150

THE SHOWER.

All things of earth-the grateful things!
Put on their robes of cheer,

They hear the sound of the warning burst,
And know the rain is near.

It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain!
I drink its cooler breath,

It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers
And roses' fragrant death;

It hath kissed the tomb of the lily pale,
The beds where violets die,

And it bears their life on its living wings-
I feel it wandering by.

And, yet, it comes! the lightning's flash
Hath torn the lowering cloud,

With a distant roar, and a nearer crash,
Out bursts the thunder loud.

It comes, with the rush of a god's descent
On the hushed and trembling earth,
To visit the shrines of the hallowed groves
Where a poet's soul had birth.

With a rush, as of a thousand steeds,
Is the mighty gods' descent
Beneath the weight of his passing tread,
The conscious groves are bent.

His heavy tread-it is lighter now—

And yet it passeth on;

And now it is up, with a sudden lift,-

The pleasant rain hath gone.

HIS CAPTORS TO ANDRE.

The pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
It hath passed above the earth,
I see the smile of the opening cloud,
Like the parted lips of mirth.
The golden joy is spreading wide,
Along the blushing west,

And the happy earth gives back her smiles,
Like the glow of a grateful breast.

As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart,
That knoweth all its need,

So came the good of the pleasant rain,
O'er hill and verdant mead.

It shall breathe this truth on the human ear,
In hall and cotter's home,

That to bring the gift of a bounteous heaven
The pleasant rain hath come.

HIS CAPTORS TO ANDRE.

BY J. W. MILLER.

Look on us, Briton! readest thou

Aught base or craven here?

On these swart lips and toil-worn brows
Is stamped the sign of fear?

Look, man of courts, for knowest thou not

Rude arms and peasant-vest

Are lightnings in a patriot's grasp,

Proof-mail upon his breast?

151

152

HIS CAPTORS TO ANDRE.

Go to! we would not wrong the truth
That fills thy noble eye;

That broad, pale forehead's lift of pride
Should take no shameful dye;
We would not that a bribe should be
Clasped in a brave man's hold—
'Tis a base weapon, vainly drawn-
Briton! put up thy gold!

Nor hope thou thus by prayer or threat
To go hence free and proud;
How faintly falls the speech of man
When God's deep voice is loud!
God and our country! hallowed words
Breathe it but in thy heart-
Briton! then crave us that we bid
A mortal foe depart.

Within our souls there is a voice

Within our eyes a fire— Leaving to pity's moan no ear,

No glance to low desire:

Our country's wrong-our country's hope-
Are written on heaven's wall-

We may but read that lightning scroll-
Hear but its thunder call.

We may but meet thee as a foe

Lead thee but as a slave

Startest thou? yet that proud form may bow

FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR. 153

To fill a felon's grave!

Go thou with us-our last resolve

Perchance thy doom-is toldThinkest thou to buy a patriot's soul! Briton! put up thy gold!

FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR.

BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

A MIGHTY form lay stretched and cold

Beside his last retreat,

The spear was in his mantle's fold,

The quiver at his feet;

Grave, hoary men with stifled moan

Moved on sedate and slow,
While woman's shrill, unheeded tone
Broke forth in lawless wo.

Strange sight!-amid that funeral train
A lofty steed stood nigh,

With arching neck and curling mane,
With bold, yet wondering eye.

But when the wail grew wild and loud,

His fiery nostril spread,

As though he heard the war-whoop proud
And rushed to carnage red.

154

FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR.

'Steed of the winds!-thy lord doth roam
Gay through the spirit's land,

Where no pale tyrant's eye shall come
To frown on the happy band.
When o'er the night, like meteor streams
The lamp of their revels free,

His hunting spear in lightning gleams,
And he waits, he calls for thee.

He must not at the chase be late,
He, of the soul of fire,

Haste! Haste!'-the death-shot seals his fate,
With sharp and sudden ire.

One leap,-one groan,—and all was hushed.He bowed his noble head,

And free the deep, red streamlet gushed

To lave his master's bed.

Sad groups to guard their chieftain's clay
The tumulus prepare,

While low a weeping mourner lay

With dark, dishevelled hair.
And when the evening star is bright,

Full oft her widowed cry,

Goes forth upon the stilly night,

"Why warrior,-didst thou die ?'