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length within sight of Ticonderoga, just as the red harbingers of morning striped the pale green of the skies. Star after star disappeared, as Timothy observed, like candles that had been burning all night and gone out of themselves, and as they struck the foot of the high bluff whence they had departed, the rays of the sun just tipped the peaks of the high mountains rising toward the west. Timothy then shook hands with our hero.

"You're a hearty kritter," said he, "and I'll tell Sir William how you looked at that tarnal tomahawk as if it had bin an old pipe-stem."

Without losing a moment, they proceeded to the quarters of Sir William, whom they found waiting for them with extreme anxiety. He extended both hands toward our hero, and eagerly exclaimed—

"What luck, my lads? I have been up all night, waiting your return."

"Then you will be quite likely to sleep sound to-night," quoth master Timothy, unbending the intense rigidity of his leathern countenance. "I am of opinion if a man wants to have a real good night's rest, he's only to set up the night before, and he may calculate upon it with sartinty."


"Hold your tongue, Timothy," said Sir William, good-humoredly, or else speak to the purpose. Have you been at the enemy's camp?"


'Right in their very bowels," said Timothy.

Sir William proceeded to question, and Sybrandt and Timothy to answer, until he drew from them all the important information of which they had possessed themselves. He then dismissed Timothy with cordial thanks and a purse of yellow boys, which he received with much satisfaction.

"It's not of any great use to me, to be sure," said he as he departed; "but somehow or other I love to look at the kritters."

"As to you, Sybrandt Westbrook, you have ful

filled the expectations I formed of you on our first acquaintance. You claim a higher reward; for you have acted from higher motives and at least equal courage and resolution. His majesty shall know of this; and in the meantime call yourself Major Westbrook, for such you are from this moment. Now go with me to the commander-in-chief, who must know of what you heard and saw."

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FRANCESCO PETRARCH (PETRARCA), scholar, diplomatist and poet, was born at Arezzo, Italy, in 1304; died at Arquà in 1374. After studying law he entered the church and was made Archdeacon of Milan. One of the greatest scholars of his time, he spoke Latin as his mother tongue, and wrote many of his books in that language. He spent his life among princes and was sent on many missions of state. He wrote over three hundred poems and some ethical essays. "Laura," a lady whom he loved devotedly inspired his best work.


(Translated by Wollaston)

that glance, that beautiful face!

Alas! that dignity with sweetness fraught! Alas! that speech which tamed the wildest thought! That roused the coward glory to embrace! Alas! that smile which in me did encase

That fatal dart, whence here I hope for naught! Oh! hadst thou earlier our regions sought, The world had then confessed thy sovereign grace!

In thee I breathed; life's flame was nursed by thee, For it was thine; and since of thee bereaved,

Each other woe hath lost its venomed sting; My soul's best joy! when last thy voice on me In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived; Alas! thy words have sped on Zephyr's wings.


(Translated by Capel Lofft)


HE Stars, the Elements, and the Heavens have made,

With blended powers, a work beyond compare; All their consenting influence, all their care, To frame one perfect creature lent their aid, Whence Nature views her loveliness displayed

With sun-like radiance divinely fair;

Nor mortal eyes can that pure splendor bear; Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grave arrayed. The very air, illumed by her sweet beams, Breathes purest excellence; and such delight,

That all expression far beneath it gleams. No base desire lives in that heavenly light,

Honor alone and virtue! Fancy's dreams Never saw passion rise refined by rays so bright.


(Translated by Wrottlesley)

MY sad eyes! our sun is overcast—

Nay, borne to heaven, and there is shining, Waiting our coming, and perchance repining At our delay; there shall we meet at last, And there, mine ears, her angel words float past, Those who best understand their sweet divining. Howe'er, my feet, unto the search inclining, Ye cannot reach her in those regions vast,

Why do ye then torment me thus? for oh! It is no fault of mine that ye no more


Behold and joyful welcome her below;
Blame Death-or rather praise Him, and adore

Who binds and frees, restrains and letteth go, And to the weeping one can joy restore.


TENDER paleness stealing o'er her cheek
Veiled her sweet smile as 'twice a passing



And such pure dignity of love avowed,
That in my eyes my full soul strove to speak.

Then knew I how the spirits of the blest
Communion hold in heaven; so beamed serene
That pitying thought, by every eye unseen
Save mine, wont ever on her charms to rest.

Each grace angelic, each meek glance humane,
That Love ere to his fairest votaries lent,
By this, were deemed ungentle cold disdain.

Her lovely looks in sadness downward bent,
In silence, to my fancy, seemed to say,
Who calls my faithful friend so far away?

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