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Here his young squaw her cradling tree would choose,
-No more shall they thy welcome waters bless,
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.
Bold River! better suited are thy waves
To nurse the laurels clustering round their graves,
Thou had'st a poet once,-and he could tell,
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.
NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.
THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.
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,
Lead on! my orphan boy!
Thy home is not so desolate to thee,
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,
The forehead of my upright one, and just,
He will not meet thee there
Who bless'd thee at the eventide, my son!
The lips that melted, giving thee to God,
Aye, my own boy! thy sire
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
Wo! that the linden and the vine should bloom
My Mother's voice! how often creeps
Or dew to the unconscious flowers.
While leaping pulses madly fly,
And years, and sin, and manhood flee,
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,
Of a few miserable years—
Beneath a moonlight sky of spring,
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
And yielding to the blessed gush
Have risen up-the gay, the wild-
MRS LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.
GROUP after group are gathering-such as prest
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
Beneath whose consecrated dome 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,
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;-
Yet, from the bound where hoarse St Lawrence roars