The Grave of the Indian Chief.—PERCIVAL.

THEY laid the corse of the wild and brave

On the sweet, fresh earth of the new day grave, On the gentle hill, where wild weeds waved, And flowers and grass were flourishing.

They laid within the peaceful bed,

Close by the Indian chieftain's head, His bow and arrows; and they said,

That he had found new hunting grounds,

Where bounteous Nature only tills

The willing soil; and o'er whose hills,
And down beside the shady rills,
The hero roams eternally.

And these fair isles to the westward lie,
Beneath a golden sun-set sky,
Where youth and beauty never die,

And song and dance move endlessly.

They told of the feats of his dog and gun,
They told of the deeds his arm had done,

They sung of battles lost and won,
And so they paid his eulogy.

And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones,
They raised a simple pile of stones;
Which, hallowed by their tears and moans,
Was all the Indian's monument.

And since the chieftain here has slept,

Full many a winter's winds have swept,

And many an age has softly crept

Over his humble sepulchre.

Escape from Winter.--PERCIVAL.

O, HAD I the wings of a swallow, I'd fly Where the roses are blossoming all the year long;

Where the landscape is always a feast to the eye,
And the bills of the warblers are ever in song;
O, then I would fly from the cold and the snow,
And hie to the land of the orange and vine,
And carol the winter away in the glow

That rolls o'er the evergreen bowers of the line.

Indeed, I should gloomily steal o'er the deep,

Like the storm-loving petrel, that skims there alone;
I would take me a dear little martin to keep
A sociable flight to the tropical zone;
How cheerily, wing by wing, over the sea,

We would fly from the dark clouds of winter away!
And forever our song and our twitter should be,
"To the land where the year is eternally gay."

We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers,
And take up our lodge in the crown of the palm,
And live, like the bee, on its fruit and its flowers,
That always are flowing with honey and balm;
And there we would stay, till the winter is o'er,
And April is chequered with sunshine and rain-
O, then we would fly from that far-distant shore,
Over island and wave, to our country again.

How light we would skim, where the billows are rolled
Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime,
And break on the beaches in surges of gold,

When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime! We would touch for a while, as we traversed the ocean, At the islands that echoed to Waller and Moore,

And winnow our wings, with an easier motion,

Through the breath of the cedar, that blows from the shore.

And when we had rested our wings, and had fed

On the sweetness that comes from the juniper groves,

By the spirit of home and of infancy led,

We would hurry again to the land of our loves;

And when from the breast of the ocean would spring,
Far off in the distance, that dear native shore,
In the joy of our hearts we would cheerily sing,
"No land is so lovely, when winter is o'er.'

Bury Me with my Fathers.-ANDREWS NORTON.

O NE'ER upon my grave be shed
The bitter tears of sinking age,

That mourns its cherished comforts dead,
With grief no human hopes assuage.

When, through the still and gazing street,
My funeral winds its sad array,

Ne'er may a father's faltering feet

Lead, with slow steps, the churchyard way.

'Tis a dread sight-the sunken eye,
The look of calm and fixed despair,
And the pale lips that breathe no sigh,
But quiver with th' unuttered prayer.

Ne'er may a mother hide her tears,

As the mute circle spreads around,
Or, turning from my grave, she hears
The clod fall fast with heavy sound.

Ne'er may she know the sinking heart,
The dreary loneliness of grief,
When all is o'er, when all depart,
And cease to yield their sad relief;

Nor, entering in my vacant room,
Feel, in its chill and heavy air,

As if the dampness of the tomb

And spirits of the dead were there.

O welcome, though with care and pain,
The power to glad a parent's heart;

To bid a parent's joys remain,

And life's approaching ills depart.

Redemption.-W. B. TAPPAN.

HARK! 'tis the prophet of the skies
Proclaims redemption near;

The night of death and bondage flies,
The dawning tints appear.

Zion, from deepest shades of gloom,
Awakes to glorious day;

Her desert wastes with verdure bloom,
Her shadows flee away.

To heal her wounds, her night dispel,
The heralds* cross the inain;
On Calvary's awful brow they tell,
That JESUS lives again.

From Salem's towers, the Islam sign,
With holy zeal, is hurled:

'Tis there IMMANUEL's symbols shine,
His banner is unfurled.

The gladdening news, conveyed afar,
Remotest nations hear;

To welcome Judah's rising star,
The ransomed tribes appear.

Again in Bethlehem swells the song,
The choral breaks again;

While Jordan's shores the strains prolong,
"GOOD-WILL, AND PEACE TO MEN!"

On the Close of the Year.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.

'Tis midnight-from the dark blue sky,
The stars, which now look down on earth,

Have seen ten thousand centuries fly,
And give to countless changes birth.

And when the pyramids shall fall,
And, mouldering, mix as dust in air,
The dwellers on this altered ball
May still behold them glorious there.

*Missionaries to Palestine.

Shine on! shine on! with you I tread
The march of ages, orbs of light;
A last eclipse may o'er you spread;

To me, to me, there comes no night.

O, what concerns it him, whose way
Lies upward to the immortal dead,
That a few hairs are turning gray,

Or one more year of life has fled?

Swift years, but teach me how to bear,
To feel, and act, with strength and skill,
To reason wisely, nobly dare,

And speed your courses as ye will.

When life's meridian toils are done,
How calm, how rich, the twilight glow!
The morning twilight of a sun,

That shines not here-on things below.

But sorrow, sickness, death-the pain
To leave, or lose, wife, children, friends-
What then? Shall we not meet again,
Where parting comes not, sorrow ends?

The fondness of a parent's care,

The changeless trust that woman gives, The smile of childhood-it is there, That all we love in them still lives.

Press onward through each varying hour; Let no weak fears thy course delay; Immortal being, feel thy power;

Pursue thy bright and endless way.

Saturday Afternoon.-N. P. WILLIS

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,