The Grave of the Indian Chief.—PERCIVAL. THEY laid the corse of the wild and brave On the sweet, fresh earth of the new day grave, On the gentle hill, where wild weeds waved, And flowers and grass were flourishing. They laid within the peaceful bed, Close by the Indian chieftain's head, His bow and arrows; and they said, That he had found new hunting grounds, Where bounteous Nature only tills The willing soil; and o'er whose hills, And these fair isles to the westward lie, And song and dance move endlessly. They told of the feats of his dog and gun, They sung of battles lost and won, And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones, And since the chieftain here has slept, Full many a winter's winds have swept, And many an age has softly crept Over his humble sepulchre. Escape from Winter.--PERCIVAL. O, HAD I the wings of a swallow, I'd fly Where the roses are blossoming all the year long; 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 That mourns its cherished comforts dead, When, through the still and gazing street, Ne'er may a father's faltering feet 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, Ne'er may she know the sinking heart, Nor, entering in my vacant room, As if the dampness of the tomb And spirits of the dead were there. 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 The night of death and bondage flies, Zion, from deepest shades of gloom, Her desert wastes with verdure bloom, To heal her wounds, her night dispel, From Salem's towers, the Islam sign, 'Tis there IMMANUEL's symbols shine, The gladdening news, conveyed afar, To welcome Judah's rising star, Again in Bethlehem swells the song, While Jordan's shores the strains prolong, On the Close of the Year.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. 'Tis midnight-from the dark blue sky, Have seen ten thousand centuries fly, And when the pyramids shall fall, *Missionaries to Palestine. Shine on! shine on! with you I tread To me, to me, there comes no night. O, what concerns it him, whose way Or one more year of life has fled? Swift years, but teach me how to bear, And speed your courses as ye will. When life's meridian toils are done, That shines not here-on things below. But sorrow, sickness, death-the pain The fondness of a parent's care, The changeless trust that woman gives, The smile of childhood-it is there, That all we love in them still lives. Press onward through each varying hour; Let no weak fears thy course delay; Immortal being, feel thy power; Pursue thy bright and endless way. Saturday Afternoon.-N. P. WILLIS I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, |