O'er Siberia's deserts drear, And, void of every hope to cheer, I once had parents, good and kind, Death snatch'd them from this world of woe, And now I'm left o'er earth to go, A weary Peasant Boy. Farewell to every hope of bliss, No friend on earth have I ; My woes have no alloy; How changed, since parents once caress'd THE LITTLE DUTCH SENTINEL OF THE MANHADOES. BY THE AUTHOR OF 66 "How times change in this world, and especially in this new world!" exclaimed old Aurie Doremus, as he sat at the door of his domicil-the last of the little Dutch houses, built of little Dutch bricks, with gable end turned to the street-on a sultry summer evening, in the year so many honest people found out that paper money was not silver or gold. Half a dozen of his grown up grand children were gathered about him, on the seats of the little porch, which was shaped some his eyes sparkling with exultation, " now it is the possession of a free and sovereign people. The sandy barren, which formed the projecting point of our isle, and where a few Indian canoes were hauled up, is now the resort of thousands of stately ships, coming from the furthest parts of the earth, and bearing the rich products of the new world, into every corner of the old. Their masts bristle around the city, like the leafless trees of a wintry forest. The rugged island, to which nature had granted nothing but its noble situation, and which seemed condemned to perpetual sterility, is now become a region of ich gardens, and white groups of houses; the very rocks are uined to beds of flowers, and the tangled swamps of ivy clinging about the stinted shrubbery, into smooth lawns, emllishing and embellished by the sprightly forms of playful ls and lasses, escaped from the city to enjoy a summer afteron of rural happiness. All, all is changed, and man the st of all. Simplicity has given place to the ostentatious, lgar pride of purse-proud ignorance-the wild Indian, to idle and effeminate beau-politeness to ceremony-comit to splendour-honest mechanics to knavish brokersrals to manners-wampum to paper money-and the fear ghosts to the horror of poverty.' Here again the old man ised, and seemed to retire within himself for a minute or after which I observed him begin to chuckle and rub his ds, while his mischievous old eye assumed a new viva I wonder what figure one of our Dutch belles or beaux 700 or thereabouts, would make at a rout, or the Italian I' faith I believe they would be more out of their ent than the Indian I spoke of just now. They would inly make rare sport in a cotillion, and, I doubt, would arrive at that acme of modern refinement, which enpeople to prefer sounds without sense to sense without and to empire with ecstacy at sentiments expressed anguage of which they do not comprehend a word. I wear they would prefer even a Dutch song they could tand, to an Italian one they could not." at did they believe in ghosts, grandfather?" asked the est little grand-daughter, who was just beginning to the modern wonders of romance, and had been caught word ghost in the old gentleman's harangue. |