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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.

Drop after drop, is tinkling down

To kiss the stirring brook,
The water dimples from beneath

With its own joyous look-
And then the kindred drops embrace,

And singing, on they go,
To dance beneath the willow tree,

And glad the vale below.

How beautiful the water is !

It loves to come at night,
To make you wonder in the morn

To see the earth so bright :
To find a youthful gloss is spread

On every shrub and tree,
And flowrets breathing on the air

Their odours pure and free.

A dainty thing the water is,

It loves the flowret's cup,
To nestle mid the odour there,

And fill its petals up-
It hangs its gems on every leaf,

Like diamonds in the sun;
And then the water wins the smile

The flowret should have won.

How beautiful the water is !

To me 'tis wondrous fair---
No spot can ever lonely be,
If water sparkles there-

It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,

Or grandeur, or delight;
And every heart is gladder made,

When water greets the sight.

INDIAN CHANT.

BY H. R. SCHOOLCRAFT.

FIRST VOICE.

The eagles scream on high,

They whet their forked beaks: Raise-raise the battle cry,

'Tis fame our leader seeks.

SECOND VOICE.

'Tis fame my soul desires,

By deeds of martial strife : Give-give me warlike fires,

Or take-ah take my life.

THIRD VOICE.

The deer a while may go

Unhunted o'er the heath, For now I seek a nobler foe,

And prize a nobler death.

FOURTH VOICE.

Lance and quiver, club and bow,

Now alone attract my sight; I will go where warriors go,

I will fight where warriors fight.

FIFTH VOICE.

Now my heart with valour burns,

I my lance in fury shake; He who falters, he who turns,

Give him fagot, fire, and stake.

SIXTH VOICE.

See my visage scarred and red

See my brows with trophies brightSuch the brows that warriors dread,

Such the trophies of the tight.

THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS.

BY S. G. GOODRICH.

The sportive sylphs that course the air,

Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair,

And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.

With sparkling cups of bubbles made,

They catch the ruddy beams of day, And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,

Their blushing favourite to array.

They gather gems with sunbeams bright,

From floating clouds and falling showers, They rob Aurora's locks of light

To grace their own fair queen of flowers.

Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose

Becomes a token fit to tell,
Of things that words can ne'er disclose,

And nought but this reveal so well.

Then take my flower, and let its leaves

Beside thy heart be cherished near, While that confiding heart receives

The thought it whispers to thine ear.

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