They'd champ the bit, and fling the foam, As on they dragged my load; And I would think of distant home, And whistle upon the road-- Oh would I were a mountain boy-- I'd drive a six-horse team, Wo, hoy! Wo, hoy! I'd cry-- Now by yon sky, I'd sooner drive those steeds Than win renown, Or wear a crown Won by victorious deeds! For crowns oft press the languid head, And health the wearer shuns, And Victory, trampling on the dead, May do for Goths and Huns-- Seek them who will, they have no joys For mountain lads, and Wagon-boys. SACRED MELODY. By the rivers of Babel we flung Ourselves on the earth in despair-- Our harps on the willow-trees hung, And wept for thee, Zion, afar. For those who had made us their prey, And bore us as captives along, Then proudly demanded a lay-- To sing them, oh! Zion, thy song! But the spoiler shall ask it in vain: We will not this triumph accord-- He never shall list to the strain That wafted the praise of the Lord. For perish the hand that would string The harp, unremembering thy woe, And cursed be the tongue that would sing, Oh! Zion, thy songs for the foe. {79} SENSIBILITY. "Still in tears!" said Margarette Claremont, as she entered the parlor after a walk. "Which is it now, my dear Alice, Werther or Madam de Stael's Corinna?" "Neither," answered Alice. Margarette looked over her shoulder, and saw that the book her cousin held was a volume of Kotzebue's plays, and that "Self-Immolation" was the one that engrossed her attention. "How prodigal you are of your tears, dear cousin!" said Margarette,--"and how you _waste_ your sensibilities on these high-wrought, and ultra-sentimental fictions! Will not your health be impaired, and your mind enervated by such excess of indulgence?" "I fear no such results," said Alice,--"and should blush at the obduracy of my heart, should it fail of being moved when reading works in which such deep feeling is portrayed." "Weep as much for legitimate sorrow as you will, Alice--even when portrayed in fictitious narrative, but do not expend your sympathies on scenes such as never did, and never will occur in the world." Alice made no reply, as Margarette turned and ran up stairs, but the thought of her heart was--"I am thankful I am not a stoic! thankful that my feelings are not congealed."