J. K. MITCHELL.*

THE SONG OF THE PRAIRIE.

O! FLY to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me,
"Tis as green and as wide and as wild as the sea:
O'er its soft silken bosom the summer winds glide,
And wave the wild grass in its billowy pride.
The city's a prison too narrow for thee-
Then away to the prairies so boundless and free:
Where the sight is not check'd till the prairie and
skies,

In harmony blending, commingle their dyes.
The fawns in the meadow-fields fearlessly play--
Away to the chase, lovely maiden, away!
Bound, bound to thy courser, the bison is near,
And list to the tramp of the light-footed deer.
Let England exult in her dogs and her chase-
O! what's a king's park to this limitless space!
No fences to leap and no thickets to turn,
No owners to injure, no furrows to spurn.
But, softly as thine on the carpeted hall,
Is heard the light foot of the courser to fall;
And close-matted grass no impression receives,
As ironless hoofs bound aloft from the leaves.
O, fly to the prairie! the eagle is there:
He gracefully wheels in the cloud-speckled air;
And, timidly hiding her delicate young,
The prairie-hen hushes her beautiful song.
O, fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me!
The vine and the prairie-rose blossom for thee;
And, hailing the moon in the prairie-propp'd sky,
The mocking-bird echoes the katydid's cry.
Let Mexicans boast of their herds and their steeds,
The free prairie-hunter no shepherd-boy needs;
The bison, like clouds, overshadow the place,
And the wild, spotted coursers invite to the chase.
The farmer may boast of his grass and his grain-
He sows them in labour, and reaps them in pain;
But here the deep soil no exertion requires,
Enrich'd by the ashes, and clear'd by the fires.
The woodman delights in his trees and his shade;
But see! there's no sun on the cheek of his maid;
His flowers are faded, his blossoms are pale,
And mildew is riding his vapourous gale.
Then fly to the prairie! in wonder there gaze,
As sweeps o'er the grass the magnificent blaze,
The land is o'erwhelm'd in an ocean of light,
Whose flame-surges break in the breeze of the night.
Sublime from the north comes the wind in his wrath,
And scatters the reeds in his desolate path;
Or, loaded with incense, steals in from the west,
As bees from the prairie-rose fly to their nest.
O, fly to the prairie! for freedom is there!

Love lights not that home with the torch of despair!

No wretch to entreat, and no lord to deny, No gossips to slander, no neighbour to pry.

But, struggling not there the heart's impulse to hide, Love leaps like the fount from the crystal-rock side, And strong as its adamant, pure as its spring, Waves wildly in sunbeams his rose-colour'd wing.

HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT.*

GEEHALE. AN INDIAN LAMENT.

THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore As sweetly and gayly as ever before; For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever express'd, [the best. When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, For they know that their mates are expecting them

back.

Each bird, and each beast, it is bless'd in degree: All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me.

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair; I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay; The steel of the white man hath swept them away.

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore: Its charms I no longer obey or invoke, Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. I will raise up my voice to the source of the light; I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night; I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves; And will take a new Manito-such as shall seem To be kind and propitious in every dream.

O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes; I shall wash from my face every cloud-colour'd stain; Red-red shall, alone, on my visage remain! I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow; By night and by day I will follow the foe; Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor

snows;

His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose.

They came to my cabin when heaven was

black:

I heard not their coming, I knew not their track; But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees, They were people engender'd beyond the big seas: My wife and my children,-O, spare me the tale!For who is there left that is kin to GEEHALE?

* Author of "Algic Researches," "Expedition to Itasca Lake," "Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega," etc. See notice of his works in " Prose Writers of America."

REVEREND WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.*

THE TWENTY THOUSAND CHILDREN OF THE SABBATH SCHOOLS IN NEW YORK, CELEBRATING TOGETHER THE 4TH OF JULY, 1839.

O, SIGHT sublime! O, sight of fear!
The shadowing of infinity!
Numbers, whose murmur rises here

Like whisperings of the mighty sea!
Ye bring strange visions to my gaze;

Earth's dreamer, heaven before me swims; The sea of glass, the throne of days, Crowns, harps, and the melodious hymns. Ye rend the air with grateful songs

For freedom by old warriors won:
O, for the battle which your throngs
May wage and win through DAVID'S SON!
Wealth of young beauty! that now blooms
Before me like a world of flowers;
High expectation! that assumes
The hue of life's serenest hours;
Are ye decaying? Must these forms,
So agile, fair, and brightly gay,
Hidden in dust, be given to worms
And everlasting night, the prey?

Are ye immortal? Will this mass
Of life, be life, undying still,
When all these sentient thousands pass

To where corruption works its will?
Thought! that takes hold of heaven and hell,
Be in each teacher's heart to-day!
So shall eternity be well

With these, when time has fled away.

TO THE SHIP OF THE LINE PENNSYLVANIA.

"LEAP forth to the careering seas,"

O, ship of lofty name!

And toss upon thy native breeze
The stars and stripes of fame!
And bear thy thunders o'er the deep
Where vaunting navies ride!
Thou hast a nation's gems to keep--
Her honour and her pride!
O! holy is the covenant made

With thee and us to-day;
None from the compact shrinks afraid,
No traitor utters nay!

We pledge our fervent love, and thou
Thy glorious ribs of oak,
Alive with men who cannot bow
To kings, nor kiss the yoke!

Speed lightnings o'er the Carib sea,
Which deeds of hell deform;

And look! her hands are spread to thee
Where Afric's robbers swarm.

The Rev. WILLIAM B. TAPPAN was born in Beverly, Massachusetts, on the 29th of October, 1794, and he died near Boston, in June, 1849. He was a voluminous writer of religious poetry. His later works are Poetry of the Heart,' 'Poetry of Life,' 'Sacred and Miscellaneous Poems,' &c.

Go! lie upon the Ægean's breast,
Where sparkle emerald isles-
Go! seek the lawless Suliote's nest,
And spoil his cruel wiles.
And keep, where sail the merchant ships
Stern watch on their highway,
And promptly, through thine iron lips,
When urged, our tribute pay;
Yea, show thy bristling teeth of power,
Wherever tyrants bind,

In pride of their own little hour,

A freeborn, noble mind.

Spread out those ample wings of thine!While crime doth govern men, "Tis fit such bulwark of the brine

Should leave the shores of PENN; For hid within thy giant strength

Are germs of welcome peace,
And such as thou, shall cause at length
Man's feverish strife to cease.
From every vale, from every crag,

Word of thy beauty's past,
And joy we that our country's flag
Streams from thy towering mast-
Assured that in thy prowess, thou

For her wilt win renown,

Whose sons can die, but know not how To strike that pennon down.

JAMES NACK.*

SPRING IS COMING.

SPRING is coming, spring is coming,
Birds are chirping, insects humming;
Flowers are peeping from their sleeping,
Streams escaped from winter's keeping.
In delighted freedom rushing,
Dance along in music gushing,
Scenes of late in deadness sadden'd,
Smile in animation gladden'd;
All is beauty, all is mirth,
All is glory upon earth.

Shout we then with Nature's voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

Spring is coming, come, my brother,
Let us rove with one another,
To our well-remember'd wild-wood,
Flourishing in nature's childhood;
Where a thousand flowers are springing,
And a thousand birds are singing;
Where the golden sunbeams quiver
On the verdure-girdled river;
Let our youth of feeling out,
To the youth of nature shout,
While the waves repeat our voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

* Mr. NACK is deaf and dumb, and has been so from his childhood; yet his poetical writings, in almost every variety of measure, are distinguished for more than common melody of versification. A volume of his poems, with a memoir by PROSPER M. WETMORE, was published in New York, in 1836.

EVEREND BENJAMIN D. WINSLOW.*

THE LOVER STUDENT.

WITH a burning brow and weary limb,
From the parting glance of day,
The student sits in his study dim,

Till the east with dawn is gray;
But what are those musty tomes to him?
His spirit is far away.

He seeks, in fancy, the hall of light

Where his lady leads the dance,

Where the festal bowers are gleaming bright,

Lit up by her sunny glance;

And he thinks of her the livelong night-
She thinketh of him-perchance!

Yet many a gallant knight is by,

To dwell on each gushing tone,
To drink the smile of that love-lit eye,

Which should beam on him alone;
To woo with the vow, the glance and sigh,
The heart that he claims his own.
The student bends o'er the snowy page,
And he grasps his well-worn pen,
That he may write him a lesson sage,

To read to the sons of men;
But softer lessons his thoughts engage,
And he flings it down again.
The student's orisons must arise
At the vesper's solemn peal,
So he gazeth up to the tranquil skies,
Which no angel forms reveal,
But an earthly seraph's laughing eyes
Mid his whisper'd prayers will steal.

In vain his spirit would now recur
To his little study dim,

In vain the notes of the vesper stir
In the cloister cold and grim;

Through the livelong night he thinks of her-
Doth his lady think of him?

Then up he looks to the clear, cold moon,

But no calm to him she brings;
His troubled spirit is out of tune,
And loosen'd its countless strings;
Yet, in the quiet of night's still noon,
To his lady-love he sings:

"Thou in thy bower,
And I in my cell,
Through each festal hour
Divided must dwell;
Yet we're united,

Though forms are apart,
Since love's vows plighted

Have bound us in heart.
"Proud sons of fashion

Now murmur to thee
Accents of passion,

All treason to me;

*The "Sermons and Poetical Remains of the Reverend B. D. WINSLOW," edited by Bishop DOANE, were pub lished in 1811. He died in 1840, in the twenty-fifth year of his age.

Others are gazing

On that glance divine, Others are praising

Are their words like mine?

"Heed not the wooer
With soft vows express'd,
One heart beats truer-
Thou know'st in whose breast.
To him thou hast spoken
Words not lightly told;
His heart would be broken

If thine should grow cold!
"The stars faintly glimmer
And fade into day,
This taper burns dimmer
With vanishing ray;
O, never thus fading,

May fortune grow pale,
With sorrow-clouds shading,
Or plighted faith fail!
"Hush, my wild numbers!
Dawn breaketh above-
Soft be thy slumbers,
Adieu to thee, love!
Sad vigils keeping,

I think upon thee,
And dream of thee sleeping,
My own MELANIE!"

ALEXANDER H. BOGART.*

ANACREONTIC.

THE flying joy through life we seek
For once is ours-the wine we sip
Blushes like beauty's glowing cheek,
To meet our eager lip.

Round with the ringing glass once more!
Friends of my youth and of my heart;
No magic can this hour restore-

Then crown it ere we part.

Ye are my friends, my chosen onesWhose blood would flow with fervour true For me-and free as this wine runs

Would mine, by heaven! for you. Yet, mark me! When a few short years Have hurried on their journey fleet, Not one that now my accents hears

Will know me when we meet.

Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,
The startling thought ye scarce will brook,
Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then
In heart as well as look.

Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile,
Will soon break youthful friendship's chain-
But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile?
No-pour the wine again!

ALEXANDER H. BOGART, a man of wit and genius, was born in 1804, and died in Albany, at the early age of twenty.

HUGH PETERS.*

A GOOD-NIGHT TO CONNECTICUT.

THE boat swings from the pebbled shore,
And proudly drives her prow;
The crested waves roll up before:
Yon dark-gray land, I see no more,
How sweet it seemeth now!
Thou dark-gray land, my native land,
Thou land of rock and pine,
I'm speeding from thy golden sand;
But can I wave a farewell hand

To such a shore as thine?

I've gazed upon the golden cloud

Which shades thine emerald sod;

Thy hills, which Freedom's share hath plough'd,
Which nurse a race that have not bow'd

Their knee to aught but Gon;
Thy mountain floods which proudly fling
Their waters to the fall-

Thy birds, which cut with rushing wing
The sky that greets thy coming spring,

And thought thy glories small.

But now ye've shrunk to yon blue line
Between the sky and sea,

I feel, sweet home, that thou art mine,
I feel my bosom cling to thine-

That I am part of thee.

I see thee blended with the wave,
As children see the earth
Close up a sainted mother's grave:
They weep for her they cannot save,
And feel her holy worth.

Thou mountain land-thou land of rock,
I'm proud to call thee free;

Thy sons are of the pilgrim stock,

And nerved like those who stood the shock
At old Thermopyla.

The laurel wreaths their fathers won,
The children wear them still-
Proud deeds those iron men have done,
They fought and won at Bennington,
And bled at Bunker Hill.
There's grandeur in the lightning stroke

That rives thy mountain ash;
There's glory in thy giant oak,
And rainbow beauty in the smoke
Where crystal waters dash:
There's music in thy winter blast
That sweeps the hollow glen;
Less sturdy sons would shrink aghast
From piercing winds like those thou hast
To nurse thine iron men.

And thou hast gems; ay, living pearls;
And flowers of Eden hue:

Thy loveliest are thy bright-eyed girls,
Of fairy forms and elfin curls,

And smiles like Hermon's dew:
They've hearts like those they're born to wed,

Too proud to nurse a slave;

HUGH PETERS was a native of Connecticut. He was drowned, near Cincinnati, in 1832, aged about thirty years.

They'd scorn to share a monarch's bed,
And sooner lay their angel head
Deep in their humble grave.

And I have left thee, home, alone,
A pilgrim from thy shore;
The wind goes by with hollow moan,
I hear it sigh a warning tone,

"You see your home no more."
I'm cast upon the world's wide sea,
Torn like an ocean weed;
I'm cast away, far, far from thee,
I feel a thing I cannot be,

A bruised and broken reed.

Farewell, my native land, farewell!
That wave has hid thee now-
My heart is bow'd as with a spell.
This rending pang!—would I could tell
What ails my throbbing brow!
One look upon that fading streak

Which bounds yon eastern sky;
One tear to cool my burning cheek;
And then a word I cannot speak-
"My native land-Good-bye."

FREDERICK W. THOMAS.*

'TIS SAID THAT ABSENCE CONQUERS LOVE

"TIS said that absence conquers love!

But, O! believe it not;

I've tried, alas! its power to prove,
But thou art not forgot.

Lady, though fate has bid us part,

Yet still thou art as dear,
As fix'd in this devoted heart
As when I clasp'd thee here.
I plunge into the busy crowd,

And smile to hear thy name;
And yet, as if I thought aloud,

They know me still the same. And when the wine-cup passes round, I toast some other fair,

But when I ask my heart the sound, Thy name is echo'd there.

And when some other name I learn,

And try to whisper love.
Still will my heart to thee return,
Like the returning dove.

In vain! I never can forget,

And would not be forgot;
For I must bear the same regret,
Whate'er may be my lot.

E'en as the wounded bird will seek
Its favourite bower to die,
So, lady, I would hear thee speak,
And yield my parting sigh.
"Tis said that absence conquers love!
But, O, believe it not;

I've tried, alas! its power to prove,

But thou art not forgot.

* Author of "East and West," "Clinton Bradshaw," "The Beechen Tree, a Tale told in Rhyme," etc.

FRANCIS L. HAWKS, D. D.*

THE BLIND BOY.

It was a blessed summer day,

The flowers bloom'd-the air was mildThe little birds pour'd forth their lay,

And everything in nature smiled. In pleasant thought I wander'd on

Beneath the deep wood's ample shade, Till suddenly I came upon

Two children who had thither stray'd. Just at an aged birch-tree's foot

A little boy and girl reclined; His hand in hers she kindly put,

And then I saw the boy was blind. The children knew not I was near,

The tree conceal'd me from their view; But all they said I well could hear,

And I could see all they might do. "Dear MARY," said the poor blind boy, "That little bird sings very long; Say, do you see him in his joy.

And is he pretty as his song?" "Yes, EDWARD, yes," replied the maid, "I see the bird on yonder tree." The poor boy sigh'd, and gently said, Sister, I wish that I could see.

"The flowers, you say, are very fair,

And bright green leaves are on the trees,
And pretty birds are singing there-
How beautiful for one who sees!
"Yet I the fragrant flowers can smell,
And I can feel the green leaf's shade,
And I can hear the notes that swell

From those dear birds that God has made. "So, sister, Gop to me is kind,

Though sight, alas! he has not given: But tell me, are there any blind

Among the children up in heaven?" "No, dearest EDWARD, there all seeBut why ask me a thing so odd?" "Oh, MARY, He's so good to me,

I thought I'd like to look at Gon."
Ere long Disease his hand had laid

On that dear boy, so meek and mild;
His widow'd mother wept and pray'd
That Gon would spare her sightless child.
He felt her warm tears on his face,

And said "Oh, never weep for me;
I'm going to a bright, bright place,

Where MARY says I GoD shall see.
"And you'll be there, dear MARY, too:
But, mother, when you get up there,
Tell EDWARD, mother, that 't is you-
You know I never saw you here."
He spoke no more, but sweetly smiled,
Until the final blow was given-
When GoD took up the poor blind child,
And open'd first his eyes in heaven!

* This brilliant orator and very able writer is a native of North Carolina, in which state he practised law before he entered into holy orders. His best prose writings are historical criticisms in "The New-York Review."

JOHN SHAW, M. D.*

SONG.

WHO has robb'd the ocean cave,
To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who, from India's distant wave,
For thee those pearly treasures drew?
Who, from yonder orient sky,
Stole the morning of thine eye?
Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
From sea, and earth, and air, are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,

On thy breath their fragrance borne.
Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.
But one charm remains behind,
Which mute earth can ne'er impart ;
Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
Nor in the circling air, a heart:

Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, oh take, that heart from me.