The forest leaves lay scattered cold and dead,
Upon the withered grass that autumn morn,
When, with as withered hearts
And hopes as dead and cold,

A gallant army formed their last array
Upon that field, in silence and deep gloom,
And at their conqueror's feet

Laid their war-weapons down.

Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dishonoured; Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded there:

The soldier's trial task

Is not alone "to die."

Honour to chivalry! the conqueror's breath
Stains not the ermine of his foeman's fame,

Nor mocks his captive's doom-
The bitterest cup of war.

But be that bitterest cup the doom of all

Whose swords are lightning flashes in the cloud Of the Invader's wrath,

Threatening a gallant land.

His armies' trumpet-tones wake not alone
Her slumbering echoes; from a thousand hills
Her answering voices shout,

And her bells ring to arms!

Then danger hovers o'er the Invader's march, On raven wings, hushing the song of fame, And glory's hues of beauty

Fade from the cheek of death.

A foe is heard in every rustling leaf,
A fortress seen in every rock and tree,
The eagle eye of art

Is dim and powerless then,

And war becomes a people's joy, the drum
Man's merriest music, and the field of death
His couch of happy dreams,
After life's harvest home.

He battles heart and arm, his own blue sky
Above him, and his own green land around,
Land of his father's grave,

His blessing and his prayers,

Land where he learnt to lisp a mother's name,
The first beloved in life, the last forgot,

Land of his frolic youth,

Land of his bridal eve,

Land of his children,-vain your columned strength Invaders! vain your battles' steel and fire!

Choose ye the morrow's doom,

A prison or a grave.

And such were Saratoga's victors—such

The Yeomen-Brave, whose deeds and death have

given

A glory to her skies,

A music to her name.

In honourable life her fields they trod,
In honourable death they sleep below;
Their sons' proud feelings here

Their noblest monuments.

RED JACKET.

A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS.

ON LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT BY WEIR.

COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven,
First in her files, her PIONEER of mind-
A wanderer now in other climes, has proven
His love for the young land he left behind;

And throned her in the senate hall of nations, Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought, Magnificent as his own mind's creations,.

And beautiful as its green world of thought;