The shining waters growing pale, The mellow-burning star of Hope And in the wave its silver trope. A slender shallop, feather-frail, And swathed in velvet folds, and stained With dusty purple of the grape. Charles Warren Stoddard. Tennessee, the River. ON THE SHORES OF THE TENNESSEE. "MOVE my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey,Massa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south-wind "Mournful though the ripples murmur, That I've loved so long and well. I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting For Death's last despatch to come, If that exiled, starry banner Should come proudly sailing home, You shall greet it, slave no longer; Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee." "Massa's berry kind to Pompey ; No one tends her grave like me; "Pears like she was watching, Massa If Pompey should beside him stay; Mebbie she'd remember better How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of Heaven While he lived in Tennessee." Silently the tears were rolling Master, dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride; Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair of Tennessee. Still the south-wind fondly lingers With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Thus he watches cloud-born shadows To the river's yielding breast. The flag's come back to Tennessee!' "Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, Then the trembling voice grew fainter, When the flag went down the river While the ringdove's note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee. Anonymous. Vincennes, Ind. THE THREE MOUNDS. SAID by the old French inhabitants of Vincennes to contain the ashes of the savages, who fell in a severe battle fought near the commencement of the last century. HEN o'er the Wabash setting daylight smiles, WHEN And gilds, Vincennes, thy distant spire with gold, Why turns the pensive eye to yonder piles, The scene is passed, forever fled the day, Cold is their senseless dust; extinct and gone In yon three rising mounds their bones repose, Imagination loves to trace the scene, Ere Europe's strangers trod this western shore; |