Loiterings Among,' tlie Hills of 
Cliftondale. 
BY MICHAEL HALL. 
On these grand hills of Cliftondale, 
That face the storm and gale 
And from their furies never quail 
I love to roam. 
Here amidst each hill and dell, 
Enchantment weaves its magic spell, 
Around each scene I love so well, 
In this old home. 
The wild flowers scent the waving breeze, 
The vine entwines itself in trees, 
The strawberry spreads its humble leaves 
On the green sod. 
Beneath me runs the crystal spring, 
The feathery tribe around me sing, 
And all bring forth their offering 
To worship God. 
Then as I pass each lone retreat, 
New beauties cluster at my feet 
Inviting me in accents sweet 
To stop and rest. 
And think awhile—then moralize, 
To love what’s good—and not despise 
Our suffering kind, but sympathize 
With all oppressed. 
If kindly thoughts could only bring 
Balm to each heart in suffering, 
The earth with joyousness would sing 
Its grandest theme; 
Nature in her queenly dress, 
So rich and pure in loveliness, 
Would bring her gifts to crown and bless 
The happy scene. 
This pleasing reverie soon passed 
Though hope would have its beauty last, 
When sterner thoughts came crowding fast 
Upon the brain. 
The world in every thing is rife 
With active scene of stirring life, 
By battling with each rugged strife 
Man hopes to gain. 
The praise he seeks, that often too 
Eludes his grasp, spite all he’ll do 
’Tis only on the favored few 
The sunny beams 
Of fortune shine. Contentment still 
Will twine ’round home if conscience will 
But stand upright ’gainst every ill 
Of worldly schemes. 
But now the Atlantic greets the sight, 
Its crested waves look chaste and bright, 
Their silvery sounds bring sweet delight 
O’er Chelsea’s beach. 
Far off, embosomed in its bed, 
My native land with manly tread 
Uplifts her sad and drooping bead 
In bitter speech. 
Twice I saw her freedom nigh, 
Then like a dream it vanished by, 
Instead of smiles still hear the sigh 
That breaks her heart. 
The canker gnawing in her bones, 
Her bread is eat by pampered drones, 
And thousands from their hapless homes 
Daily depart, 
And pass through rough and wild turmoil, 
And plough their way to freedom’s soil 
To win a home by manly toil, 
And rest in peace 
Beneath that flag that whipped the pride 
From Albion’s tough and gritty hide, 
And bids the world now stand aside 
In every race 
For human rights, for justice, truth, 
For every noble grand pursuit. 
There’s none can match her peerless youth; 
Then let all hail 
Her starry folds. In every clime 
It cheers the slave, makes tyrants whine. 
Above these cliffs it looks sublime 
From Cliftondale. 
Cliftondale , Mass. 
Not to be Taken In. 
A gentleman, whom we will designate as 
Mr. L—residing in the Empire State, 
accompanied by his wife, was journeying 
homeward, some year's ago, from Iowa, 
where he had been spending some months, 
stopping to visit some friends on the way, 
thirty miles west of Chicago; when he re¬ 
sumed his journey, these friends having 
some trading to do, decided to accompany 
him as far as the city; so, taking the train 
one morning, they soon arrived at their 
destination, and proceeded to the store 
where they wished to do their trading. 
Mr. L—., not having any purchases to make, 
concluded to remain outside and look 
around, while his friends were engaged 
within. Whether there was something in 
his dress that betokened a residence in the 
country, or whether something in his man¬ 
ner denoted he was not an habitue of city 
life; he had stood outside but a few mo¬ 
ments, looking at the sights around him, 
when he was approached by a well dressed, 
pleasant mannered stranger, who held out 
his hand with the very cordial greeting— 
“Why, how do you do, Mr. Jones? I’m 
very glad to see you! When did you come 
to town ?” &c., &c. 
Mr. L—, not deigning to notice the proff- 
