procure, thev were sent to the Comptor, and or dered to be kept in separate apart ments. Tfce wife went’away decla ring that ‘ she would be master oi’ the fellow yet. LAW. —BA 7 LORD SELWYN. He that would go to Laxv must have a good cause, a heavy purse, a skillful attorney, an able advocate , good evidence, an intelligent Jurv an upright and patient Judge, and having all these, unless he has very good luck, he will stand but a, small chance, of succeeding in his suit Curran, the Irish orator, vik once asked what an Irish gentle man, just arrived in England, could mean by perpetually putting outhis tongue. “ 1 suppose,” replied the wit, u he’s trying to catch the £ir glish accent .” Love Letters. —ln a paper which we have just taken up, there is a curious anecdote of one who, if we can trust his own account, must have been one of the most gallaut men in the world. Marshal de Bassompiem , says in his memoirs, “ being informed of cardinal Rich elieu’s design to have me arrested, I rose, Feb. 24, 1631, before day, and burned more than six thousand love letters, which I had formerly received from different women, ap prehending lest, if I were commit ted to prison, and my house search ed, something might be found to the prejudice of some person— these being the only papers that could be injurious to any one.” London papen. From the Nantucket Inquirer. Literary Curiosity —A friend lias left with us a singular pamphlet which he is desirous to have re-printed. It* principal merit, perhaps, consists in its age, and in the consideration that its author was the father of Dr. Frank lin’s mother. Its local allusions may interest the inhabitants of this place, and the quaintness of its style may al so amuse many. It is entitled a “ Looking Glass for the Times,” ect. written'in verse about 150 years since# and printed in 1763. The author'* concluding lines will serve as a speci men of his manner ; 11 tiiut you do dislike* the Verse, I or its uncomely Dress, I tell thee true, I never thought that it would puss the Press. If any at the Matter kick, *t’ like lie’s gull'd at Heart, And that's the reason why he kicks, because he finds it smart. 1 am for Pence, and not for War, and that’s the reason \\ liy I write more plain than some men do, that use to daub and lie. But I shall ceHse and set my Name to what 1 here insert, Because to be n Libeller, I hate it with my heart. From . Slitrbru* Town, where now I my name I do put here, Without offence, your real Friend, it is PETEK FOLGEK. # Nantucket.