Colonel Edmund Gansevoort lived to read the proclamation by which his royal master acknowledged the sovereignty and independence of the United States of America, and to behold his own boasted possessions saved from confiscation only by the interest of his once disinherited son. * * * * * LINES ON VISITING BROAD STREET HOTEL, HEAD-QUARTERS OF WASHINGTON, WHEN NEW YORK WAS EVACUATED BY CLINTON. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. It is a structure of the olden time, Built to endure, not dazzle for a day; A stain is on the venerable roof, Telling of conflict with the King of Storms, And clings to casement-worn, and hanging eaves, With thread-like roots, the moss. Grey shutters swing On rusted hinges, but the beams of day Dart with a softening radiance through the bars. Colossal domes of chiseled marble made, Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires, And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls, Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight, But a cold glance they win from me alone. Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works, To look on pile more humble? Why in thought Linger around this ancient edifice? The place is hallowed—Washington once trod, Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors. Within yon chamber did he bend the knee, Calling on God to aid the patriot’s cause, At morn, and in the solemn hour of night, His mandate, pregnant with a Nation’s fate, Went forth from these plain, unpretending walls. Here towered, in war-like garb, his stately form, While marshaled thousands in the dusty street, Gave ear to his harangue, and inly vowed To die or conquer with their matchless chief. Methinks at yon old window I behold His calm, majestic features—while the sound Of blessing rises from the throng below. Have not the scenes of other days returned? Do I not hear the sentry’s measured tramp, Clangor of mail, and neigh of battle-steed, Mingling their discord with the drum’s deep roll? No! ’twas a dream!—the magic of a place Allied to memory of Earth’s noblest son, Gives form and seeming life to viewless air. Relic of our Heroic Age, farewell! Long may these walls defy dissolving Time, Mock the blind fury of the hollow blast, And woo the pilgrim hither, while a voice Comes from the shadowy caverns of the Past, Full of instruction to a freeman’s soul— A _mighty voice_ that speaks of Washington, And prompts renewal of stern vow to guard Pure fires that on my Country’s altar glow. * * * * * THE STRAWBERRY-WOMAN. BY T. S. ARTHUR.