And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, train'd to wars,
Quiver'd and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seam'd with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worship'd the God of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scatter'd in the furrows, lie

The weapons of his rest;

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave,
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth,
Or the young wife, that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth,

That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us-aye-like April snow

In the warm noon, we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go Towards the setting day,

Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind;
Their race may vanish hence, like mine,
And leave no trace behind,

Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and till'd,
Full to the brim our rivers flow'd;
The melody of waters fill'd

The fresh and boundless wood;

And torrents dash'd, and rivulets play'd,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more ;
The springs are silent in the sun,
The rivers, by the blackening shore,
With lessening current run;

The realms our tribes are crush'd to get
May be a barren desert yet.

THE SHIP.

MALCOLM.

HER mighty sails the breezes swell,

And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell

Is waved by many a snowy hand;

And weeping eyes are on the main,

Until its verge she wanders o'er ; But, from that hour of parting pain, . Oh! she was never heard of more!

In her was many a mother's joy,
And love of many a weeping fair;
For her was wafted, in its sigh,

The lonely heart's unceasing prayer;
And oh the thousand hopes untold
Of ardent youth, that vessel bore;
Say, were they quenched in ocean cold,
For she was never heard of more!

When on her wide and trackless path
Of desolation, doom'd to flee,
Say, sank she 'mid the blending wrath
Of racking cloud and rolling sea?
Or, where the land but mocks the eye,
Went drifting on a fatal shore?

Vain guesses all!-Her destiny

Is dark-she ne'er was heard of more.

The moon hath twelve times changed her form
From glowing orb to crescent wan;
'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm,
Since from her port that ship hath gone;

But ocean keeps its secret well;

And though we know that all is o'er, No eye hath seen-no tongue can tell

Her fate-she ne'er was heard of more!

FORGET THEE>

REV. J. MOULTRIE.

"FORGET thee?"-If to dream by night, and muse on thee by day;

If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to heaven's protecting power, [hour, If winged thoughts that flit to thee-a thousand in an If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot, If this thou call'st "forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot!

Forget thee?"-Bid the forest birds forget their sweetest tune!

"Forget thee?"-Bid the sea forget to swell beneath [freshing dew;

the moon;

Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's reThyself forget thine "own dear land," and its " mountains wild and blue;"

Forget each old familiar face, each long remember'd spot: When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot!

fancy-free;

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace still calm and [glad for me; For, God forbid! thy gladsome heart should grow less Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh, bid not mine [love;

to rove,

But let it muse its humble faith, and uncomplaining If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, Forget me then ;-but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot!

THE BRIDAL MORNING.

ANONYMOUS.

TEARS on thy bridal morning! Tears, my love!
It ought not thus to be. Why, my full heart
Is like the gladsome, long imprison'd bird,
Cleaving its way through the blue liquid arch
With liberty and song. Those dropping pearls
Waste but thy bosom's wealth. 'Twere well to keep
Such treasures for those long arrears which grief
Demands from the brief summer of our time.
I'll turn magician, dearest, and compute
What moves thy spirit thus. Remember'd joys,
Clustering so thickly round thy parents' hearth,
Put on bright robes at parting, and, perchance,
A mother's sympathy, or the fond clasp
Of thy young sister's snowy arms, do bind
Thine innocent soul in durance. Oh! my love!
Cast thy heart's gold into the furnace-flame,
And, if it come not thence refined and pure,
I'll be a bankrupt to thy hope, and heaven
Shall shut its gate on me. Come, sweetest, come!
The holy vow shall tremble on thy lip,

And at God's blessed altar shalt thou kneel

So meek and beautiful, that men will deem

Some angel there doth pray. Thou shalt then be
The turtle of my green and fragrant bower,
Trilling soft lays; and I will touch thy heart
With such strong warmth of deathless tenderness,
That all thy pictures of remember'd joy
Shall be as faded things. So be at rest,
My soul's beloved! and let thy rose-bud lip
Smile, as 'twas wont, in eloquent delight.