Faint is the feeble breath,

Murmuring low in death,

"Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;" Nerveless the iron hand,

Raised for its native land,

Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

Over the hill-sides the wild knell is tolling,
From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;
As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,
Circles the beat of the mustering drum.

Fast on the soldier's path

Darken the waves of wrath,

Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;
Red glares the musket's flash,

Sharp rings the rifle's crash,

Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

Gaily the plume of the horseman was dancing,
Never to shadow his cold brow again;

Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,
Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;
Pale is the lip of scorn,

Voiceless the trumpet horn,

Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;

Many a belted breast

Low on the turf shall rest,

Ere the dark hunters the herd have past by.

Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,
Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,
Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,
Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;
Far as the tempest thrills

Over the darkened hills,

Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,

Roused by the tyrant band,

Woke all the mighty land,

Girded for battle, from mountain to main.

Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!
Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,-
While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying
Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.
Borne on her northern pine,

Long o'er the foaming brine

Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;
Heaven keep her ever free,

Wide as o'er land and sea

Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won.

THE ISLAND HUNTING SONG.

No more the summer floweret charms,
The leaves will soon be sere,
And Autumn folds his jewelled arms
Around the dying year;

So, ere the waning seasons claim
Our leafless groves a while,
With golden wine and glowing flame
We'll crown our lonely isle.

Once more the merry voices sound
Within the antlered hall,

And long and loud the baying hounds
Return the hunter's call;

And through the woods, and o'er the hill,
And far along the bay,

The driver's horn is sounding shrill,

Up, sportsmen, and away!

No bars of steel, or walls of stone,
Our little empire bound,

But, circling with his azure zone,

The sea runs foaming round; The whitening wave, the purpled skies, The blue and lifted shore,

Braid with their dim and blending dyes Our wide horizon o'er.

And who will leave the grave debate
That shakes the smoky town,

To rule amid our island-state,

And wear our oak-leaf crown?

And who will be a while content

To hunt our woodland game, And leave the vulgar pack that scent The reeking track of fame?

Ah, who that shares in toils like these Will sigh not to prolong

Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, Our nights of mirth and song? Then leave the dust of noisy streets,

Ye outlaws of the wood,

And follow through his green retreats
Your noble Robin Hood.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

WHERE, O where are the visions of morning,
Fresh as the dews of our prime ?
Gone, like tenants that quit without warning,
Down the back entry of time.

Where, O where are life's lilies and roses,
Nursed in the golden dawn's smile?
Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses,
On the old banks of the Nile.

Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Loving and lovely of yore?

Look in the columns of old Advertisers,

Married and dead by the score.