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THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead;
And fearless near the fatal spot
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away;
And gentle eyes for him
With watching many an anxious day
Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert-snow,
Unarm'd, and hard beset;-

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead;-

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Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dress'd the hasty bier,

And mark'd his grave with nameless stones, Unmoisten'd by a tear.

But long they look'd, and fear'd, and wept
Within his distant home;

And dream'd, and started, as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

Long, long they look'd-but never spied His welcome step again;

Nor knew the fearful death he died

Far down that narrow glen.

BRYANT.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

NOT a drum was heard-nor a funeral note-
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the
grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.

TRUE-HEARTEDNESS.

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We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er the cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line-we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone in his glory.

WOLFE.

TRUE-HEARTEDNESS.

TELL me not of sparkling gems,
Set in royal diadems,—

You may boast your diamonds rare,
Rubies bright, and pearls so fair;

M

But there's a peerless gem on earth,
Of richer ray and purer worth;
'Tis priceless, but 'tis worn by few-
It is, it is the heart that's true.

Bring the tulip and the rose,
While their brilliant beauty glows!
Let the storm-cloud fling a shade,
Rose and tulip both will fade!

But there's a flower that still is found,
When mist and darkness close around,
Changeless, fadeless in its hue-

It is, it is the heart that's true.

Ardent in its earliest tie,
Faithful in its latest sigh,—

Love and Friendship, godlike pair,
Find their throne of glory there.
Proudly scorning bribe and threat,
Nought can break the seal once set ;
All the evil gold can do

Cannot warp the heart that's true.

ELIZA COOK.

HEAVENLY INFLUENCE.

LIKE morning, when her early breeze
Breaks the surface of the seas,

up.

That in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light—

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touch'd his sacred lyre,
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stoop'd to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, O Lord, Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chordTill, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise In music worthy of the skies!

T. MOORE.

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