Away then went those pretty babes They should on cock-horse ride. To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives' decaye: So that the pretty speeche they had, Yet one of them more hard of heart, The other won't agree thereto, So here they fall to strife; With one another they did fight, About the children's life: And he that was of mildest mood Did slaye the other there, Within an unfrequented wood; The babes did quake for feare! He took the children by the hand, And two long miles he ledd them on, "Staye here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, When I come back againe.” These pretty babes, with hand in hand, Went wandering up and downe; But never more could see the man Their prettye lippes with blackberries And when they sawe the darksome night, Thus wandered these poor innocents Of any man receives, Did cover them with leaves. And now the heavy wrathe of God Upon their uncle fell; Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, His barnes were fired, his goodes consumed, And nothing with him stayd. And in the voyage of Portugal And to conclude, himselfe was brought He pawned and mortgaged all his land The fellowe that did take in hand As here hath been displayed: Their uncle having dyed in gaol, Where he for debt was layd. You that executors be made, Of children that be fatherless, THE MASSACRE OF FORT DEARBORN. [Chicago, 1812.] ORN of the prairie and the wave-1 -the blue sea and the green, A city of the Occident, CHICAGO lay between; Dim trails upon the meadow, faint wakes upon the main, On either sea a schooner and a canvas-covered wain. I saw a dot upon the map, and a house-fly's filmy wing They said 't was Dearborn's picket-flag when Wilder ness was king; I heard the reed-bird's morning song-the Indian's awkward flail — The rice tattoo in his rude canoe like a dash of April YWO armies covered hill and plain, T MUSIC IN CAMP. Where Rappahannock's waters The summer clouds lay pitched like tents The breeze so softly blew, it made No forest leaf to quiver; And the smoke of the random cannonade And now where circling hills looked down When on the fervid air there came A Federal band, which eve and morn Down flocked the soldiers to the banks; Then all was still; and then the band, The conscious stream, with burnished glow, Again a pause; and then again 66 And Yankee Doodle" was the strain The laughing ripple shoreward flew And yet once more the bugle sang No shout upon the evening rang- The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood No unresponsive soul had heard Or Blue, or Grey, the soldier sees, The cold or warm, his native skies As fades the iris after rain, In April's tearful weather, But Memory, waked by Music's art, And fair the form of Music shinesThat bright celestial creature— Who still 'mid War's embattled lines Gives this one touch of Nature. JOHN R. THOMPSON. THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. ILD was the night, yet a wilder night Hung round the soldier's pillow; In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight Than the fight on the wrathful billow. A few fond mourners were kneeling by, They knew by his awful and kingly look, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, |