THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

ATHER him to his grave again,

GAT

And solemnly and softly lay, Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scattered bones away. Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, The homage of man's heart to death; Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath quickened every part-
That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,
That strong arm-strong no longer now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Of God's own image; let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where
The awful likeness was impressed.

For he was fresher from the hand

That formed of earth the human face,

And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race.
In many a flood to madness tossed,

In many a storm has been his path;
He hid him not from heat or frost,

But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind-the forests here,
Rivers, and stiller waters, paid

A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade.
Fruits on the woodland branches lay,
Roots in the shaded soil below;
The stars looked forth to teach his way;
The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race! but they are gone,

With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon

Fields where their generations sleep.
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,
Upon their fields our harvest waves,
Our lovers woo beneath their moon-
Then let us spare, at least, their graves.

A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE

HUDSON.

COOL shades and dews are round my way,

Coo

And silence of the early day;

Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed,

Glitters the mighty Hudson spread,
Unrippled, save by drops that fall

From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall;

And o'er the clear still water swells

The music of the Sabbath bells.

All, save this little nook of land,
Circled with trees, on which I stand;
All, save that line of hills which lie
Suspended in the mimic sky-

Seems a blue void, above, below,

Through which the white clouds come and go;

And from the green world's farthest steep
I gaze into the airy deep.

Loveliest of lovely things are they,

On earth, that soonest pass away.

VOL. I.-13

The rose that lives its little hour

Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Even love, long tried and cherished long,
Becomes more tender and more strong
At thought of that insatiate grave
From which its yearnings cannot save.

River! in this still hour thou hast
Too much of heaven on earth to last;
Nor long may thy still waters lie,
An image of the glorious sky.
Thy fate and mine are not repose,
And ere another evening close,
Thou to thy tides shalt turn again,
And I to seek the crowd of men.
New York, 1827.

"Talisman," 1828.

L

THE HURRICANE.

ORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh,

I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow, and terribly strong,

The mighty shadow is borne along,
Like the dark eternity to come;

While the world below, dismayed and dumb,
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere,
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast; and the golden blaze

Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze,
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray-
A glare that is neither night nor day,

A beam that touches, with hues of death,
The clouds above and the earth beneath.