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He’s a noble soul, that champion knight,
And he bears a martial brow;
O, he’ll pass the gates of Paradise,
To the regions of bliss below !”
This was too much for the Bacchan;
Fire flashed from his angry eye;
A muttered curse, and a vengeful oath—

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He struck—and the stranger's guise fell off,
And a phantom form stood there—
A §. and ghastly, and horrible thing,
ith rotten and mildewed hair!
And they struggled awhile, till the stranger blew
A blast of his withering breath;
And the Bacchanal fell at the phantom's feet,
And his conqueror was—Death.

-Q“I would not live always.”—B. B. THATchER.

EARTH is the spirit's rayless cell;
But then, as a bird soars home to the shade
Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made,

In bonds no more to dwell;

So will its weary wing
Be spread for the skies, when its toil is done,
And its breath flow free, as a bird’s in the sun,

And the soft, fresh gales of spring.

O, not more sweet the tears
Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,
Than the dews of age on the “hoary head,”

When it enters the eve of years.

Nor dearer, mid the foam
Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar,
Is a breath of balm from the unseen shore,

To him that weeps for home.

Wings, like a dove, to fly!— The spirit is faint with its feverish strife;— 0, for its home in the upper Life!

When, when will Death draw nigh!

-o-
The Disimbodied Spirit.—PEABony.

O sacred star of evening, tell
In what unseen, celestial sphere,

Those spirits of the perfect dwell,
Too pure to rest in sadness here.

Roam they the crystal fields of light,
O'er paths by holy angels trod,

Their robes with heavenly lustre bright,
Their home, the Paradise of God?

Soul of the just! and canst thou soar
Amidst those radiant spheres sublime,

Where countless hosts of heaven adore,
Beyond the bounds of space or time –

And canst thou join the sacred choir,
Through heaven's high dome the song to saise,

Where seraphs strike the golden lyre
In everduring notes of praise 2

Oh! who would heed the chilling blast,
That blows o'er time’s eventful sea,

If bid to hail, its perils past,
The bright wave of eternity!

And who the sorrows would not bear
Of such a transient world as this,

When hope displays, beyond its care,
So bright an entrance into bliss!

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Why was thy tarrying here so brief,
Thou sheltered in affection’s breast?
Here were no woes to wake thy grief,
Nor dangers to corrode thy rest.
Ah! thou had'st heard of that blessed clime
Where everlasting glories beam :-
Perchance its groves and skies sublime
Had burst upon thy raptured dream.

Thy bright wing spread. Should aught detain
The prisoner in a cage of clay,
When, echoing from the heavenly plain,
Congenial tones forbid delay
No: where no archer’s shaft can fly,
No winter check the tuneful sphere,
Rise, wanderer, to thy native sky,
And warble in a Savior’s ear.

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Up to the mountain with its sunlit crown,

Still as the moss-grown cities of the dead,
Save the dull plashing of the horse's tread.

And who are they that stir the slumbering stream 7

Nay, curious reader; I can only say

That, to my eyes of ignorance, they seem
Like honest rustics on the homeward way;

There is a village; doubtless thence they came;

There was a christening; and they have a name.

They are to us, like many a living form,
The image of a moment; and they pass
Like the last cloud that vanished on the storm,
Like the last shape upon the faithless glass;
By lake, or stream, by valley, field, or hill,
They must have lived; perchance are living still.

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They waste us; ay, like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go,
Towards the setting day,
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.
Bryant.

LIKE the shadows in the stream,
Like the evanescent gleam
Of the twilight's failing blaze,
Like the fleeting years and days,
Like all things §: soon decay,
Pass the Indian tribes away.

Indian son, and Indian sire :
Lo! the embers of your fire,
On the wigwam hearth, burn low,
Never to revive its glow ;
And the Indian’s heart is ailing,
And the Indian's blood is failing. *

Now the hunter’s bow's unbent,
And his arrows all are spent!
Like a very little child
Is the red man of the wild;
To his day there'll dawn no morrow ;
Therefore is he full of sorrow.

From his hills the stag is fled,
And the fallow-deer are dead,
And the wild beasts of the chase
Are a lost and perished race,
And the birds have left the mountain,
And the fishes, the clear fountain.

Indian woman, to thy breast
Closer let thy babe be pressed,
For thy garb is thin and old,
And the winter wind is cold;
On thy homeless head it dashes;
Round thee the grim lightning flashes.

We, the rightful lords of yore,
Are the rightful lords no more;
Like the silver mist we fail,
Like the red leaves in the gale,
Fail like shadows, when the dawning
Waves the bright flag of the morning.

By the river's lonely marge,
Rotting is the Indian’s barge;
And his hut is ruined now,
On the rocky mountain brow;
The fathers’ bones are all neglected,
And the children's hearts dejected.

Therefore, Indian people, flee
To the farthest western sea;
Let us yield our pleasant land
To the stranger's stronger hand;
Red men and their realms must sever;
They forsake them, and forever!

-o| Lake Superior.—S. G. Goon Rich.

“FATHER or LAREs P’ thy waters bend
Beyond the eagle's utmost view,

When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send
Back to the sky its world of blue.

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