Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, That is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 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, They laid within the peaceful bed, 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, 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 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, 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, Ne'er may she know the sinking heart, Nor, entering in my vacant room, As if the dampness of the tomb 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, 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, The stars, which now look down on earth, Have seen ten thousand centuries fly, And when the pyramids shall fall, *Missionaries to Palestine. |