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The scene runs round with motion, rings with mirth,
No happier spot upon the peopled earth;
The drifted snow to dust the travelers heat,
The uneven ice is flint beneath their feet.
Here tents, a gay encampment, rise around,
Where music, song, and revelry resound;
There the blue smoke upwreathes a hundred spires.
Where humbler groups have lit their piue-wood tires.
Ere long they quit the tables; knights and dames
THE CHILDREN IX THE WOOD.
|OW ponder well, you parents deare,
These wordes which I shall write; A doleful story you shall heare,
In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account,
In Norfolke dwelt of late, Who did in honor far surmount
Most men of his estate.
"You must he father and mother both,
And uncle all in one; God knowes what will become of them,
When I am dead and gone." With that bespake their mother deare,
"O brother kinde," quoth shee, "You are the man must bring our babes
To wealth or miserie:
Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
No helpe his life could save;
And both possest one grave.
Each was to other kinde;
And left two babes behiude:
The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three yeares olde;
And framed iu beautye's molde.
As plainlye doth appeare,
Three hundred poundes a yeare.
And to his little daughter Jane
Five hundred poundes in gold,
Which might not be controlled:
Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possesse their wealth;
For so the wille did run.
"Now, brother," said the dying man,
'■Look to my children deare; Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friendes else have they here: To God and you I recommend
My children deare this daye; But little while be sure we have
Within this world to staye.
"And if you keep thein carefully,
Then God will you reward;
God will your deedes regard."
They kist their children small: "God bless you both, my children deare;"
With that the teares did fall.
These speeches then their brother spake
To this sicke couple there;
Sweet sister, do not feare.
Nor aught else that I have,
When you are layd in grave."
The parents being dead and gone,
The children home he takes,
Where much of them he makes.
A twelvemonth and a daye,
To make them both awaye.
He bargained with two ruffians strong,
Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young,
And slaye them in a wood.
He would the children send
With one that was his friend.
Away then went those pretty babes
Rejoycing at that tide, Rejoycing with a merry minde,
They should on cock-horse ride.
As they rode on the waye,
And work their lives' decaye:
So that the pretty speeche they had,
Made Murder's heart relent:
Full sore did now repent.
Did vowe to do his charge,
Had paid him very large.
The other won't agree thereto,
So here they fall to strife;
About the children's life:
Did slaye the other there,
The babes did quake for feare I
He took the children by the hand,
Teares standing in their eye,
And look they did not crye:
While they for food complaine:
When I come back againe."
These pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Went wandering up and downe;
Approaching from the towne:
Were all besmeared and dyed,
They sat them downe and cryed.
Thus wandered these poor innocents
Till deathe did end their grief, In one another's amies they died.
As wanting due relief:
Of any man receives,
Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrathe of God
Upon their uncle fell;
His conscience felt an hell;
His landes were barren made, His cattle dyed within the field,
And nothing with him stayd.
And in the voyage of Portugal
Two of his sonnes did dye;
To want and miserye:
Ere seven years came about,
Did by this means come out:
The fellowe that did take in baud
These children for to kill,
Such was God's blessed will:
As here hath been displayed: Their uncle having dyed in gaol,
Where he for debt was layd.
You that executors be made,
And overseers eke
And infants mild and meek;
And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like miserye
Your wicked minds requite.
THE MASSACRE OF FORT DEARBORN.
| Chicago, i8iJ.I
PORN" of the prairie and the wave — the blue sea I saw a dot upon the map, and a house-fly's filmy ^ and the green, wing—
j: A city of the Occident. Chicaoo lay between; They said't was Dearborns picket-flag when WilderDim trails upon the meadow, faint wakes upon ness was 8'
the main * heard the reed-bird's morning song—the Indian's
". , , awkward flail —
On either sea a schooner and a canvas-covered _, . , ., , ,., , , . .
The rice tattoo 1n his rude canoe like a dash of April
MUSIC IN CAMP.
fWO armies covered hill ami plain, Wbere Rappahannock's waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain '*r Of battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;
Slept in its high embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver;
Rolled slowly from the river.
And now where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly planted, O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted.
When on the fervid air there came
The music seemed itself aflame
A Federal band, which eve and morn
Had just struck up with flute and horn
Down flocked the soldiers to the banks;
Till, margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"
And one was grey with "Rebels."
Then all was still; and then the band,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
The conscious stream, with burnished glow,
Went proudly o'er its pebbles,
With yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause; and then again
And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain
The laughing ripple shoreward flew
To kiss the shining pebbles;
Defiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugle sang
Above the stormy riot;
There reigned a holy quiet.
The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
All silent now the Yankees stood,
No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,
The hidden founts of feeling.
Or Blue, or Grey, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,
The cabin by the prairie.
The cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
His loved ones stand before him.
As fades the iris after rain,
In April's tearful weather,
And daylight died together.
But Memory, waked by Music's art,
Expressed in simple numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.
And fair the form of Music shines—
That bright celestial creature— AVho still 'mid War's embattled lines
Gives this one touch of Nature.
John R. Thompson.
THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
TLD was the night, yet a wilder night
A few fond mourners were kneeling by,
They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
They knew by his awful and kingly look,
By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken.
He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
The bearded Russian he scourged again.
The Prussian's camp was routed.
His mighty armies shouted.
Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows.
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows.
On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,
He led again, in his dying dreams.
Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle; Again the world was overrun.
Made pale at his cannon's rattle.
He died at the close of that darksome day.
A day that shall live in story:
"And left him alone with his glory.'"
THE GRAVE OP BONAPARTE.
ff a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring bilAssail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,
The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners lean over the grave. The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle:
He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain; —
He sleeps his last sleep—he has fought his last battle!
No sound can awake him to glory again!
O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions That rushed but to conquer when thou led'st them on?
Alas! they have perished in far hilly regions,
The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle! They heed not, they hear not, they:re free from all pain:
They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle! No sound can awake them to glory again!
Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee.
For, like thine own eagle that soared to the sun, Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee
A name which before thee no mortal had won. Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle,
No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain;
Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle!
No sound can awake thee to glory again!
gHE Plains! The shouting drivers at the wheel: The crash of leather whips; the crush and roll Of wheels; the groan of yokes and grinding steel
And iron chain, and lo! at last the whole
Some hills at last began to lift and break;
A babe was heard at last to cry for bread Amid the deserts; cattle lowed and died And dying men went by with broken tread. And left a long black serpent line of wreck and dead.
They rose by night; they struggled on and on -As thin and still as ghosts; then here and there Beside the dusty way before the dawn Men silent laid them down in their despair, And died. But woman! Woman, frail us fair! May man have strength to give to you your due; You faltered not. nor murmured anywhere. You held your babes, held to your course, and yon Bore on through burning hell your double burthens through.