-SR & , .■>. ■ f.. _ . . /'T- —■* =» ‘v * " -H-rfA a*! Y: '|, / > r „ r i ff --‘1 t .j.-y. -i> ~— - -Mvl uT VOL. LXIIL THE LANCASTER > INTELLIGENCER. ULISHID NVNaT.TOMDAY, Af JTD. 8 NORTE DSU BYEUI, 3T GEO.SAaDEBSO®. terms. „ ■ . Subscription.—Two Dollara pur annum, payable in ad vane®. Np subscription dJscontinueduirtUall arrear um are paid, unless at the option or the Editor. A T>vmTT9«KTSTfl^— Advertisements, not exceeding . one square, (12 lines,) will be inserted three times for one , dollar, and twenty-five cents for each additional inser tion. Those of_greater length in proportion. , • . Job PEraiuto—Such as Hand Bills, Posters, Pamphlets, Blanks, Labels, Ac., Ac., executed with accuracy and on the shortest notice. For The Intelligencer. AT REST. Weep not for him, the early dead 1 Why wish for length of years? This is no cause for vain regret, His is no tato for tears. For, first and noblest ’mongst the brave In the unequal strife, He nobly fought in Freedom’s cause— He gave for her—his life. Look on his still and plaoid face— That smile of perfect peace, He’s now where ever grief and pain. And war and tumults cease. Oh! if Jo die for Liberty Be oalm and sweet as this— Who would not bear one moment’s pain To gain immortal bliss ? His comrades, standing round the bier, With falt’ring voice and low, Will tell how in the foremost ranks He nobly met the foo. How, pressing onward in the charge That gained for ns the day, One moment—at their head he stood, The next—thus pale he lay. .Raise o’er his grave no stately tomb — No monumental stone; We need no sad memorials To tell us, he is gone. We would not call him back again To life’s few, painful years; They are no cause for vain regret, His is.no fate for tears 1 OLD FRIENDS TOGETHER. BY GEORGE T. VOSE. 0, time is sweet when roses meet, With spring’s sweet health around them, And t>mail the cost, when hearts are lost, If. those we love have found them; And sweet the mind that still can find A star in darkest weather; Bat nought can be so sweet to see As'bid friends meet together. Those days of old, when youth was bold, And time stole wings to speed it, And you ne’er knew how fast time flew, Or, knowing, did not heed it; Though gray each brow that meets ue now, — For age brings wintry weather, — Yet naught can be so sweet to see As old friends meet together. The few long known whom years have shown, With hearts that friendship blesses ; A hand to cheer, perehanoo a tear To sooth a friends distresses; Who helped and tried still side by side, A friend to face hard weather, 0 this may we yet joy to see, And meet old friends together. . [JV. H. Patriot, MARY MOORE. All ray life long I had known Mary Moore. All my life long, too, I had loved Our mothers were old playmates and first cousins.. My first recollection is of a young gentleman in a turkey red frock and morocco shoes, rooking a oradle, in which reposed a sunny haired, blue eyed baby not quite a year old. That young gentle man was myself, Harry Church ; that blue eyed baby was Mary Moore. Later still 1 saw myself at the little red sohool-house, drawing my painted sled up to the door, and arranging my overooat on it that Mary might ride home. Many a black eye 1 have gained on such occasions ; for other boys liked her beside me, and she, I am afraid was something of a flirt, even in her pinafore. How daintily she oame tripping down the Steps when I called her name! how sweetly her blue eyes looked, np to me from the envious folds of her winter hood! how gaily her merry laugh rung but when by dint of super human exertions Ikept her sled before the rest and left her stand upon the steps ex ultingly to see them all go by ! The fairy laugh! No one but Mary oould let her heart lay up so upon her lips ! I followed that laugh up from my days of childhood till I grew an awkward, youth— I followed it through the heated noon of manhood, and now, when the frosts of age are silvering my hair, and many children olimb my knee and call me 1 Father,’ I find that music still. When I waß fifteen, the first great sorrow of my life oame upon me I was' sent away to a western school and was obliged to part with Mary. We were not to see each other for three long years! This to me, was a sentence of death, for Mary was like life to me. But hearts are very tough things after all. I left college in all the flush and vigor of my nineteenth year. I was no longer awk ward and embarrassed, I had grown into a tall, slender, stripling, with a pretty good opinion of myself in general and particular. If I thought of Mary Moore, it was to im agine how I would dazzle and bewilder her with my good looks and wonderful attain ments, never thinking that she might daz zle and bewilder me still more ; 1 was a sad puppy, I know, but as youth and good looks have fled, I trust I may be believed when I say the self-conceit has left me also. An advantageous proposal was made to me at this time, and accepting, I gav§ up all ideas of. profession and prepared to go to the Indies. In my hurried visit home 1 saw nothing of Mary Moore. She had gone to a boarding school in Massachu setts, and was not expected home till the next fall! I gave.one sigh to the next fall. I hove one sigh to the memory of my little blue eyed playmate, and then called myself a man again. ‘ln a year,’ I thought, as the stage whirled away from our door, ‘in a year, three at the most, I will return, and if Mary is as pretty as she used to be—why then perhaps I may marry her.’ I stroked my budding mustache with complacency, while I settled the future of a young lady I had not seen for four years. I never thought of the possibility of her refusing me—never dreamed that she would not Btoop with grateful tears to piok up the handkerohief whenever i choose t