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W. J. SNELLING.*

TIIE BIRTH OF TIIUNDER.

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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.

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Look, white man, well on all around,

These hoary oaks, those boundless plains; 'Tread lighily; 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 warins 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 desery,
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, 't is truth!

The lips of those who never lied,
Repeat it daily to our youth.

Famed heroes, 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 vet 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. * WILLIAM J. SNELLING, Author of “Truth," a satire, and for many years a writer for the journals, died in Bog. ton, in 1819.

+ Twenty-eight mils from the Big Stone Like, near the sources of the St. Peter's River, is a cluster of small lakes or ponds, lying inuch below the level of the surrounding pruiric, and ornamented with an oak wool. The Dalicotahs cal. 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 worll, and, at the first step, placed his fout npon a hill twenty-five miles dis. tant; 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 Vest of Thunder is, to this day, visited by the being whose birb it witnessed. He comes clad in a mantie of storms, and lightnings play round his head.

Alas! that man will never learn
His good from evil to discern.
At length, by furious passions driven,

The Indian left his babes and wife,
And every blessing God has given,

To mingle in the deadly strise.
Fierce Wrath and haggard Envy soon
Achieved the work that War begun;
He left, unsought, the beast of chase,
And prey'd upon bis kindred race.
But He who rules the earth and skies,
Who watches every bolt that fies;
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 gare; Where'er a hillock reals 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 bis weight the gnarled oak Snapp’d, as the tempest snaps the mast.

It sell, and Thunder woka!

If cares arise--and cares will comeThy 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,

"T is death to be disjoin’d.

JOHN RUDOLPH SUTERMEISTER.*

FADED HOURS.

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.
'Twas 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 God-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.*

0! 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 heam; 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 fleu ? 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!

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 ?--'tis oll 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.

69

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 hrif noems while a law student, but no collection of his pritings has been published. He died in 1836, in the twenty-thira year of his age.

? z 2

ANONYMOUS.*

These add a bouquet to my wine!
These add a sparkle to my pine !

If these I tine,
Can books, or fire, or wine be good ?

“ GIVE ME TIIE OLD."

OLD WINE TO DRINK, OLD WOOD TO BURN, OLD BOOKS TO

READ, AXD OLD FRIENDS TO CONVERSE WITH.

THOMAS MACKELLAR.*

THE SLEEPING WIFE.

Old wine to drink!
Ay, give the slippery juice,
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose,

Within the tun;
Pluck'd from beneath the cliff
Of sunny-sided Tenerifle,
And ripend 'neath the blink

Of India's sun !

Peat whiskey hot,
Temper'd with well-boiled water !
These make the long night shorter,-

Forgetting not
Good stout old English porter !

Old wood to burn!
Ay, bring the hill-side beech
From where the owlets meet and screech,

And ravens croak;
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet;
Bring too a clump of fragrant pcat,
Dug 'neath the fern;

The knotted oak,

A faggot too, perhap,
Whose bright flame dawning, winking,
Shall light us at our drinking !

While the oozing sap
Shall make sweet music to our thinking.

Old books to read!
Ay, bring those nodes of wit,
The brazen-clasp'd, the vellum writ,

Time-honour'd tomes !
The same my sire scanned before,
The same my grandsire thumbéd o'er,
The same his sire from college bore,
The well-earn'd meed

Of Oxford's domes;

Old Homer blind,
Old Horace, rake ANACREOV, by
Old Tolly, Plautus, TERENCE lie;
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie,
Quaint Burton, quainter Spensen, ay,
And GERVASE MARKIAM's venerie-

Nor leave behind
The Holye Book by which we live and die.

Old friends to talk !
Ay, bring those chosen few,
The wise, the courtly and the true,

So rarely found !
Him for my wine, him for my stud,
Him for my easel, distich, bud
In mountain walk!

Bring Walter good :
With soulful Fred; and learned WILL,
And thee, my alter ego, (dearer still

For every mood.) *In earlier editions, the above poem has been attri. buted to HENRY CAREY, the elegant essayist, whose writings are pubiished under the signature of “John Waters;" but I learn that he is not the author of it.

My wife! how calmly sleepest thou ! A perfect peace is on thy brow: Thine eyes beneath their fringed lid, Like stars behind a cloud, are hid; Thy voice is mute, and not a sound Disturbs the tranquil air around: I'll watch, and mark each line of grace That God hath drawn upon thy face. My wife! thy breath is low and soft; To catch its sound I listen oft; The lightest leaf of Persian rose Upon thy lips might find repose;So deep thy slumber, that I press'd My trembling hand upon thy breast, In sudden fear that envious death Had robb'd thee, sleeping, of thy breath. My wife! my wife! thy face now seems To show the tenor of thy dreams :Methinks thy gentle spirit plays Amid the scenes of earlier days; Thy thoughts, perchance, now dwell on him Whom most thou lov'st; or in the dim And shadowy future strive to pry, With woman's curious, earnest eye. Sleep on! sleep on! my dreaming wife! Thou livest now another life, With beings fill'd, of fancy's birth ;I will not call thee back to earth; Sleep on, until the car of morn Above the eastern hills is bome; Then thou wilt wake again, and bless My sight with living loveliness.

THE HYMNS MY MOTHER SUNG.
There are to me no hymns more sweet

Than those my mother sung,
When joyously around her feet

Her little children clung.
The babe upon his pillow slept-

My mother sang the while ;-
What wonder if there softly crept

Across his lips a smile ?
And I, a sick and pensive boy,-

Oppressed with many pains,
Oft felt my bosom thrill with joy

Beneath her soothing strains.
The stealing tear mine eye bedims,

My heart is running o'er,-
The music of a mother's hymns

Shall comfort me no more! *Mr. MACKELLAR was born in New York in 1812, and is now a partner in the extensive stereotyping house of L. JOHNSON and Co., of Philadelpbia. He is the author of * Droppings from the Heart," a collection of poema pervaded by a spirit of piety and hopefulness, published is 1844, and "Tam's Fortnight Ramble," in 1848.

GEORGE B. CHEEVER, D.D.*

THE LOVE THAT LASTS.

Speak gently to the erring: know,

They may have toil'd in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so;

Oh, win them back again!
Speak gently: He who gave his life

To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were fierce with strife,

Said to them, “ Peace! be still !" Gentleness is a little thing

Dropp'd in the heart's deep well : The good, the joy which it may bring,

Eternity shall tell.

'Tis not a flower of instant growth,

But from an unsuspected germ That lay within the hearts of both,

Assumes its everlasting form. As daisy-buds among the grass

With the same green do silent grow, Nor maids nor boys that laughing pass

Can tell if they be flowers or noTill on some genial morn in May

Their timid, modest leaflets rise, Disclosing beauties to the day

That strike the gazer with surprise : So soft, so sweet, so mild, so holy,

So cheerful in obscurest shade, So unpretending, meek, and lowly,

And yet the pride of each green glade : So love doth spring, so love doth grow,

If it be such as never dies: The bud just opens here below

The flower blooms on in paradise.

SAMUEL GILMAN, D.D.*

THE SILENT GIRL.

DAVID BATES.

SPEAK GENTLY.

SPEAK gently: it is better far

To rule by love than fearSpeak gently: let not harsh words mar

The good we might do here. Speak gently: Love doth whisper low

The vows that true hearts bind; And gently Friendship’s accents flow;

Affection's voice is kind.
Speak gently to the little child :

Its love be sure to gain ;
Teach it in accents soft and mild -

It may not long remain.
Speak gently to the young : for they

Will have enough to bear;
Pass through life as best they may,

'Tis full of anxious care. Speak gently to the agéd one:

Grieve not the careworn heart;
The sands of life are nearly run-

Let such in peace depart.
Speak gently, kindly, to the poor :

Let no harsh tone be heard ;
They have enough they must endure,

Sue seldom spake; yet she imparted

Far more than language could
So birdlike, bright, and tender hearted,

So natural and good !
Her air, her look, her rest, her actions,

Were voice enough for her:
Why need a tongue, when those attractions

Our inmost hearts could stir ?
She seldom talked; but, uninvited,

Would cheer us with a song ;
And oft her hands our ears delighted,

Sweeping the keys along.
And oft, when converse round would languish,

Ask'd or unask'd, she read
Some tale of gladness or of anguish,

And so our evenings sped.
She seldom spake; but she would listen

With all the signs of soul;
Her cheek would change, her eye would glisten;

The sigh-the smile-upstole.
Who did not understand and love her,

With meaning thus o'erfraught ?
Though silent as the sky above her,

Like that, she kindled thought.
Little she spake; but dear attentions

From her would ceaseless rise ;
She check'd our wants by kind preventions,

She hush'd the children's cries;
And, twining, she would give her mother

A long and loving kiss-
The same to father, sister, brother,

All round-nor would one miss.
She seldom spake—she speaks no longer;

She sleeps beneath yon rose;
'Tis well for us that ties no stronger

Awaken memory's woes:
For oh, our hearts would sure be broken,

Already drain'd of tears,
If frequent tones, by her outspoken,

Still lingerd in our ears !

Without an unkind word.

+ See “Prose Writers of America" for a reviewal of Dr. CHEEVER's prose writinge. His poems are, for the most part, graceful expressions of elevated religious and social feeling.

| Mr. BATEs passed his earlier life at Indianapolis, in Indiana, but he has resided several years in Philadelphia, in the occupation of a broker. He published in that city, in 1849, a volume of poems entitled “The Æolian."

* The Rev. SAMUEL GILMAN, D.D., a writer for the earlier volumes of the “North American Review," and the author of " Memoirs of a New England Village Choir," has resided many years in Charleston. His “History of a Ray of Light," “The Silent Girl," and a few other pieces, show that he might have been distinguished as a poet.

even,

THEODORE S. FAY..

Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon;
Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd;

Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun-
MY NATIVE LAND.

Would through such peaceful scenes my life might COLUMBIA, was thy continent stretch'd wild,

gently run! In later ages, the huge seas above ?

And, lo! the Catskills print the distant sky, And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child, And o'er their airy tops the saint clouds driven, Most favour'd by thy gentle mother's love?

So softly blending, that the cheated eye Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove,

Forgets or which is earth or which is heaven, Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanish'd years,

Sometimes, like thunder-clouds, they shade the When through the Red Sea Pharaou's thousands drove,

Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height When struggling Joseph dropp'd fraternal tears, Puts off the azure hues by distance given; When God came down from heaven, and mortal

And slowly break upon the enamour'd sight men were seers?

Ravine, crag, field, and wood, in colouis true and Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run,

bright. Elysian solitudes, untrod by man,

Mount to the cloud-kiss'd summit. Far below Silent and lonely, since, around the sun,

Spreads the vast champaign like a shoreless sea. Her ever-wheeling circle earth began?

Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, Thy unseen flowers did here the breezes fan,"

Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; With wasted perfume ever on them flung?

Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, And o'er thy showers neglected rainbows span, Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, When ALEXANDER fought, when HOMER sung, At break of day this scene, when, silently, And the old populous world with thundering battle Its map of field, wood, hamlet, is unrolled, rung?

While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold, Yet, what to me, or when, or how thy birth,-

Till earth receive him never can forget? No musty tomes are here to tell of thee;

Even when return'd amid the city's roar, None know, if cast when nature first the earth

The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, Shaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower,

As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. and tree,

Imagination cons the moment o'er, Or whether since, by changes, silently,

When first-discover'd, awe-struck and amazed, Of sand, and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew;

Scarce loftier Jove-whom men and gods adoreOr if, before man's little memory,

On the extended earth beneath him gazed, Sans shock stupendous rent the globe in two,

Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw.

raised. I know but that I love thee. On my heart, Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvass swell, Like a dear friend's, are stamp'd thy features now; And Aow, thou silver, eddying current on. Though there the Roman or the Grecian art Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell, Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow, That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone. No broken temples, fain at length to bow, [time. By woody bluff we steal, hy leaning lawn, Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of

By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise, Not these o'er thee their mystic splendours throw, At every turn the vision breaks upon; Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme,

Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes (rise. As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts | The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur sublime.

Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, But thou art sternly artless, wildly free:

More graceful shapes did ever beave or roll, We worship thee for beauties all thine own: Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be

Nor beam'd such visions on a poet's soul! Adinired, but only for herself alone.

The pent-up flood, impatient of control, With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown,

In ages past here broke its granite bound, No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise,

Then to the sea in broad meanders stole, Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone,

While ponderous ruins strew'd the broken ground, Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes,

And these gigantic hills forever closed around. Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies.

And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams,

The nymph of sportive mockery, that still Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast, Hides behind every rock, in every dell, Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill, Thy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest !

No sound doth rise but mimic it she will, Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore,

A ping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, Aulivor of “Norman Leslie," "The Countess Ida," etc., and now Secretary of Legation at Berlin. He is a

The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, dative of New York.

Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er.

W

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