JULIA H. SCOTT.*

MY CHILD.

THE foot of Spring is on yon blue-topp'd mountain,
Leaving its green prints neath each spreading tree;
Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain,
Giving sweet tones to its wild melody.
From the warm south she brings unnumber'd roses
To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care;
Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes,
And her rich gifts are scatter'd everywhere:
I heed them not, my child!

In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth,
The golden dandelion by its side,

The eglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth

To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide.

The hyacinth and polyanthus render,

From their deep hearts, an offering of love; And fresh May-pinks, and half-blown lilacs, tender Their grateful homage to the skies above:

I heed them not, my child!

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses, And pale, green rushes, and fair nameless flowers; While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses, Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping

Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves; O, Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves: "Tis naught to me, my child!

Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter;
The school has sent its eldest inmates forth;
And now a smaller band comes dancing after,
Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth.
At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending
To clasp her rosy darling to her breast;
Joy, pride, and hope are in her bosom blending;
Ah, peace with her is no unusual guest!
Not so with me, my child!

All the day long I listen to the singing
Of the gay birds and winds among the trees;

But a sad under-string is ever ringing

A tale of death and its dread mysteries.
Nature to me the letter is that killeth:
The spirit of her charms has pass'd away;
A fount of bliss no more my bosom filleth-
Slumbers its idol in unconscious clay!

Thou art in the grave, my child!

For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth;
I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light;
Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth;
Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night!
I walk in darkness, with the tomb before me,
Longing to lay my dust beside thy own;
O, cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me!
Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone!
Come back to me, my child!
Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest,
Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou;

The maiden name of Mrs. SCOTT was KINNEY. She died in Towanda, Bradford county, Pennsylvania, in the spring of 1842.

Nor turn'd away petitioner the meanest ;

Pray to HIM, sinless: He will hear thee now.
Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother;
Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace;
Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other;
Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease:
Come back to me, my child!

Come but in dreams: let me once more behold thee,
As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee,
And one brief moment in my arms enfold thee:
Beloved, I will not ask thy stay with me!
Leave but the impress of thy dove-like beauty,
Which memory strives so vainly to recall,
And I will onward in the path of duty,
Restraining tears that ever fain would fall!
Come but in dreams, my child!

CAROLINE M. SAWYER.*

THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE.

WARRIOR, rest! thy toils are ended:
Life's last fearful strife is o'er;
Clarion-calls, with death-notes blended,
Shall disturb thine ear no more!
Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber;

Peaceful, but how cold and stern!
Thou hast joined that silent number
In the land whence none return!
Warrior, rest! thy banner o'er thee

Hangs in many a drooping fold;
Many a manly cheek before thee
Stain'd with tear-drops we behold!
Thine was not a hand to falter
When thy sword should leave its sheath;
Thine was not a cheek to alter,
Though thy duty led to death!
Warrior, rest! a dirge is knelling
Solemnly from shore to shore:
"Tis a nation's tribute, telling

That a patriot is no more!

Thou where Freedom's sons have striven,
Firm and bold, didst. foremost stand!
Freely was thy life-blood given

For thy home and father-land!
Warrior, rest! our star is vanish'd
That to victory led the way;
And from our lone heart is banish'd

All that cheer'd Life's weary day!
There thy young bride weeps in sorrow
That no more she hears thy tread;
That the night which knows no morrow
Darkly veils thy laurell'd head!
Warrior, rest! we smooth thy pillow,
For thy last, long earthly sleep;
O! beneath yon verdant willow

Storms unheard will o'er thee sweep!
There, 't is done! thy couch awaits thee!
Softly down thy head we lay;
Here repose, till God translates thee

From the dust to endless day!

* Mrs. SAWYER, of New York, is the wife of the Rev. erend T. J. SAWYER, of that city. She is the author of two or three volumes of tales, sketches, and poems.

W. J. SNELLING.*

THE BIRTH OF THUNDER.†

-

LOOK, white man, well on all around,

These hoary oaks, those boundless plains; Tread lightly; this is holy ground:

Here Thunder, awful spirit! reigns. Look on those waters far below,

So deep beneath the prairie sleeping, The summer sun's meridian glow

Scarce warms the sands their waves are heaping; And scarce the bitter blast can blow

In winter on their icy cover;

The Wind Sprite may not stoop so low,
But bows his head and passes over.
Perch'd on the top of yonder pine,
The heron's billow-searching eye
Can scarce his finny prey descry,
Glad leaping where their colours shine.
Those lakes, whose shores but now we trod,
Scars deeply on earth's bosom dinted,

Are the strong impress of a god,

By Thunder's giant foot imprinted.
Nay, stranger, as I live, 'tis truth!
The lips of those who never lied,
Repeat it daily to our youth.

Famed herocs, erst my nation's pride,
Beheld the wonder; and our sages
Gave down the tale to after ages.
Dost not believe? though blooming fair

The flowerets court the breezes coy,
Though now the sweet-grass scents the air,
And sunny nature basks in joy,

It is not ever so.

Come when the lightning flashes,
Come when the forest crashes,

When shrieks of pain and wo
Break on thine ear-drum thick and fast,
From ghosts that shiver in the blast;
Then shalt thou know and bend the knee
Before the angry deity.

But now attend, while I unfold

The lore my brave forefathers taught: As yet the storm, the heat, the cold, The changing seasons had not brought, Famine was not; each tree and grot Grew greener for the rain; The wanton doe, the buffalo,

Blithe bounded on the plain.

*Mr. SNELLING, I believe, is a native of Boston, He is the author of "Truth," a satire; and of numerous papers, in prose and verse, in the magazinės.

+Twenty-eight miles from the Big Stone Lake, near the sources of the St. Peter's River, is a cluster of small lakes or ponds, lying much below the level of the surrounding prairie, and ornamented with an oak wood. The Dahcotahs call this place The Nest of Thunder, and say that here Thunder was born. As soon as the infant spirit could go alone, he set out to see the world, and, at the first step, placed his foot upon a hill twenty-five miles distant; a rock on the top of which actually seems to bear the print of a gigantic human foot. The Indians call the hill Thunder's Tracks. The Nest of Thunder is, to this day, visited by the being whose birth it witnessed. He comes clad in a mantle of storms, and lightnings play round his head.

In mirth did man the hours employ
Of that eternal spring;

With song and dance, and shouts of joy,
Did hill and valley ring.

No death-shot peal'd upon the ear,
No painted warrior poised the spear,
No stake-doom'd captive shook for fear;
No arrow left the string,

Save when the wolf to earth was borne;
From foeman's head no scalp was torn;
Nor did the pangs of hate and scorn

The red man's bosom wring.
Then waving fields of yellow corn
Did our bless'd villages adorn.
Alas! that man will never learn
His good from evil to discern.
At length, by farious passions driven,
The Indian left his babes and wife,
And every blessing God has given,

To mingle in the deadly strife.
Fierce Wrath and haggard Envy soon
Achieved the work that War begun;
He left, unsought, the beast of chase,
And prey'd upon his kindred race.
But HE who rules the earth and skies,
Who watches every bolt that flies;
From whom all gifts, all blessings flow,
With grief beheld the scene below.
He wept; and, as the balmy shower
Refreshing to the ground descended,
Each drop gave being to a flower,

And all the hills in homage bended. "Alas!" the good Great Spirit said,

"Man merits not the climes I gave; Where'er a hillock rears its head,

He digs his brother's timeless grave:
To every crystal rill of water,
He gives the crimson stain of slaughter.
No more for him my brow shall wear
A constant, glad, approving smile;
Ah, no! my eyes must withering glare

On bloody hands and deeds of guile.
Henceforth shall my lost children know
The piercing wind, the blinding snow;
The storm shall drench, the sun shall burn,
The winter freeze them, each in turn.
Henceforth their feeble frames shall feel
A climate like their hearts of steel."

The moon that night withheld her light.
By fits, instead, a lurid glare
Illumed the skies; while mortal eyes
Were closed, and voices rose in prayer.
While the revolving sun

Three times his course might run,
The dreadful darkness lasted.
And all that time the red man's eye
A sleeping spirit might espy,
Upon a tree-top cradled high,

Whose trunk his breath had blasted.
So long he slept, he grew so fast,

Beneath his weight the gnarled oak Snapp'd, as the tempest snaps the mast. It fell, and Thunder woke!

The world to its foundation shook,
The grisly bear his prey forsook,
The scowling heaven an aspect bore
That man had never seen before;
The wolf in terror fled away,

And shone at last the light of day.

"T was here he stood; these lakes attest Where first WAW-KEE-AN'S footsteps press'd. About his burning brow a cloud,

Black as the raven's wing, he wore;
Thick tempests wrapt him like a shroud,
Red lightnings in his hand he bore;
Like two bright suns his eyeballs shone,
His voice was like the cannon's tone;
And, where he breathed, the land became,
Prairie and wood, one sheet of flame.
Not long upon this mountain height
The first and worst of storms abode,
For, moving in his fearful might,

Abroad the Gon-begotten strode.
Afar, on yonder faint blue mound,
In the horizon's utmost bound,
At the first stride his foot he set;
The jarring world confess'd the shock.
Stranger! the track of Thunder yet

Remains upon the living rock.

The second step, he gain'd the sand
On far Superior's storm-beat strand:
Then with his shout the concave rung,
As up to heaven the giant sprung

On high, beside his sire to dwell;
But still, of all the spots on earth,

He loves the woods that gave him birth.-
Such is the tale our fathers tell.

LINDLEY MURRAY.*

TO MY WIFE.

WHEN on thy bosom I recline,
Enraptured still to call thee mine,
To call thee mine for life,
I glory in the sacred ties,
Which modern wits and fools despise,

Of husband and of wife.

One mutual flame inspires our bliss;
The tender look, the melting kiss,

Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true,

That love can ne'er be cloy'd.

Have I a wish?'tis all for thee.
Hast thou a wish?'t is all for me.
So soft our moments move,
That angels look with ardent gaze,
Well pleased to see our happy days,
And bid us live-and love.

LINDLEY MURRAY, author of the "English Grammar," and other works, was a native of New York, though the greater portion of his life was passed in England.

If cares arise-and cares will come-
Thy bosom is my softest home,
I'll lull me there to rest;
And is there aught disturbs my fair?
I'll bid her sigh out every care,

And lose it in my breast.

Have I a wish?'t is all her own; All hers and mine are roll'd in one,

Our hearts are so entwined, That, like the ivy round the tree, Bound up in closest amity,

"Tis death to be disjoin'd.

JOHN RUDOLPH SUTERMEISTER.*

FADED HOURS.

O! FOR my bright and faded hours
When life was like a summer stream,
On whose gay banks the virgin flowers
Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam;
Or danced upon the breeze that bare
Its store of rich perfume along,
While the wood-robin pour'd on air
The ravishing delights of song.
The sun look'd from his lofty cloud,

While flow'd its sparkling waters fair, And went upon his pathway proud,

And threw a brighter lustre there; And smiled upon the golden heaven,

And on the earth's sweet loveliness, Where light, and joy, and song were given, The glad and fairy scene to bless! Ah! these were bright and joyous hours, When youth awoke from boyhood's dream, To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers, While young hope bask'd in morning's beam! And proffer'd thanks to Heaven above,

While glow'd his fond and grateful breast, Who spread for him that scene of love, And made him so supremely blest! That scene of love!-where hath it gone? Where have its charms and beauty sped? My hours of youth, that o'er me shone, Where have their light and splendour fled? Into the silent lapse of years,

And I am left on earth to mourn; And I am left to drop my tears

O'er memory's lone and icy urn!
Yet why pour forth the voice of wail
O'er feeling's blighted coronal?
Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail,

I shall be gather'd in my pall;
O, my dark hours on earth are few-
My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;
And I shall soon bid life adieu,

To seek enduring joys in heaven!

* Mr. SUTERMEISTER was born in Curaçoa, in the West Indies, and came to New York with his parents, when about four years old. He wrote many brief poems while a law student, but no collection of his writings has been published. He died in 1836, in the twenty-third year of his age.

Sing from these walls of death unwonted song.

Nay, cease not-I would call,
Thus, from the silent hall

Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old:
Beam on me yet once more,

Ye blessed eyes of yore,

Startling life-blood through all my being cold.

Ah! cease not-phantoms fair
Fill thick the dungeon's air;

They wave me from its gloom-I fly-I stand
Again upon that spot,

Which ne'er hath been forgot

In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land!

There, on each noon-bright hill,
By fount and flashing rill,

Slowly the faint flocks sought the breezy shade;
There gleam'd the sunset's fire,

On the tall taper spire,

And windows low, along the upland glade.

Sing, sing!-I do not dream

It is my own blue stream,

Far, far below, amid the balmy vale;—
I know it by the hedge

Of rose-trees at its edge,

Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale:

There, there, mid clustering leaves,
Glimmer my father's eaves,

And the worn threshold of my youth beneath;-
I know them by the moss,
And the old elms that toss
Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray

[wreath.

BENJAMIN B. THATCHER, author of "Indian Biography," "Indian Traits," and numerous contributions to our periodical literature, died in Boston on the 14th of July, 1840, in the thirty-second year of his age. He was a native of Maine, and was educated at Bowdoin College, in that state.

+ One prisoner I saw there, who had been imprisoned from his youth, and was said to be occasionally insane in consequence. He enjoyed no companionship (the keeper told me) but that of a beautiful tamed bird. Of what name or clime it was, I know not-only that he called it fondly, his dove, and seemed never happy but when it sang to him.-MS. of a Tour through France.

Sing, sing!-I might have knelt

And pray'd; I might have felt

Their breath upon my bosom and my brow.
I might have press'd to this

Cold bosom, in my bliss,

Each long-lost form that ancient hearth beside; O heaven! I might have heard,

From living lips, one word,

Thou mother of my childhood,-and have died.
Nay, nay, 'tis sweet to weep,
Ere yet in death I sleep;

It minds me I have been, and am again,-
And the world wakes around;

It breaks the madness bound,

While I have dream'd, these ages, on my brain.
And sweet it is to love
Even this gentle dove,

This breathing thing from all life else apart:-
Ah! leave me not the gloom

Of my eternal tomb

To bear alone-alone!-come to my heart,

My bird! Thou shalt go free;
And come, O come to me

Again, when from the hills the spring-gale blows;
So shall I learn, at least,

One other year hath ceased,

And the long woe throbs lingering to its close.

REVEREND D. HUNTINGTON.*

THE RELIGIOUS COTTAGE.

SEEST thou yon lonely cottage in the grove,
With little garden neatly plann'd before,
Its roof deep-shaded by the elms above, [o'er?
Moss-grown, and deck'd with velvet verdure
Go lift the willing latch-the scene explore-
Sweet peace, and love, and joy thou there shalt
find;

For there Religion dwells; whose sacred lore Leaves the proud wisdom of the world behind, And pours a heavenly ray on every humble mind. When the bright morning gilds the eastern skies, Up springs the peasant from his calm repose; Forth to his honest toil he cheerful hies,

And tastes the sweets of nature as he goesBut first, of Sharon's fairest, sweetest rose, He breathes the fragrance and pours forth the praise;

Looks to the source whence every blessing flows, Ponders the page which heavenly truth conveys, And to its Author's hand commits his future ways. Nor yet in solitude his prayers ascend;

His faithful partner and their blooming train, The precious word, with reverent minds, attend, The heaven-directed path of life to gain. Their voices mingle in the grateful strainThe lay of love and joy together sing,

To Him whose bounty clothes the smiling plain, Who spreads the beauties of the blooming spring, And tunes the warbling throats that make the valleys ring.

* A Congregational clergyman of Connecticut.

JAMES WILLIAM MILLER.*

TO A SHOWER.

THE pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
By fits it plashing falls

On twangling leaf and dimpling pool-
How sweet its warning calls!
They know it-all the bosomy vales,
High slopes, and verdant meads;
The queenly elms and princely oaks
Bow down their grateful heads.

The withering grass, and fading flowers,
And drooping shrubs look gay;
The bubbly brook, with gladlier song,
Hies on its endless way;

All things of earth-the grateful things!
Put on their robes of cheer,

They hear the sound of the warning burst,

And know the rain is near.

It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain!
I drink its cooler breath;

It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers,
And roses' fragrant death;

It hath kiss'd the tomb of the lily pale,
The beds where violets die,

And it bears their life on its living wings-
I feel it wandering by.

And yet it comes! the lightning's flash
Hath torn the lowering cloud,
With a distant roar, and a nearer crash,
Out bursts the thunder loud.

It comes with the rush of a god's descent
On the hush'd and trembling earth,
To visit the shrines of the hallow'd groves
Where a poet's soul had birth.

With a rush, as of a thousand steeds,

Is the mighty god's descent;
Beneath the weight of his passing tread,
The conscious groves are bent.
His heavy tread-it is lighter now-
And yet it passeth on;

And now it is up, with a sudden lift-
The pleasant rain hath gone.

The pleasant rain!—the pleasant rain!
It hath passed above the earth,
I see the smile of the opening cloud,
Like the parted lips of mirth.
The golden joy is spreading wide
Along the blushing west,

And the happy earth gives back her smiles,
Like the glow of a grateful breast.

As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart,
That knoweth all its need,

So came the good of the pleasant rain,
O'er hill and verdant mead.

It shall breathe this truth on the human ear,
In hall and cotter's home,

That to bring the gift of a bounteous Heaven,
The pleasant rain hath come.

*J. W. MILLER was a native of Boston, and at one period connected with JOHN NEAL in the editorship of "The Yankee." I believe he died in 1826.

WILLIAM B. WALTER.*

TO AN INFANT.

AND art thou here, sweet boy, among
The crowds that come this world to throng!
The loveliest dream of waking life!
Hope of the bosom's secret strife!
Emblem of all the heart can love!
Vision of all that's bright above!
Pledge, promise of remember'd years!
Seal of pure souls, yet bought with tears!
Hail! child of love!-I linger yet
Around thy couch, where slumber sweet
Hangs on thine eyelids' living shroud;
And thoughts and dreamings thickly crowd
Upon the mind like gleams of light
Which sweep along the darksome night,
Lurid and strange, all fearful sent

In flashings o'er the firmament!

O! wake not from that tranquil sleep!
Too soon 'twill break, and thou shalt weep;
Such is thy destiny and doom,

O'er this long past and long to come;
Earth's mockery, guilt, and nameless woe;
The pangs which thou canst only know;
All crowded in a little span,
The being of the creature Man!
Ah! little 'eemest thou, my child,
The way of life is dark and wild;
Its sunshine, but a light whose play
Serves but to dazzle and betray; '
Weary and long-its end, the tomb,
Where darkness spreads her wings of gloom!
That resting-place of things which live,
The goal of all that earth can give!

It may be that the dreams of fame,
Proud Glory's plume, the warrior's name,
Shall lure thee to the field of blood;
There, like a god, war's fiery flood
May bear thee on! while far above,
Thy crimson banners proudly move,
Like the red clouds which skirt the sun,
When the fierce tempest-day is done!
Or lead thee to a cloister'd cell,
Where Learning's votaries lonely dwell;
The midnight lamp and brow of care;
The frozen heart that mocks despair;
Consumption's fires to burn thy cheek;
The brain that throbs, but will not break;
The travail of the soul, to gain

A name, and die-alas! in vain!

Thou reckest not, sweet slumberer, there,
Of this world's crimes; of many a snare
To catch the soul; of pleasures wild,
Friends false-foes dark-and hearts beguiled;
Of Passion's ministers who sway,
With iron sceptre, all who stray;

* WILLIAM B. WALTER was born in Boston, in 18—, and was educated at Bowdoin College. He wrote "Sukey, a poem," in the style of "Don Juan," "Visions of Romance," and some other metrical compositions, which were popular in their time. He died in 18-.