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And yet not rich in high-souled memories only,

Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming, Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely,

And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming:
But such soft fancies here may breathe around,
As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.

Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night—
Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul,
Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light,
Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole-
Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth
To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending

Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest,

Closes at last thy very couch beside,

A matron curtaining a virgin bride.

Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting,

While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver,

As of the good when heavenward hence departing,

Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. So-could I fling o'er glory's tide one rayWould I too steal from this dark world away.

ANACREONTIC.

BY A. H. BOGART.

Ob: 1826, at. 22.

THE flying joy through life we seek
For once is ours-the wine we sip
Blushes like Beauty's glowing cheek,
To meet our eager lip.

Round with the ringing glass once more!
Friends of my youth and of my heart--
No magic can this hour restore

Then crown it ere we part.

Ye are my friends, my chosen ones

Whose blood would flow with fervour true

For me-and free as this wine runs

Would mine, by Heaven! for you.

Yet, mark me! When a few short years
Have hurried on their journey fleet,
Not one that now my accents hears
Will know me when we meet.

Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,
The startling thought ye scarce will brook,
Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then
In heart as well as look.

Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile,
Will soon break youthful friendship's chain-
But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile?

No-pour the wine again!

ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK.

BY EDWARD SANFORD.

THERE'S beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high
And manly beauty of the Roman mould,
And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye

Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold;
Of passions scathed not by the blight of time,
Ambition, that survives the battle route.
The man within thee scorns to play the mime
To gaping crowds that compass thee about.
Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side,
Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.

Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet

Vanquished and captive-dost thou deem that here

The glowing day star of thy glory set

Dull night has closed upon thy bright career?

Old forest lion, caught and caged at last,

Dost pant to roam again thy native wild?

To gloat upon the life blood flowing fast

Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child,

To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers,

And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?

For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter
The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers,
To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utter
Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers.
Though thine be old, hereditary hate,

Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until
It had become a madness, 'tis too late

To crush the hordes who have the power, and will, To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.

Spite of thy looks of cold indifference,

There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder, Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense

The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder?
Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings,
That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky ;-
Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things
Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by?
Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean,
What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion ?

Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies
That grin in darkness in their coffin cases;
What think'st thou of the art of making mummies,
So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?
Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage

Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour;
Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage,

Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down, Pass in a moment from a king-to clown.

Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow? Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow

By a sly cup or so of our fire waters?

They are thy people's deadliest poison. They

First make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves, And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey,

And lives of misery, and early graves.

For by their power, believe me, not a day goes,
But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.

Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away?
To the deep bosom of thy forest home,
The hill side, where thy young pappooses play,
And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come?
Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws,

For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear,
Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,

That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here?
The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt,
Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.

Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast
Of the caged bird against his prison bars,
That thou, the crowned warrior of the west,
The victor of a hundred forest wars,
Should'st in thy age, become a raree show

Led, like a walking bear, about the town,

A new caught monster, who is all the

go,

And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?

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