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Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys; Hapless bird! a prey the surest
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure
Finer feelings can bestow; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deeuest notes of woe.
TO BLOSSOMS. — Herrick.
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
To blush and gently smile,
What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
Merely to show your worth,
But you are lovely leaves, where we
And after they have shown their pride,
196 BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.
There are gold-bright suns in worlds above,
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. —Longfellow.
On sunny slope and beechen swell
Far upward in the mellow light
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,
Around a far-uplifted cone,
In the warm blush of evening shone;
An image of the silver lakes
By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard
They sang, that by his native bowers
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
They buried the dark chief; they freed
HEAVEN.— From Feslus.
Is heaven a place where pearly streams
Glide over silver sand?
Of some far fairy land?
Is heaven a clime where diamond dews
Glitter on fadeless flowers, And mirth and music ring aloud
From amaranthine bowers?
Ah no; not such, not such is heaven!
Surpassing far all these;
Man's wearied soul to please.
For saints and sinners here below,
And the pure spirit will despise
There shall we dwell with Sire and Son,
And with the Mother-maid, And with the Holy Spirit, one,
In glory like arrayed;
And not to one created thing
"Make way for liberty!" he cried; Made way for liberty, and died! —
It must not be; this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power!All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield,— She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast;But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed; Behold him, — Arnold Winkelried! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And, by the motion of his form, Anticipate the rising storm; And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But't was no sooner thought than done! The field was in a moment won:— "Make way for liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp: "Make way for liberty!" he cried, Their keen points met from side to side;