Where the landscape is always a feast to the eye, That rolls o'er the evergreen bowers of the line. Indeed, I should gloomily steal o'er the deep, Like the storm-loving petrel, that skims there alone; We would fly from the dark clouds of winter away! We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers, How light we would skim, where the billows are rolled When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime! We would touch for a while, as we traversed the ocean, At the islands that echoed to Waller and Moore, And winnow our wings, with an easier motion, Through the breath of the cedar, that blows from the shore. And when we had rested our wings, and had fed On the sweetness that comes from the juniper groves, By the spirit of home and of infancy led, We would hurry again to the land of our loves; And when from the breast of the ocean would spring, Bury Me with my Fathers.-ANDREWS NORTON. O NE'ER upon my grave be shed The bitter tears of sinking age, That mourns its cherished comforts dead, When, through the still and gazing street, Lead, with slow steps, the churchyard way. 'Tis a dread sight-the sunken eye, Ne'er may a mother hide her tears, As the mute circle spreads around, Or, turning from my grave, she hears The clod fall fast with heavy sound. Ne'er may she know the sinking heart, Nor, entering in my vacant room, O welcome, though with care and pain, To bid a parent's joys remain, And life's approaching ills depart. Redemption.-W. B. TAPPAN. HARK! 'tis the prophet of the skies To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walked the world for fourscore years; And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, It is very true; it is very true; 66 I'm old, and "I 'bide my time;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, Play on, play on; I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, Fall of Tecumseh.-NEW YORK STATESMAN. WHAT heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, To the war-blast indignantly tramping? Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, The steel bit impatiently champing. 'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain, From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, The savage was heard, with untrembling breath, One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, And nought but the war-whoop given; The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, As if by the lightning riven. The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke, Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke, In the mist that hung over the field of blood, That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight, The moment was fearful; a mightier foe Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him; But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. O ne'er may the nations again be cursed Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, And long shall the Indian warrior sing The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye, Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps, The Missionaries' Farewell.-ANONYMOUS. LAND where the bones of our fathers are sleeping, Land of our fathers, in grief we forsake thee, God is thy God; thou shalt walk in His brightness; Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean: Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows! This highly intellectual savage, appropriately styled "king of the noods," was no less distinguished for his acts of humanity than heroism. He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the war of 1812-15 |