Obrazy na stronie

Fear in his heart and frenzy in his eyes ;
“ Eliza !” loud along the camp he calls,
“ Eliza !" echoes through the canvass walls :
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread
O’er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead ;
Vault o'er the plain, and, in the tangled wood,
Lo! dead Eliza weltering in her blood !

Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds :-
“Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,
“ Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand.
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake-
Why do you weep ?-Mamma will soon awake.”'
“She'll wake no more !" the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands, and sighed.
Stretched on the ground, a while entranced he lay,
And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay ;
And then upsprung with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart.
“O heaven !" he cried, “my first rash vow forgive !
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live !"
Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest,
And clasped them, sobbing, to his aching breast.



WERRY funny feller is de ole plantation mule ;

An' nobody'll play wid him unless he is a fool.
De bestest ting to do w’en you meditates about him,
Is to kinder calkerlate you'll get along widout him.
W'en you try to 'proach dat mule from the front endwise,
He look as meek as Moses, but his looks is full ob lies;
He doesn't move a muscle, he doesn't even wink;
An' you say his dispersition's better'n people tink.
He stan' so still you s'pose he is a monument of grace ;
An' you almos' see a 'nevolent expression on his face;
But dat 'nevolent expression is de mask dat's allers worn;
For ole Satan is behin' it jest as sure as you is born.
Den you cosset him a little, an' you pat his other end,
An' you has a reverlation dat he aint so much


friend; You has made a big mistake; but before de heart repents, You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de fence. Well, you feel like you'd been standin' on de locomotive track An' de engine come an' hit you in de middle ob de back; You don' know wat has happened, you can scarcely cotch your breff , But you tink you've made de 'quaintance ob a werry vi'lent deff.


Now a sin in de soul is percisely like de mule ;
An' nobody'll play wid it, unless he is a fool.
It looks so mitey innercent; but honey, dear, beware!
For although de kick is hidden, de kick is allers there.



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ILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,

In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb ;
His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,

And his arms folded in majestic gloom,
And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound,
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,

Telling the cedars and the pines, that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,

And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer,
Now all was hush'd ; and eve's last splender shone,
With a rich sadness, on the attesting stone.


There came a lonely traveller o’er the wild,

And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said-
“I listen'd for the words which, years ago,
Pass'd o'er these waters ; though the voice is fled,

Which made them as a singing fountain's flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.


“Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath ?

I was an eagle in my youthful pride,
When o'er the seas he came with summer's breath,
To dwell amidst us on the lake's green

side. Many the times of flowers have been since then; Many, but bringing naught like him again.

“Not with hunter's bow and spear he came, O’er the blue hills to chase the flying roe; Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,

Laying their cedars, like the corn stacks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things, Gladdening our souls as with the morning's wings.

“Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,

I and my brethren that from earth are gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone ? He told of one the grave's dark lands who broke, And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke !

“He told of far and sunny lands, which lie

Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell : Bright must they be! for there are none that die,

And none that weep, and none that say “Farewell!” He came to guide us thither ; but away The happy call'd him, and he might not stay.

“We saw him slowly fade—athirst perchance,

For the fresh waters of that lovely clime ; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time; Therefore we hoped—but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes and finds not him.

“We gather'd round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree: From his clear voice at first the words of power

Cawe low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swell’d, and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

“And then once more they trembled on his tongue,

And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head
Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung-

Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead ?
It is enough! he sank upon my breast,-
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

“We buried him where he was wont to pray,

By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; We rear'd this cross in token where he lay,

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died ! Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and wave, That Aowery land whose green turf hides no grave !


“But I am sad—I mourn the clear light taken

Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs, in each fitful blast."

Then spoke the wanderer forth, with kindling eye:

“Son of the wilderness. despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,

And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot; Heaven darkly works,—yet where the seed hath been,

There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen."

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So down he came; for loss of time

Although it griev'd him sore; Yet loss of pence full well he knew

Would trouble him much more.

Now see him mounted, once again,

Upon his nimble steed;
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,
With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road

Beneath his well shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot;

Which gall'd him in his seat.

“So, fair and softly!”' John he cried ;

But, John he cried in vain : That trot became a gallop soon,

In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down (as needs he must

Who cannot sit upright) He grasp'd the man with both his hands,

And, eke, with all his might.

His horse-(who never in that sort

Had handled been before)
What thing upon his back had got

Did wonder more and more,

Away went Gilpin-neck or nought!

Away went hat and wig ;
He little dreamt, when he set out,

Of running such a rig.

The dogs did bark--the children scream'd;

Up flew the windows all ;
And every soul cried out— well done!"

As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin.--Who but

His fame soon spread around, “He carries weight !” — “He rides a race!"

6. 'Tis for a thousand pound!”

And still, as fast as he drew near,

'Twas wonderful to view How, in a trice, the turnpike men

Their gates wide upon threw.

Thus all through merry Islington

These gambols he did play,

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