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I would never wander, bird, like thee,

So near this place again;
With wing and spirit once light and free,

They should wear no more the chain
With which they are bound and fettered here,
Forever struggling for skies more clear.

There are many things like thee, bright bird;

Hopes as thy plumage gay;
Our air is with them forever stirred,

But still in air they stay.
And Happiness, like thee, fair one,

Is ever hovering o'er,
But rests in a land of brighter sun,

On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of “living waters" springs.

FROM YAMOYDEN.

BY R. C. SANDS,

THEY

that, afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair unruffled and sparkling, is spread; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.

say,

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom,
Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume;
And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depressed,
All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east;
There the bright eye of nature in mild glory hovers :
'Tis the land of the sunbeam, the green isle of lovers.

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss
The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss;
Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs
Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires
The dance and the revel, mid forests that cover,
On high, with their shade, the green isle of the lover.

But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire,
When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire,
Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle,
Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile;
From beauty, there, valour and strength are not rovers,
And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplexed, has beheld it no more;
It fleets on the vision, deluding the view ;
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue:
Oh, who, in this vain world of wo, shall discover
The home undisturbed, the green isle of the lover!

THE MOHAWK AND THE INDIAN CAPTIVE.

BY WILLIAM L. STONE.

In yonder sylvan dale, the hills and woods among,
Bright as the sweetest vale the poets e'er have sung,
Where Mohawk's silver tide adorns the fairy scene,
Rejoicing in his pride, mid groves forever green :-
There, dark as clouds of night, the lurking savage came,
With hatchet burnished bright, and torch of lurid flame,
To wake with horrid yell the hamlet's sweet repose,
By deeds no tongue can tell—the deeds of savage foes.

The warwhoop, shrill and wild, through darkest gloom

was heard ;The mother clasped her child, the father grasped his

sword But e'er the morning's dawn the cruel work was o'er; The dusky foe was gone, the vale was steeped in gore. The dying and the dead were strewed along the plain, And fewer those who fled than those among the slain :And loud the plaintive cry broke on the saddened ear; And deep the heaving sigh, and scalding was the tear.

With throbbing bosoms there, amid the field of blood, In anguish and in prayer, full many a mourner stood;With swimming eyes, distressed-transfixed as by a

spell, The maiden smote her breast, with grief she could not

tell.

A mother there was one-a widow--and she wept
Her darling infant son that in the cradle slept :-
The babe, the eve before, had sweetly sunk to rest,
Alas! to smile no more upon a mother's breast.

But see! what form is there, thus bounding from the

wood, Like panther from his lair, back on the trail of blood ? A chieftain by his mien, of noble form is he, A prouder ne'er was seen in chase across the lea. Swift as the arrow's flight, he speeds his course along, With eye of burning light, to reach the weeping

throng ; And o'er his eagle-crest, a banner white he waves, As though to make request, of good intent he craves.

Wrapped in his blanket warm, loose o'er his shoulder

fiungYet guarded safe from harm, a lovely infant hung. On, on with breathless stride the warrior held his

way; Quick by the mother's side, her own lost infant lay! The babe looked up, and smiled,--and sweet the thrill

of joy,

As now with transports wild she clasped her darling

boyWhile rapid as the light, the warrior leaped the flood, Sprang swiftly from the sight, and vanished in the wood. THE WATER.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

How beautiful the water is !

Didst ever think of it,
When down it tumbles from the skies

As in a merry fit?
It jostles, ringing as it falls.

On all that's in its way-
I hear it dancing on the roof,

Like some wild thing at play.

'Tis rushing now adown the spout

And gushing out below; A happy thing the water is,

While sporting thus, I know.
The earth is dry, and parched with heat,

And it hath longed to be
Released from out the selfish cloud,

To cool the thirsty tree.

It washes, rather rudely too,

The flowret's simple grace,
As if to chide the pretty thing

For dust upon its face.
It scours the tree, till every leaf

Is freed from dust or stain,
Then waits till leaf and branch are stilled,

And showers them o'er again.

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