Where the landscape is always a feast to the eye,
And the bills of the warblers are ever in song;
O, then I would fly from the cold and the snow,
And hie to the land of the orange and vine,
And carol the winter away in the glow

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;
I would take me a dear little martin to keep
A sociable flight to the tropical zone;
How cheerily, wing by wing, over the sea,

We would fly from the dark clouds of winter away!
And forever our song and our twitter should be,
"To the land where the year is eternally gay."

We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers,
And take up our lodge in the crown of the palm,
And live, like the bee, on its fruit and its flowers,
That always are flowing with honey and balm ;
And there we would stay, till the winter is o'er,
And April is chequered with sunshine and rain-
O, then we would fly from that far-distant shore,
Over island and wave, to our country again.

How light we would skim, where the billows are rolled
Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime,
And break on the beaches in surges of gold,

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,
Far off in the distance, that dear native shore,
In the joy of our hearts we would cheerily sing,
"No land is so lovely, when winter is o'er."

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,
With grief no human hopes assuage.

When, through the still and gazing street,
My funeral winds its sad array,
Ne'er may a father's faltering feet

Lead, with slow steps, the churchyard way.

'Tis a dread sight-the sunken eye,
The look of calm and fixed despair,
And the pale lips that breathe no sigh,
But quiver with th' unuttered prayer.

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,
The dreary loneliness of grief, ·
When all is o'er, when all depart,
And cease to yield their sad relief;

Nor, entering in my vacant room,
Feel, in its chill and heavy air,
As if the dampness of the tomb
And spirits of the dead were there.

O welcome, though with care and pain,
The power to glad a parent's heart;

To bid a parent's joys remain,

And life's approaching ills depart.

Redemption.-W. B. TAPPAN.

HARK! 'tis the prophet of the skies
Proclaims redemption near;

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years;
And they say that I am old,

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well nigh told.

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,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low:

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

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,
Conducting the free and the fearless.

Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain,
Through paths unfrequented and cheerless.

From the mountains had echoed the charge of death,
Announcing that chivalrous sally;

The savage was heard, with untrembling breath,
To pour his response from the valley.

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,
The blood-stifled gasp of the dying,

Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke,
That upward went wildly flying.

In the mist that hung over the field of blood,
The chief of the horsemen contended;
His rowels were bathed in the purple flood,
That fast from his charger descended.

That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight,
But the rider repressed not his daring,
Till met by a savage, whose rank and might
Were shown by the plume he was wearing.

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
With conflict so dark and appalling!—
Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst
From their agonized bosoms in falling.

Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot
Where the hopes of the red man perished;
But the fame of the hero who fell shall not,
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished.

He fought, in defence of his kindred and king,
With a spirit most loving and loyal;

And long shall the Indian warrior sing
The deeds of Tecumseh the royal.

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye,
In his arm slept the force of the thunder,
But the boit passed the suppliant harmlessly by,
And left the freed captive to wonder.*

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps,
With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him;

And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps,
By the mound where his followers bore him.

The Missionaries' Farewell.-ANONYMOUS.

LAND where the bones of our fathers are sleeping,
Land where our dear ones and fond ones are weeping,
Land where the light of Jehovah is shining,
We leave thee lamenting, but not with repining.

Land of our fathers, in grief we forsake thee,
Land of our friends, may Jehovah protect thee,
Land of the church, may the light shine around thee,
Nor darkness, nor trouble, nor sorrow confound thee.

God is thy God; thou shalt walk in His brightness;
Gird thee with joy, let thy robes be of whiteness:
God is thy God! let thy hills shout for gladness;
But ah! we must leave thee-we leave thee in sadness.

Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean:
Dark are our hearts; but the fire of devotion
Kindles within ;-and a far distant nation
Shall learn from our lips the glad song of salvation.

Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows!
Land of our rest!-when a few more to-morrows
Pass o'er our heads, we will seek our cold pillows,
And rest in our graves, far away o'er the billows.

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