THE DEAD PATRIARCH TO HIS DAUGHTER.
Thou hast watch'd o'er my pillow, and guarded my rest,
Met my wish cre it broke from my tongue;

And, like a bright form from the realms of the blest.
O'er my flickering life-lainp hast hung;
Thou hast long the last struggles of nature beguil'd,
Long its terrors smiled sweetly away;

But now thou hast paid the last duty, my child!
"Thou art weeping beside me to-day."

But weep not for me, as the wreck thou hast seen;
Forget my poor mouldering clay;

Nay, think not of me, as I ever have been.

O! weep not 'beside me to-day.'

Thy father sleeps not in that perishing dust:

His spirit has burst from its clod,

And wing'd its bright way, with the thrill of the just,
And the youth of an angel-to God.

VAN YEVOREN'S GRAVE.

BY REV. JOHN KENNADAY.

Or the many interesting villages which adorn the banks of the river Hudson, there is none surrounded with so many of the va rious beauties of nature as that of Poughkeepsie. Situated about one mile south of the village, is an extensive grov, of oak and cedar trees, in the front of which is a beach over which the billows of the Hudson break. Beneath the bank which bounds the rear of the grove, is the solitary grave of Van Yevoren. Around the grave are a number of trees, and at a little distance from it, winding through a dark wood, is a brook which empties into the river below. Van Yevoren, I have been told by some, was found drowned, many years ago, upon the beach near where his grave now is, having been, it was supposed, hove upon the shore by the waves. Others state, that having embarked on board of a sloop from New-York, he was taken ill of the Yellow Fever, and imme diately set on shore amid the darkness of the night, where he was left to die upon the beach, where his corpse was next morning found. There was sufficient money found upon his person to erect a stone at the head of his grave, which states that he was recently from Germany, and aged about thirty years. The variety and beauty of its scenery has rendered the grove which contains the grave of Van Yevoren an interesting resort.

On yonder lone grove, where the owl's sullen cry,
Oft breaks o'er the silence of even

When the oak with its dark top obscuring the sky,
Casts a veil o'er the pale lamps of heaven;

'Tis there, where the Hudson it course proudly winds,
Oft washing the shore with its waves,

That the corpse of the stranger in ashes reclines,
Where a stone marks Van Yevoren's grave,

How oft to this spot to my mem'ry e'er dear,
At the close of the day I have sped,
And on the green sward oft has fallen the tear,
As I seem'd to converse with the dead:

And when the last rays of the sun 'lum'd the west,
And smil'd o'er the slow rolling wave,

I've waited till darkness in mourning had drest
The place of Van Yevoren's grave.

Yes, here have I thought, "'tis the father's fond son,
For whose peace oft the mother has pray'd,

Or a husband, whose fate a lov'd wife has ne'er known,
Nor known where that husband is laid:

O, then I have wept, while I fancied their grief,
And half heard them in agony rave;

I have thought that if there they would find a relief,
Could they weep o'er Van Yevoren's grave.

There, too, I have learn'd how the world glides away,
And earth's brightest visions must fade;

From the portals of heaven, a voice seem'd to say,
"Prepare thou to sleep with the dead."
Not mine be the tomb which ambition may rear,
O'er the dust of the mouldering brave,
But grant me a spot, to fond pity e'er dear,
Like that of Van Yevoren's grave.

If Thou be one, whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,

Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,

Is littleness; that he who feels contempt

For any living thing, hath faculties

Which he has never used; that thought, with him,

Is in its infancy. The man whose eye

Is ever on himself, doth look on one,

The least of nature's works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser, Thou!

Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,
True dignity abides with him alone,

Who in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.

SONNET.

Could we but concentrate our spirits' tone

WORDSWORTH.

From things of earth, and quaff, at will, the springs
That kindred claim with pure and holy things,
How sweetly would life pass! like a joyous dream,
Splendid but happy; or a scene at night
In moonlight sleeping, beautifully grand!
Or nature basking in the noontide beam,
Tranquil as beauty in the arms of sleep,
Meet emblems of the spirits' fairy land!

But darkness dims the enchanting glow of day,
And night's still beauties flee like dreams away;
Pleasures, like forms reflected in the deep,

Perish in storms; and thoughts that give delight Come, like moonlight on the stream, but soon are gone.

THE ruins of this once formidable fortress so famous in the annals of American war, are still in a tolerable state of preservation, and will amply reward the patriotic tourist who loves to visit the places consecrated by the blood of his fathers. They stand on a promontory of considerable elevation, which projects between Lake Champlain on the east, and the passage into Lake George on the west. This fortress was built by the French during the period of their occupation of the country, and has been the scene of some of the most daring enterprizes in the old French war and that of the American revolution. In 1758, Lord Howe and many other gallant men lost their lives in General Abercrombie's unfortunate expedition against it. In 1759, it was abandoned by the French on the approach of Lord Amherst with a powerful army, and its fall filled the northern colonies with joy, for it had long been a safe retreat for the French and Indians, whence they made their ferocious incursions into the English settlements. In the revolutionary war great hopes were reposed upon Ticonderoga as a barrier against invasion; it was regarded as being emphatically the strong hold of the north, and on its capture by General Burgoyne in 1777 the whole frontier was exposed to the enemy. The fall of Ticonderoga in '77 was owing to the inability of the