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To the fame of your name,
A Loved bequest-and I may half impart
To those that feel the strong paternal tic, How like a new cxistence in his heart
That living flower uprose beneath his eye. Dear as she was, from cherub infancy,
From hours when she would round his garden play, To time when as the ripening years went by,
Her lovely mind could culture well repay,
I may not paint those thousand infant charms,
(Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) The orison repeated in his arms,
For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind);
All uncompanioned else her years had gone, Till now in Gertrude's eyes their ninth blue summer shone,
And summer was the tide, and swect the hour,
When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower,
Of buskined limb and swarthy lincament;
The red wild flowers on his brow were blent,
And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,
Of Christian vesture and complexion bright, Led by his dusty guide, like morning brought by night.
THE LAST MAN.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Adown the gulf of Time!
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some!
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
The vassals of his will ;-
For all those trophied arts
Entailed on human hearts.
Go-let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again.
Of pain anew to writhe;
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies,
To watch thy fading firc;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
To see thou shalt not boast.
Receive my parting ghost !
This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
When thou thyself art dark !
By him recalled to breath,
And took the sting from Death!
Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste,
Of grief that man shall taste-
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
CAMPBELL. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay : But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.