We paused; we turned; some of us—fled, as the foe in thousands came, And our guns in vain made breaches; and the air was red with flame: We were staggering; we retreated; we were beaten; we would yield; But TAYLOR’S eye shone every where at once along the field, And the Mississippi volunteers, with BRAGG, dashed madly on;— We turned, and charged; and once again the purple field was won. On our left the day was ours, when SANTA ANNA pressed On our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best; Once more our men retreated, when BRAGG again came on, And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone: Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played, And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade! Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouac On BUENA VISTA, whence our foe had failed to drive us back. On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high, We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die; And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God, Where we lay the night before, on the cold and cheerless sod But when the morning came, when the welcome sun arose, We saw—each seeming in a dream—the files of flying foes; And we lay on one another’s breasts—clasped one another’s hand, And wept with joy, for God had saved our gallant little band— God, and our courage, for we fought like heroes all will say Who read in coming centuries the records of the fray. [Illustration] * * * * * SHAKSPEARE. ANALYSIS OF ROMEO AND JULIET. BY H. C. MOORHEAD. THE judicious critic, whilst insisting on the great and manifold beauties of the plays of Shakspeare, has felt himself constrained to admit that they are marred by grievous faults. Some of these have been laid upon the times in which he wrote; some upon the circumstances of his life; some upon the corruptions of his editors; whilst for others, the most ingenious of his apologists have, with all their zeal, been able to make no rational excuse. Conspicuous among these admitted faults are his “quibbles” and “conceits.” He is charged with marring all his fairest pages with them; and so introducing them as often perversely to destroy the most beautiful creations of his fancy, and in a moment convert the pathetic into the burlesque, and the sublime into the ridiculous. “A quibble,” it has been said, “is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of reason, propriety, and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world and was content to lose it.”