The shining waters growing pale, The mellow-burning star of Hope And in the wave its silver trope.

A slender shallop, feather-frail,
A pencil-mast and rocking sail.
The glooms that gather at the Gate;
The somber lines against the sky,
While dizzy gnats about me fly,
And overhead the birds go by,
Dropping a note so crystal clear,
The spirit cannot choose but hear.
The hollow moon, and up between
An oak with yard-long mosses, green
In sunlight, now as dull as crape;
The mountain softened in its shape,
Its perfect symmetry attained-

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
Bring once more the sound to me,
Of the wavelets softly breaking
On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur,
As they still the story tell,
How no vessels float the banner

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
Sailing up the Tennessee.

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 ;
But ole darkey's happy here,
Where he's tended corn and cotton
For 'ese many a long-gone year.
Over yonder Missis' sleeping, -

No one tends her grave like me;
Mebbie she would miss the flowers
She used to love in Tennessee.

"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
Down the poor old dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long-accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree
Pictured in the placid waters
Of the rolling Tennessee;

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
Mid the veteran's silver hair ;
Still the bondman close beside him
Stands behind the old arm-chair.

With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes, he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
Glide from tree to mountain crest,
Softly creeping, aye and ever

To the river's yielding breast.
Ha! above the foliage yonder
Something flutters wild and free!
"Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!

The flag's come back to Tennessee!'

"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,
Help me stand on foot once more,
That I may salute the colors
As they pass my cabin door;
Here's the paper signed that frees you,
Give a freeman's shout with me,
'God and Union!' be our watchword
Evermore in Tennessee."

Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
And the limbs refused to stand;
One prayer to Jesus, and the soldier
Glided to that better land.

When the flag went down the river
Man and master both were free,

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,
Why lingers fancy on their hallowed mould?

The scene is passed, forever fled the day,
When chiefs, from Mississippi's monarch tide,
With Wabash sachems met in war's array,
And arm in arm each frantic foeman died.

Cold is their senseless dust; extinct and gone
The eye of lightning and the pulse of fire,
The tongue that cheered the struggling warriors on,
The arm that sought to conquer or expire.

In yon three rising mounds their bones repose,
Together there recline the crumbling dead;
They rest together, though they once were foes,
And clasp each other, though they once have bled.

Imagination loves to trace the scene,

Ere Europe's strangers trod this western shore;