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 down beside the shady rills,
The hero roams eternally.

And these fair isles to the westward lie,
Beneath a golden sunset sky,
Where youth and beauty never die,

And song and dance move endlessly.
They told of the feats of his dog and gun,
They told of the deeds his arm had done;
They sung of battles lost and won,

And so they paid his eulogy.
And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones,
They raised a simple pile of stones;
Which, hallow'd by their tears and moans,

Was all the Indian's monument.

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.

23.-то тTHE EAGLE.

PERCIVAL

BIRD of the broad and sweeping wing!
Thy home is high in heaven,
Where wide the storms their banners fling,
And the tempest clouds are driven.
Thy throne is on the mountain top;
Thy fields-the boundless air;
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop
The skies-thy dwellings are.

Thou sittest like a thing of light,
Amid the noontide blaze:

The midway sun is clear and bright-
It cannot dim thy gaze.

Thy pinions, to the rushing blast
O'er the bursting billow spread,
Where the vessel plunges, hurry past,
Like an angel of the dead.

Thou art perch'd aloft on the beetling crag,
And the waves are white below,
And on, with a haste that cannot lag,
They rush in an endless flow.
Again, thou hast plumed thy wing for flight
To lands beyond the sea,

And away like a spirit wreath'd in light,
Thou hurriest wild and free.

Thou hurriest o'er the myriad waves,
And thou leavest them all behind ;
Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves,
Fleet as the tempest wind.

When the night storm gathers dim and dark,
With a shrill and boding scream,
Thou rushest by the foundering bark,
Quick as a passing dream.

Lord of the boundless realm of air!
In thy imperial name,

The hearts of the bold and ardent dare
The dangerous path of fame.
Beneath the shade of thy golden wings,
The Roman legions bere,
From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs,
Their pride, to the polar shore.

For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid;
To thee the clarions raised their swell,
And the dying warrior pray'd.
Thou wert, through an age of death and fears,
The image of pride and power,
Till the gather'd rage of a thousand years
Burst forth in one awful hour.

And then, a deluge of wrath it came,
And the nations shook with dread;

And it swept the earth till its fields were flame,
And piled with the mingled dead.
Kings were roll'd in the wasteful flood,
With the low and crouching slave;
And together lay, in a shroud of blood,
The coward and the brave.

And where was then thy fearless flight?
"O'er the dark mysterious sea,
To the lands that caught the setting light,
The cradle of Liberty.
There, on the silent and lonely shore,
For ages I watch'd alone,
And the world, in its darkness, ask'd no more
Where the glorious bird had flown.

"But then came a bold and hardy few,

And they breasted the unknown wave;
I caught afar the wandering crew;
And I knew they were high and brave.
I wheel'd around the welcome bark,
As it sought the desolate shore ;
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,
My quivering pinions bore.

"And now that bold and hardy few

Are a nation wide and strong,

And danger and doubt I have led them through,
And they worship me in song;

And over their bright and glancing arms

On field and lake and sea,

With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms,

I guide them to victory."

PERCIVAL.

24.-HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.

[The standard of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem, in Pennsylvania.]

WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,

And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung

That proud banner, which with prayer
Had been consecrated there.

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.

Take thy banner !-may it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,-
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,-
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.

Take thy banner !-and beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free-
Guard it-God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

Take thy banner! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquish'd warrior bow,
Spare him!-by our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him-he our love hath shared-
Spare him as thou wouldst be spared

Take thy banner !-and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee!
And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud.

LONGFELLOW 25.-EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH OF G. MORRIS, IN CONGRESS, ON THE NAVIGATION OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

MR. PRESIDENT, -My object is peace. I could assign many reasons to show that this declaration is sincere. But can it be necessary to give this senate any other assurance than my word? Notwithstanding the acerbity of temper which results from party strife, gentlemen will believe me on my word. I will not pretend, like my honourable colleague, to describe to you the waste, the ravages, and the horrors of war. I have not the same harmonious periods, nor the same musical tones; neither shall I boast of Christian charity, nor attempt to display that ingenuous glow of benevolence, so decorous to the cheek of youth, which gave a vivid tint to every sentence he uttered; and was, if possible, as impressive even as his eloquence. But though we possess not the same pomp of words, our hearts are not insensible to the woes of humanity. We can feel for the misery of plundered towns, the conflagration of defenceless villages, and the devastation of cultured fields.

Turning from these features of general distress, we can enter the abodes of private affliction, and behold the widow weeping, as she traces, in the pledges of connubial affection, the resemblance of him whom she has lost for ever. We see the aged matron bending over the ashes of her son. He was her darling; for he was generous and brave; and therefore his spirit led him to the field in defence of his country. We can observe another oppressed with unutterable anguish; condemned to conceal her affection; forced to hide that passion, which is at once the torment and delight of life: she learns that those eyes, which beamed with sentiment, are closed in death; and his lip, the ruby harbinger of joy, lies pale and cold, the miserable appendage of a mangled corpse. Hard, hard indeed, must be that heart, which can be insensible to scenes like these; and bold the man who dare present to the Almighty Father a conscience crimsoned with the blood of his children!

Sir, I wish for peace; I wish the negotiation may succeed, and therefore I strongly urge you to adopt these resolutions. But though you should adopt them, they alone will not ensure success. I have no hesitation in saying, that you ought to have taken possession of New Orleans