SERMONS BY A NON-REVEREND-A POLITICAL DISCOURSE.

[The Editor takes the liberty to disclose this much-the author is a young lady.]

have erected for the Administration' will become a chaotic mass.

But these governing ideas must be embodied; therefore, my friends, let us pray:

'AH! God, for men with heads, hearts, hands,
Like some of the simple great ones gone for
ever and ever by,

Some still strong men, in a blatant land,
Who can rule and dare not lie.'

POCANTICO.

THE Pocantico, a small stream, has its source among the hills of Westchester county, which embosom the veritable Sleepy Hollow,' immortalized by Irving. Wending its way over a slightly rocky bed, it forms many small cascades, and, widening as it proceeds, reaches at last the Hudson, and just a few rods from its mouth is crossed by the bridge, where Ichabod Crane is said to have disappeared. Not only have these legends given notoriety to this locality, but Nature here exhibits some of her most charming varieties in scenery. It is a spot hallowed, too, by many associations dear to every American heart. The old mill, old manor house, old church, together with the old cemetery and the new extension, are each year visited by strangers from every clime, and the grave of our venerated Irving has become a shrine for pilgrims, both from our own and other lands.

'Tis summer, midsummer, a soft hazy air

Lulls the senses to sleep, forgetful of care.
A zephyr scarce ripples Pocantico's stream,
And 'neath the old buttonwood's shadow I dream,
For the clack of the mill, like a lullaby song,
Soothes my mind into quiet as it rumbles along.

My dream is a day-dream, for hours did it last,

A beautiful picture of times in the past,

When a boy, with my fish-line, I sat on the bridge
And angled most patiently, fighting the midge,
Whose home, 'mid the meadow-grass, swampy and damp,
Swarms in the warm sunlight, till eve lights her lamp.
Yes, well do old memories carry me back

To many a scene on my life's early track

The mill bears the mark of an ancient design,
Its shingles, so moss-grown, are each one a sign,
That old Time, as he passes, cannot any thing spare,
But stamps building and builder with moss and gray

How many heart-histories this spot can disclose,
Of lovers that sauntered, when Luna arose,
Lighting streamlet and hill-side, pathway and shore,
A witness to vows to be kept 'evermore.'

No spot so delightful in sweet summer days,
When the thrush and the oriole pour forth their lays.
Yon house by the mill, with its walls deep and strong,
Has
gone from the hands that held it so long;

As a race they have faded and passed away,
For all that is earthly must go to decay.

How great was the splendor, they tell us was there,

And queenly and noble its occupants were;
The wise of the earth, the great, and the good,
Within and around this old mansion have stood;

hair.

Through parlor and kitchen, a child, have I roved,
In later days sat there with friends that I loved :
With rapture have gazed, as I stood in the hall,
On meadow and streamlet so beautiful, all,
And watched the cloud-shadows as they quietly crept
O'er the wood-mantled hill, where deep silence slept.
In that hall, yet so ample, and untouched by time,
Have echoed light footsteps to music's gay chime,
And dames in brocade, with their trains, swept along,

A lovely, sweet, merry, and beautiful throng;

With tresses well powdered, and kempt with much care, From brows that were lofty and noble in air,

On which sat enthroned great Intellect's seal,
Which, when challenged, could proudly its presence reveal.
Like the diamond's sheen, their light glances were:
Expression of all good emotions were there;

As dutiful daughters and affectionate wives,
Devoted to country, they spent most of their lives.

To this time-honored mansion, so near to the mill,
When the war-clarion sounded through vale and o'er hill,
Flocked the soldier in arms, as a refuge and rest,
Where he met the 'kind welcome' as a patriot-guest.
And family traditions many scenes do recall,
Of old Tory conflicts and what did befall
The heroes that fought them for home and for right,
With God as their shield, their buckler and might.
Even traitorous Arnold its threshold has crossed,
When loyal he seemed, ere his honor he lost.
And now I remember, in the year forty-five,
When revered Lady B was yet still alive,

How she chatted to me of days long gone by,

How recounting them o'er brought a tear and a sigh;
For like a lone tendril that clings to the oak,

Which the lightning from heaven has felled with a stroke,
Unsupported she stood, her companions all gone,
With years, near a century,* weighing her down;
Yet her memory was faithful, recalling the past;

She was now a lone traveller, the left one, the last
Of the circle she graced, of that noble band,

So great, so heroic, the boast of our land.

And 'here 'neath this roof,' with much pride she would say, 'Has the greatest of Generals spent many a day;

'T was here with his friend, the good Lafayette,

He in friendly communion so often had met.

And the Schuylers, Van Courtlandts, and Hamilton, too,
With Phillipse, and others, whom my ancestors knew,

Mrs. Cornelia Beekman, aged ninety-six.

Who gave to their country their strength and their gold,
And whose names on the list of the brave are enrolled.'

Like the rest, my narrator has gone with the throng
Whose long life and deeds to the past now belong;
But I muse on her words, though all-conquering Death
Has silenced her utterance and sealed up her breath.

And did the great Washington, Liberty's star,

In life tread these halls, when, with tumult and war,
Our country was shaken and threatened by foes,

When our welfare upon him gave his heart such great throes?

Yes, here in seclusion throbbed that great active brain,
As he thought for the nation their freedom to gain→
Recounting the scenes of wild carnage and blood,
Of perils by land and of perils by flood;
Here night after night long vigils he kept,
To plan for our freedom while other men slept.

Oh! now in our peril, say who shall arise
From the ashes of him who has fled to the skies?
And Gallican friendship, like that we have known
In the great Lafayette, shall it stand out alone?
Must the race that come after, I exclaimed with a sigh,
Forget his example, forget it 'for aye?'

From these musings I started, and glanced up the stream,
Its surface was tinted by the West crimsoned beam;

I wended my steps from the buttonwood-tree

For shadows they also do lengthen and flee.

I mounted the hill, above the old bridge,

Where an ancient Dutch church stands perched on the ridge;
Embowered with ivy, it stands there alone,

An aged memento of crumbling grey stone.
How lonely it looks with its closed-up door,

Its porch and its windows with vines clambering o'er;

Its walls they no longer do echo the tread

Of its once early worshippers, now 'mong the dead:
They came from the faderland, came in their youth,
Clothed with integrity, exponents of truth,

Who uttered and sang, in their own native tongue,
The praises of God, both the old and the young:
They the high-heeled shoe and the striped linsey wore,
And the bright scarlet mantles we see used once more.

Do you ask me, Where are they? just gaze but around
On the little white stones that guard each green mound,
There many lie silently sleeping in dust,

Who made the 'same Saviour we love' their sole trust.