J. K. MITCHELL.* THE SONG OF THE PRAIRIE. O! FLY to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me, In harmony blending, commingle their dyes. 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! Like whisperings of the mighty sea! 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: Are ye immortal? Will this mass To where corruption works its will? 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 With thee and us to-day; We pledge our fervent love, and thou Speed lightnings o'er the Carib sea, And look! her hands are spread to thee 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, 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, Word of thy beauty's past, 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, Shout we then with Nature's voice, Spring is coming, come, my brother, * 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, Till the east with dawn is gray; 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- Yet many a gallant knight is by, To dwell on each gushing tone, Which should beam on him alone; To read to the sons of men; In vain his spirit would now recur In vain the notes of the vesper stir Through the livelong night he thinks of her- Then up he looks to the clear, cold moon, But no calm to him she brings; "Thou in thy bower, Though forms are apart, Have bound us in heart. Now murmur to thee 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 If thine should grow cold! May fortune grow pale, I think upon thee, ALEXANDER H. BOGART.* ANACREONTIC. THE flying joy through life we seek Round with the ringing glass once more! 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, Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile, 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, 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, Their knee to aught but Gon; Thy birds, which cut with rushing wing And thought thy glories small. But now ye've shrunk to yon blue line I feel, sweet home, that thou art mine, That I am part of thee. I see thee blended with the wave, Thou mountain land-thou land of rock, Thy sons are of the pilgrim stock, And nerved like those who stood the shock The laurel wreaths their fathers won, That rives thy mountain ash; And thou hast gems; ay, living pearls; Thy loveliest are thy bright-eyed girls, And smiles like Hermon's dew: 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 I have left thee, home, alone, "You see your home no more." A bruised and broken reed. Farewell, my native land, farewell! Which bounds yon eastern sky; 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, Lady, though fate has bid us part, Yet still thou art as dear, And smile to hear thy name; 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. In vain! I never can forget, And would not be forgot; E'en as the wounded bird will seek 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, 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." On that dear boy, so meek and mild; And said "Oh, never weep for me; Where MARY says I GoD shall see. * 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, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be, |