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The line that held his pretty kite,

His bow, his cup and ball,
The slate on which he learned to write,

His feather, cap, and all !
“My dear, I'd put the things away

Just where they were before:
Go, Anna, take him out to play,

And shut the closet door.
Sweet innocent! he little thinks

The slightest thought expressed
Of him that's lost, how deep it sinks

Within a mother's breast!"


TO-MORROW, didst thou say?
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.
Go to~I will not hear of it-To-morrow!
'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury
Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash,
And pays thee naught, but wishes, hopes, and prom.

The currency of idiots-injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.

Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.
But soft, my friend-arrest the present moment:

For be assured they all are arrant tell-tales :
And though their fight be silent, and their path
Trackless, as the winged couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly.
Because, though stationed on th' important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved.
And know, for that thou slumberest on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-winked Justice, who shall tell thy audit ?

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio,
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms ! far more precious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
O! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like
The good old patriarch* upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.

OSSIAN?St ADDRESS TO THE SUN. O Thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again;

* See Genesis, chap. xxxii. 24–30.

+ Ossian, an ancient Scotch, or Gælic poet, supposed to have flourished in the second century, and to have been the son of Fingal. His poems were translated by Mr. M'Pherson, in 1762

the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.

When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy beauty, from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning

Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.

“Now, if I fall, will it be my lot
To be cast in some lone, and lowly spot,
To melt, and to sink, unseen, or forgot?

And there will my course be ended ?"
'Twas this a feathery Snow-Flake said,
As down through measureless space it strayed,
Or, as half by dalliance, half afraid,

It seemed in mid air suspended.

"Oh! no,” said the Earth, “thou shalt not lie
Neglected and lone on my lap to die,
Thou pure and delicate child of the sky!

For, thou wilt be safe in my keeping.
But then, I must give thee a lovelier form
Thou wilt not be part of the wintry storm,
But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm,

And the flowers from my bosom are peeping !
“ And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be
Restored in the lily that decks the lea,
In the jessamine-bloom, the anemone,

Or aught of thy spotless whiteness :-
To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead,
With the pearls, that the night scatters over the mead,
In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed,

Regaining thy dazzling brightness.
" I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep,.
When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,
In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap

In a drop from the unlock'd fountain:
Or leaving the valley, the meadow and heath,
The streamlet, the flowers and all beneath •
Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath

Encircling the brow of the mountain.

"Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies!
Go shine in the Iris; I'll let thee arise,
And appear in the many and glorious dyes

A pencil of sunbeams is blending!
But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth,
I'll give thee a new and vernal birth,
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth,

And never regret descending !"

Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake; “But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make Is not in the flowers, nor the dew to wake;

Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning.
For, things of thyself, they expire with thee;
But those that are lent from on high, like me,
They rise and will live, from thy dust set free,

To the regions above returning
“ And, if true to thy word, and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart

And return to my native heaven.
For, I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time, in thy sight to glow,
So thou may'st remember the Flake of Snow

By the promise that God hath given !"

THE LONE INDIAN. For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen standing at the consecrated spot we have mentioned; but, just thirty years after the death of Soonseetah, he was noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed old, and way-worn. Age had not dimmed the fire of his eye, but an expression of deep melancholy had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was Pow. ontonamo-he who had once been the Eagle of the Mohawks!!

He came to lie down and die beneath the broad oak, which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. Alas, the white man's axe had been there! The tree he had planted was dead; and the vine, which had leaped so vigorously from branch to branch, now yellow and withering, was falling to the ground. A deep groan burst from the soul of the savage. For thirty wearisome years, he had watched that oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the only

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