GOOSEBERRY - PIE.

A PINDARIC ODE.

Gooseberry-Pie is best.

Full of the theme O Muse begin the song! What tho' the sunbeams of the West Mature within the Turtle's breast

Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue? What tho' the Deer bound sportively along O'er springy turf, the Park's elastic vest?

Give them their honours due

But Gooseberry Pie is best.

Behind his oxen slow

The patient Ploughman plods.

And as the Sower followed by the clods

Earth's genial womb received the swelling seed. The rains descend, the grains they grow;

Saw ye the vegetable ocean

Roll its green billows to the April gale? The ripening gold with multitudinous motion Sway o'er the summer vale ?

It flows thro' Alder banks along
Beneath the copse that hides the hill;
The gentle stream you cannot see,
You only hear its melody,

The stream that turns the Mill.

Pass on, a little way pass on,

And you shall catch its gleam anon; And hark! the loud and agonizing groan That makes its anguish known,

Where tortur'd by the Tyrant Lord of Meal The Brook is broken on the Wheel!

Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale!
On the white bosom of the sail

Ye winds enamour'd, lingering lie!

Ye waves of ocean spare the bark !
Ye tempests of the sky!

From distant realms she comes to bring

The sugar for my Pie.

For this on Gambia's arid side

The Vulture's feet are scaled with blood,

And Beelzebub beholds with pride,

His darling planter brood.

First in the spring thy leaves were seen, Thou beauteous bush, so early green ! Soon ceas'd thy blossoms little life of love. O safer than the Alcides-conquer'd tree That grew the pride of that Hesperian groveNo Dragon does there need for thee With quintessential sting to work alarms, And guard thy fruit so fine,

Thou vegetable Porcupine !

And didst thou scratch thy tender arms,
O Jane! that I should dine!

The flour, the sugar, and the fruit,
Commingled well, how well they suit,
And they were well bestow'd.

O Jane, with truth I praise your Pie,
And will not you in just reply

Praise my Pindaric Ode?

THEODERIT.

The HURON's ADDRESS to the DEAD.

Brother, thou wert strong in youth!

Brother, thou wert brave in war!

Unhappy man was he

For whom thou hadst sharpened the tomahawk's edge; Unhappy man was he

On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight;

And he who from thy hand

Received the calumet,

Blest Heaven, and slept in peace.

When the Evil Spirits seized thee,

Brother, we were sad at heart:
We bade the Jongler come
And bring his magic aid;
We circled thee in mystic dance,
With songs and shouts and cries,
To free thee from their power.
Brother, but in vain we strove,
The number of thy days was full.

Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat,
The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs,
Thy feet are sandal'd, ready for the way.
Those are the unfatiguable feet
That traversed the forest track,
Those are the lips that late
Thundered the yell of war;

And that is the strong right arm
That never was lifted in vain.
Those lips are silent now,

The limbs that were active are stiff,
Loose hangs the strong right arm!

And where is That which in thy voice
The language of friendship spake ?
That gave the strength of thine arm?
That fill'd thy limbs with life?
It was not Thou, for Thou art here,
Thou art amongst us still,

But the Life and the Feeling are gone.

The Iroquois will learn

That thou hast ceas'd from war,

"Twill be a joy like victory,

For thou wert the scourge of their race.