Ah! never shall the land forget.

The victory of endurance born.

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.

Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.