Puslapio vaizdai

Here his young squaw her cradling tree would choose,
Singing her chant to hush her swart pappoose,
Here stain her quills and string her trinkets rude,
And weave her warrior's wampum in the wood.

-No more shall they thy welcome waters bless,
No more their forms thy moonlit banks shall press,
No more be heard, from mountain or from grove,
His whoop of slaughter, or her song of love.





Stream of my sleeping fathers! when the sound Of coming war echoed thy hills around, How did thy sons start forth from every glade, Snatching the musket where they left the spade. How did their mothers urge them to the fight, Their sisters tell them to defend the right, How bravely did they stand, how nobly fall, The earth their coffin and the turf their pallHow did the aged pastor light his eye, When, to his flock, he read the purpose high And stern resolve, whate'er the toil may be, To pledge life, name, famé, all-for Liberty. -Cold is the hand that penn'd that glorious pageStill in the the body of that sage grave Whose lip of eloquence and heart of zeal, Made patriots act and listening statesmen feelBrought thy Green Mountains down upon their foes, And thy white summits melted of their snows, While every vale to which his voice could come, Rang with the fife and echoed to the drum.

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Bold River! better suited are thy waves

To nurse the laurels clustering round their graves,
Than many a distant stream, that soaks the mud
Where thy brave sons have shed their gallant blood,
And felt, beyond all other mortal pain,
They ne'er should see their happy home again.

Thou had'st a poet once,-and he could tell,
Most tunefully, whate'er to thee befell,
Could fill each pastoral reed upon thy shore-
-But we shall hear his classic lays no more!
He loved thee, but he his aged way,
By Erie's shore, and Perry's glorious day,
To where Detroit looks out amidst the wood,
Remote beside the dreary solitude.

Yet for his brow thy ivy leaf shall spread, Thy freshest myrtle lift its berried head, And our gnarl'd Charter-oak put forth a bough, Whose leaves shall grace thy Trumbull's honor'd brow.



Wo! for my vine-clad home! That it should ever be so dark to me,

With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree! That I should ever come,

Fearing the lonely echo of a tread,
Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!

Lead on! my orphan boy!

Thy home is not so desolate to thee,
And the low shiver in the linden tree

May bring to thee a joy;

But, oh! how dark is the bright home before thee, To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee!

Lead on! for thou art now

My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken,
And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken;
And I have seen his brow,

The forehead of my upright one, and just,
Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust.

He will not meet thee there

Who bless'd thee at the eventide, my son!
And when the shadows of the night steal on,
He will not call to prayer.

The lips that melted, giving thee to God,
Are in the icy keeping of the sod!

Aye, my own boy! thy sire

Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
And the proud glory of my life hath past,
With his high glance of fire.

Wo! that the linden and the vine should bloom
And a just man be gather'd to the tomb!


My Mother's voice! how often creeps
Its cadence on my lonely hours!
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,

Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
I can forget her melting prayer

While leaping pulses madly fly,
But in the still unbroken air
Her gentle tone comes stealing by,

And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
And leave me at my mother's knee.
The book of nature, and the print

Of beauty on the whispering sea, Give aye to me some lineament

Of what I have been taught to be. My heart is harder, and perhaps

My manliness hath drunk up tears,
And there's a mildew in the lapse

Of a few miserable years—
But nature's book is even yet
With all my mother's lessons writ.
I have been out at eventide

Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
When earth was garnish'd like a bride,
And night had on her silver wing-
When bursting leaves and diamondg rass,
And waters leaping to the light,
And all that makes the pulses pass

With wilder fleetness, throng'd the night— When all was beauty-then have I

With friends on whom my love is flung Like myrrh on winds of Araby,

Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung. And when the beautiful spirit there, Flung over me its golden chain, My mother's voice came on the air Like the light-dropping of the rainAnd resting on some silver star The spirit of a bended knee, I've pour'd her low and fervent prayer That our eternity might be To rise in heaven like stars at night! And tread a living path of light. I have been on the dewy hills,

When night was stealing from the dawn, And mist was on the waking rills, And tints were delicately drawn In the gray East-when birds were waking With a low murmur in the trees, And melody by fits was breaking

Upon the whisper of the breeze, And this when I was forth, perchance As a worn reveller from the dance

And when the sun sprang gloriously And freely up, and hill and river

Were catching upon wave and tree The arrows from his subtle quiver

I say, a voice has thrill'd me then, Heard on the still and rushing light,

Or, creeping from the silent glen
Like words from the departing night-
Hath stricken me, and I have press'd
On the wet grass my fever'd brow,
And pouring forth the earliest
First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow,
Have felt my mother's spirit rush
Upon me as in by-past years,

And yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,

Have risen up-the gay, the wild-
As humble as a very child.



GROUP after group are gathering-such as prest
Once to their Saviour's arms, and gently laid
Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast,

Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade ;Group after group glide on with noiseless tread, And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet, Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred, And holy words their ruby lips repeat, Oft with a chasten'd glance, in modulation sweet.

Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows
Wan poverty hath done the work of care;
Look up, ye sad ones! 't is your Father's house

Beneath whose consecrated dome you are;
More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare,
And watch the gaudier forms that gaily move,
And deem, perchance, mistaking as you are,

The "coat of many colors" proves His love, Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above.

And ye, blest labourers in this humble sphere,
To deeds of saint-like charity inclined,
Who from your cells of meditation dear,

Come forth to guide the weak, untutor'd mindYet ask no payment, save one smile refined

Of grateful love-one tear of contrite pain! Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind

The rest of earthly Sabbaths.-Be your gain A sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain.


FAIR RIVER! not unknown to classic song;-
Which still in varying beauty roll'st along,
Where first thy infant fount is faintly seen,
A line of silver mid a fringe of green;
Or where, near towering rocks, thy bolder tide,
To win the giant-guarded pass, doth glide;
Or where, in azure mantle, pure and free,
Thou giv'st thy cool hand to the waiting sea;-
Though broader streams our sister realms may boast,
Herculean cities, and a prouder coast,

Yet, from the bound where hoarse St Lawrence roars
To where La Plata rocks the sounding shores;
From where the urns of slimy Nilus shine,
To the blue waters of the rushing Rhine;
Or where Ilissus glows like diamond spark,
Or sacred Ganges whelms its votaries dark,
No brighter skies the eye of day may see,
No soil more verdant, nor a race more free.
-See, where, amid their cultured vales, they stand,
The generous offspring of a simple land;
Too rough for flattery, and all fear above,
King, priest, and prophet, in the homes they love.
On equal laws their anchor'd hopes are stay'd,
By all interpreted, and all obey'd.
Alike the despot and the slave they hate,
And rise firm columns of a happy state.
To them content is bliss; and labour, health;
And knowledge, power; and true religion, wealth.
The farmer, here, with honest pleasure secs
His orchards blushing to the fervid breeze,
His bleating flocks, the shearer's care who need,
His waving woods, the winter fire that feed,
His hardy steers, that break the yielding soil,
His patient sons, who aid their father's toil,
The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest,
And the white spire that points a world of rest.
-His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear
An equal burden in the yoke of care,
With vigorous arm the flying shuttle heaves,
Or from the press the golden cheese receives;
Her pastime, when the daily task is o'er,
With apron clean, to seek her neighbour's door,
Partake the friendly feast, with social glow,
Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow;
Then, hale and cheerful, to her home repair,
When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care,
Press the full udder for her children's meal,
Rock the tired babe, or wake the tuneful wheel.

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