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The scene runs round with motion, rings with mirth,

No happier spot upon the peopled earth;

The drifted snow to dust the travelers heat,

The uneven ice is flint beneath their feet.

Here tents, a gay encampment, rise around,

Where music, song, and revelry resound;

There the blue smoke upwreathes a hundred spires.

Where humbler groups have lit their piue-wood tires.

Ere long they quit the tables; knights and dames
Lead the blithe multitude to boisterous games.
Bears, wolves, and lynxes yonder head the chase;
Ilere start the harnessed reindeer in the race,
Borne without wheels, a flight of rival care
Track the ice-flrmament, like shooting stars.
Right to the goal, — converging as they run,
They dwindle through the distance into one.

James Montgomery.

THE CHILDREN IX THE WOOD.

|OW ponder well, you parents deare,

These wordes which I shall write; A doleful story you shall heare,

In time brought forth to light. A gentleman of good account,

In Norfolke dwelt of late, Who did in honor far surmount

Most men of his estate.

"You must he father and mother both,

And uncle all in one; God knowes what will become of them,

When I am dead and gone." With that bespake their mother deare,

"O brother kinde," quoth shee, "You are the man must bring our babes

To wealth or miserie:

Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,

No helpe his life could save;
His wife by him as sicke did lye,

And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,

Each was to other kinde;
In love they lived, in love they dyed,

And left two babes behiude:

The one a fine and pretty boy,

Not passing three yeares olde;
The other a girl more young than he,

And framed iu beautye's molde.
The father left his little son,

As plainlye doth appeare,
"When he to perfect age should come,

Three hundred poundes a yeare.

And to his little daughter Jane

Five hundred poundes in gold,
To be paid downe on marriage-day,

Which might not be controlled:
But if the children chance to dye,

Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possesse their wealth;

For so the wille did run.

"Now, brother," said the dying man,

'■Look to my children deare; Be good unto my boy and girl,

No friendes else have they here: To God and you I recommend

My children deare this daye; But little while be sure we have

Within this world to staye.

"And if you keep thein carefully,

Then God will you reward;
But if you otherwise should deal,

God will your deedes regard."
With lippes as cold as any stone,

They kist their children small: "God bless you both, my children deare;"

With that the teares did fall.

These speeches then their brother spake

To this sicke couple there;
"The keeping of your little ones,

Sweet sister, do not feare.
God never prosper me nor mine.

Nor aught else that I have,
If I do wrong your children deare,

When you are layd in grave."

The parents being dead and gone,

The children home he takes,
And bringes them straite unto his house,

Where much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes

A twelvemonth and a daye,
But, for their wealth, he did devise

To make them both awaye.

He bargained with two ruffians strong,

Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young,

And slaye them in a wood.
He told his wife an artful tale:

He would the children send
To be brought up in faire London,

With one that was his friend.

Away then went those pretty babes

Rejoycing at that tide, Rejoycing with a merry minde,

They should on cock-horse ride.
They prate and prattle pleasantly,

As they rode on the waye,
To those that should their butchers be,

And work their lives' decaye:

So that the pretty speeche they had,

Made Murder's heart relent:
And they that undertooke the deed,

Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them more hard of heart,

Did vowe to do his charge,
Because the wretch that hired him

Had paid him very large.

The other won't agree thereto,

So here they fall to strife;
With one another they did fight,

About the children's life:
And he that was of mildest mood

Did slaye the other there,
Within an unfrequented wood;

The babes did quake for feare I

He took the children by the hand,

Teares standing in their eye,
And bad them straitwaye follow him,

And look they did not crye:
And two long miles he ledd them on,

While they for food complaine:
"Staye here," quoth he, "1*ll bring you bread,

When I come back againe."

These pretty babes, with hand in hand,

Went wandering up and downe;
But never more could see the man

Approaching from the towne:
Their prettye lippes with blackberries

Were all besmeared and dyed,
And when they sawe the darksome night,

They sat them downe and cryed.

Thus wandered these poor innocents

Till deathe did end their grief, In one another's amies they died.

As wanting due relief:
No burial this pretty pair

Of any man receives,
Till Robin-redbreast piously

Did cover them with leaves.

And now the heavy wrathe of God

Upon their uncle fell;
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house,

His conscience felt an hell;
His barnes were fired, his goodes consumed,

His landes were barren made, His cattle dyed within the field,

And nothing with him stayd.

And in the voyage of Portugal

Two of his sonnes did dye;
And to conclude, himselfe was brought

To want and miserye:
He pawned and mortgaged all his land

Ere seven years came about,
And now at length this wicked act

Did by this means come out:

The fellowe that did take in baud

These children for to kill,
Was for a robbery judged to dye,

Such was God's blessed will:
Who did confess the very truth,

As here hath been displayed: Their uncle having dyed in gaol,

Where he for debt was layd.

You that executors be made,

And overseers eke
Of children that be fatherless,

And infants mild and meek;
Take you example by this thing,

And yield to each his right, Lest God with such like miserye

Your wicked minds requite.

THE MASSACRE OF FORT DEARBORN.

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it

PORN" of the prairie and the wave — the blue sea I saw a dot upon the map, and a house-fly's filmy ^ and the green, wing—

j: A city of the Occident. Chicaoo lay between; They said't was Dearborns picket-flag when WilderDim trails upon the meadow, faint wakes upon ness was 8'

the main * heard the reed-bird's morning song—the Indian's

". , , awkward flail —

On either sea a schooner and a canvas-covered _, . , ., , ,., , , . .

The rice tattoo 1n his rude canoe like a dash of April

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MUSIC IN CAMP.

fWO armies covered hill ami plain, Wbere Rappahannock's waters Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain '*r Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents

In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements

Slept in its high embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made

No forest leaf to quiver;
And the smoke of the random cannonade

Rolled slowly from the river.

And now where circling hills looked down

With cannon grimly planted, O'er listless camp and silent town

The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came
A strain, now rich, now tender;

The music seemed itself aflame
With day's departing splendor.

A Federal band, which eve and morn
Played measures brave and nimble,

Had just struck up with flute and horn
And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks;

Till, margined by its pebbles, One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"

And one was grey with "Rebels."

Then all was still; and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,

Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with " Dixie."

The conscious stream, with burnished glow,

Went proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow

With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause; and then again
The trumpet pealed sonorous,

And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew

To kiss the shining pebbles;
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue

Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugle sang

Above the stormy riot;
No shout upon the evening rang—

There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;

All silent now the Yankees stood,
All silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard

That plaintive note's appealing,
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred

The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Grey, the soldier sees,

As by the wand of fairy,
The cottage 'neath the live oak trees,

The cabin by the prairie.

The cold or warm, his native skies

Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,

His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain,

In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished as the strain

And daylight died together.

But Memory, waked by Music's art,

Expressed in simple numbers, Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,

Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines—

That bright celestial creature— AVho still 'mid War's embattled lines

Gives this one touch of Nature.

John R. Thompson.

THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.

TLD was the night, yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
at*v In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
H Than the fight on the wrathful billow.

A few fond mourners were kneeling by,
The few that his stern heart cherished;

They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perished.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,

By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook,

And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle,

And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again.

The Prussian's camp was routed.
And again on the hills of haughty Spain

His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows.
At the pyramids, at the mountain,

Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows.
And by the Italian fountain.

On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,

He led again, in his dying dreams.
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,

And Jena's bloody battle; Again the world was overrun.

Made pale at his cannon's rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day.

A day that shall live in story:
In the rocky land they placed his clay,

"And left him alone with his glory.'"

Isaac Mcolellax.

THE GRAVE OP BONAPARTE.

ff a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring bilAssail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,

The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners lean over the grave. The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle:

He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain; —

He sleeps his last sleep—he has fought his last battle!

No sound can awake him to glory again!

O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions That rushed but to conquer when thou led'st them on?

Alas! they have perished in far hilly regions,
And all save the fame of their triumph is gone!

The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle! They heed not, they hear not, they:re free from all pain:

They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle! No sound can awake them to glory again!

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee.

For, like thine own eagle that soared to the sun, Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee

A name which before thee no mortal had won. Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle,

No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain;

Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle!

No sound can awake thee to glory again!

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gHE Plains! The shouting drivers at the wheel: The crash of leather whips; the crush and roll Of wheels; the groan of yokes and grinding steel

And iron chain, and lo! at last the whole
Vast line, that reached as if to touch the goal,
Began to stretch and stream away and wind
Toward the west, as if with one control:
Then hope loomed fair, and home lay far behind:
Before, the boundless plain, and fiercest of their kind.

Some hills at last began to lift and break;
Some streams began to fail of wood and tide.
The sombre plain began betime to take
A hue of weary brown, and wild and wide
It stretched its naked breast on every side.

A babe was heard at last to cry for bread Amid the deserts; cattle lowed and died And dying men went by with broken tread. And left a long black serpent line of wreck and dead.

They rose by night; they struggled on and on -As thin and still as ghosts; then here and there Beside the dusty way before the dawn Men silent laid them down in their despair, And died. But woman! Woman, frail us fair! May man have strength to give to you your due; You faltered not. nor murmured anywhere. You held your babes, held to your course, and yon Bore on through burning hell your double burthens through.

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