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To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years ;
And they say that I am old,

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well nigh told.

It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and "I 'bide my time;"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low:

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

Fall of Tecumseh.-NEW YORK STATESMAN.

WHAT heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, To the war-blast indignantly tramping?

Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, The steel bit impatiently champing.

'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein,
Conducting the free and the fearless.

Ah' see them rush forward, with wild disdain,
Through paths unfrequented and cheerless.

From the mountains had echoed the charge of death,
Announcing that chivalrous sally;

The savage was heard, with untrembling breath,
To pour his response from the valley.

One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard,
And nought but the war-whoop given;

The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, As if by the lightning riven.

The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke,
The blood-stifled gasp of the dying,

Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke,
That upward went wildly flying.

In the mist that hung over the field of blood,
The chief of the horsemen contended;
His rowels were bathed in the purple flood,
That fast from his charger descended.

That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight,
But the rider repressed not his daring,
Till met by a savage, whose rank and night
Were shown by the plume he was wearing.

The moment was fearful; a mightier foe

Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him; But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him.

O ne'er may the nations again be cursed
With conflict so dark and appalling!-
Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst
From their agonized bosoms in falling.

Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot
Where the hopes of the red man perished;
But the fame of the hero who fell shall not,
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished.

He fought, in defence of his kindred and king,
With a spirit most loving and loyal;

And long shall the Indian warrior sing
The deeds of Tecumseh the royal.

S

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye,
In his arm slept the force of the thunder,
But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by,
And left the freed captive to wonder.*

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps,
With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him;

And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps,
By the mound where his followers bore him.

The Missionaries' Farewell.-ANONYMOUS.

LAND where the bones of our fathers are sleeping,
Land where our dear ones and fond ones are weeping,
Land where the light of Jehovah is shining,
We leave thee lamenting, but not with repining.

Land of our fathers, in grief we forsake thee,
Land of our friends, may Jehovah protect thee,
Land of the church, may the light shine around thee,
Nor darkness, nor trouble, nor sorrow confound thee.

God is thy God; thou shalt walk in His brightness;
Gird thee with joy, let thy robes be of whiteness:
God is thy God! let thy hills shout for gladness;
But ah! we must leave thee-we leave thee in sadness.

Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean:
Dark are our hearts; but the fire of devotion
Kindles within ;-and a far distant nation
Shall learn from our lips the glad song of salvation.

Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows!
Land of our rest!-when a few more to-morrows
Pass o'er our heads, we will seek our cold pillows,
And rest in our graves, far away o'er the billows.

* This highly intellectual savage, appropriately styled "king of the woods," was no less distinguished for his acts of humanity than heroism He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the war of 1812-15

Mozart's Requiem.-Rurus DAWES.

THE tongue of the vigilant clock tolled one,
In a deep and hollow tone;

The shrouded moon looked out upon

A cold, dank region, more cheerless and dun,
By her lurid light that shone.

Mozart now rose from a restless bed,
And his heart was sick with care;

Though long had he wooingly sought to wed
Sweet Sleep, 'twas in vain, for the coy maid fled,
Though he followed her every where.

He knelt to the God of his worship then,
And breathed a fervent prayer;
'Twas balm to his soul, and he rose again
With a strengthened spirit, but started when
He marked a stranger there.

He was tall, the stranger who gazed on him,
Wrapped high in a sable shroud;

His cheek was pale, and his eye was dim,
And the melodist trembled in every limb,
The while his heart beat loud.

"Mozart, there is one whose errand I bear, Who cannot be known to thee;

He grieves for a friend, and would have thee prepare A requiem, blending a mournful air

With the sweetest melody."

"I'll furnish the requiem then," he cried,
"When this moon has waned away!"
The stranger bowed, yet no word replied,
But fled like the shade on a mountain's side,
When the sunlight hides its ray.

Mozart grew pale when the vision fled,
And his heart beat high with fear;

He knew 'twas a messenger sent from the dead,
To warn him, that soon he must make his bed
In the dark, chill sepulchre.

He knew that the days of his life were told,

And his breast grew faint within;

The blood through his bosom crept slowly and cold, And his lamp of life could barely hold

The flame that was flickering.

Yet he went to his task with a cheerful zeal,
While his days and nights were one;

He spoke not, he moved not, but only to kneel
With the holy prayer-" O God, I feel

'Tis best thy will be done!"

He gazed on his loved one, who cherished him well,
And weepingly hung o'er him:

"This music will chime with my funeral knell,
And my spirit shall float, at the passing bell,
On the notes of this requiem!"

The cold moon waned: on that cheerless day,
The stranger appeared once more;
Mozart had finished his requiem lay,
But e'er the last notes had died away,
His spirit had gone before.

"I will be glad in the Lord." Psalm civ. 34ANONYMOUS.

WHEN morning's first and hallowed ray
Breaks with its trembling light,

To chase the pearly dews away,

Bright tear-drops of the night,—

My heart, O Lord, forgets to rove,
But rises gladly free,

On wings of everlasting love,

And finds its home in THEE.

When evening's silent shades descend,

And nature sinks to rest,

Still to my Father and my Friend

My wishes are addressed.

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