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But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock tolled 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 his fame fresh and gory ! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.



Wearied arm and broken sword

Wage in vain the desperate fight;
Round him press a countless horde,

He is but a single knight.
Hark! a cry of triumph shrill

Through the wilderness resounds,
As, with twenty bleeding wounds,
Sinks the warrior, fighting still.

Now they heap the fatal pyre,

And the torch of death they light:
Ah ! 'tis hard to die of fire !

Who will shield the captive knight?
Round the stake with fiendish cry

Wheel and dance the savage crowd,

Cold the victim's nien, and proud,
And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart?

Who avert the murderous blade?
From the throng, with sudden start,

See there springs an Indian maid.
Quick she stands before the knight,
* Loose the chain, unbind the ring,

I am daughter of the king,
And I claim the Indian right!”

Dauntlessly aside she Alings

Lifted axe and thirsty knife;
Fondly to his heart she clings,

And her bosom guards his life !
In the woods of Powhattan,

Still 'tis told by Indian fires,

How a daughter of their sires
Saved the captive Englishman.



The dead hand clasped a letter."-Special Correspondence.

Here in this leafy place,

Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face

Turned to the skies;
'Tis but another dead;
All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,

Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence

Over men's graves:
So this man's eye is dim;-
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,

There, at his side?
Paper his hand had clutched

Tight ere he died;-
Message or wish, may be;-
Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us

Here could have smiled !-
Only the tremulous

Words of a child;
Prattle that has for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss,

Morning and night,
His—her dead father's--kiss;

Tries to be bright,
Good to mamma, and sweet.
That is all. Marguerite."
Ah, if beside the dead

Slumbered the pain !
Ah, if the hearts that bled

Slept with the slain !
If the grief died; --But no;-
Death will not have it so.



Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here,

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near; Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen,

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveille.



Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, -rejoicing, --sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!




See the Kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves-one-two-and three-
From the lofty elder-tree !
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think

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