BY WM. H. C. HOSMER. Up, for encounter stern While unsheathed weapons gleam; The beacon-fires of Freedom burn, Her banners wildly stream; Awake! and drink at purple springs-- Lo! the "White Eagle" flaps his wings With a rejoicing scream, That sends an old, heroic thrill Through hearts that are unconquered still. Leap to your saddles, leap! Tried wielders of the lance, And charge as when ye broke the sleep Of Europe, at the call of France: The knightly deeds of other years Eclipse, ye matchless cavaliers! While plume and penon dance-- That prince, upon his phantom steed, In Ellster lost your ranks shall lead. Flock round the altar, flock! And swear ye will be free; Then rush to brave the battle shock Like surges of a maddened sea; Death, with a red and shattered brand Yet clinging to the rigid hand, A blissful fate would be, Contrasted with that darker doom A branded brow--a living tomb. Speed to the combat, speed! And beat oppression down, Or win, by martrydom, the meed Of high and shadowless renown; Ye weary exiles, from afar Came back! and make the savage Czar In terror clutch his crown; While wronged and vengeful millions pour Defiance at his palace-door. Throng forth with souls to dare, From huts and ruined halls! On the deep midnight of despair A beam of ancient glory falls: The knout, the chain and dungeon cave To frenzy have aroused the brave; Dismembered Poland calls, And through a land opprest, betrayed, Stalks Kosciusko's frowning shade. TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND IT. BY MAYNE REID. They tell me, lady, that thy heart is changed-- That on thy lip there is another name; I'll not believe it--though for life estranged-- I know thy love's lone worship is the same. The bee that wanders on the summer breath, May wanton safely among leaves and flowers, But by the honied jar it clings till death-- There is no change for hearts that loved like ours. You may not mock me--'tis an idle game-- The lip may lie, the eye with bright beguiling May, from the world, conceal a suffering flame, But 'tis the eye and not the heart is smiling; And I, too, have that power of deceiving, By the strong pride of an unfeeling will, The cold and cunning world in its believing-- What boots it all? The heart will suffer still. Comes there not o'er thy spirit, when 'tis dreaming In the lone hours of the voiceless night, When the sweet past like a new present seeming, Brings back those rosy hours of love and light? Comes there not o'er thy dreaming spirit then Delicious joy--although 'tis but a vision-- That we have met, caressed and kissed again, And revel still among those sweets Elysian?