THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around,

Brought bloom and joy again,

The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung

Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,

And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,

Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,

When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset ;-

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THE MURDERED TRAVELLER

Nor how, when round the frosty pole

The northern dawn was red,

The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead;-

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,

For joy that he was come.

So long they looked--but never spied

His welcome step again,

Nor knew the fearful death he died

Far down that narrow glen.

SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON.

I BUCKLE to my slender side
The pistol and the cimater,

And in my maiden flower and pride
Am come to share the tasks of war.
And yonder stands my fiery steed,

That paws the ground and neighs to go,
My charger of the Arab breed,-

I took him from the routed foe.

My mirror is the mountain spring,
At which I dress my ruffled hair;
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring,
And wash away the blood-stain there.
Why should I guard, from wind and sun,
This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled?

It was for one-oh, only one-
I kept its bloom, and he is dead.

But they who slew him-unaware
Of coward murderers lurking nigh
And left him to the fowls of air,
Are yet alive-and they must die.

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SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON.

They slew him-and my virgin years

Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, And many an Othman dame, in tears,

Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow.

I touched the lute in better days,
I led in dance the joyous band;
Ah! they may move to mirthful lays

Whose hands can touch a lover's hand.
The march of hosts that haste to meet
Seems gayer than the dance to me;
The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet
As the fierce shout of victory..

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

CHAINED in the market-place he stood,

A man of giant frame,

Amid the gathering multitude

That shrunk to hear his name→ All stern of look and strong of limb,

His dark eye on the ground:And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,

He was a captive now,

Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,

Was written on his brow.

The scars his dark broad bosom wore,

Showed warrior true and brave;

A prince among his tribe before,

He could not be a slave.