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They gave the glowing steel. He took it with a smile,
And held it as a plaything ;—they stood in awe the while ;
Then springing like an antelope, he brandished it around,
And toward the beetling eminence upstarted with a bound.
One leap, and he is over! fierce, dashing through the stream,
And his massy form lies floating 'neath the clear and sunny
beam;

A hundred arrows sped at once, but missed that warrior bold,
And his mangled arms, ere set of sun, his little ones enfold.

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THE CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER.

UPON the barren sand

A single captive stood,

Around him came, with bow and brand,

The red men of the wood.

Like him of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on ocean's rim;

The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.

Above his head in air,

The savage war-club swung,
The frantic girl, in wild despair,

Her arms about him flung.

Then shook the warriors of the shade,
Like leaves on aspen limb,

Subdued by that heroic maid

Who breathed a prayer for him.

Unbind him!" gasped the chief,

"Obey your king's decree !"?

He kissed away her tears of grief,
And set the captive free.

* A bluff near Augusta, ninety feet high.

'Tis ever thus, when in life's storm,
Hope's star to man grows dim,
An angel kneels in woman's form,
And breathes a prayer for him.

[George P. Morris.

THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST.

THE mothers of our forest-land!
Stout-hearted dames were they;
With nerve to wield the battle-brand,
And join the border fray.
Our rough land had no braver,

In its days of blood and strife,—

Aye ready for severest toil,
Aye free to peril life.

The mothers of our forest-land!

On old Kentucky's soil

How shared they, with each dauntless band, War's tempest and life's toil!

They shrank not from the foeman,

They quailed not in the fight,—

But cheered their husbands through the day, And soothed them through the night.

The mothers of our forest-land!
Their bosoms pillowed men!

And proud were they by such to stand,
In hammock, fort, or glen,

To load the sure old rifle,

To run the leaden ball,—

To watch a battling husband's place,
And fill it, should he fall!

The mothers of our forest-land!

They sleep in unknown graves:

And had they borne and nursed a band
Of ingrates, or of slaves,

They had not been more neglected!.

But their graves shall yet be found, And their monuments dot here and there "The Dark and Bloody Ground.”

THE TREAD OF TIME.

[William D. Gallagher.

HARK! I hear the tread of Time,
Marching o'er the fields sublime.
Through the portals of the past,
When the stars by God were cast
On the deep, the boundless vast.

Onward, onward still he strides,
Nations clinging to his sides:
Kingdoms crushed he tramples o'er:
Fame's shrill trumpet, battle's roar,
Storm-like rise, then speak no more.
Lo! he nears us,—awful Time,—
Bearing on his wings sublime
All our seasons, fruit and flower,
Joy and hope, and love and power:
Ah! he grasps the present hour.

Underneath his mantle dark,
See, a specter grim and stark,
At his girdle like a sheath,
Without passion, voice, or breath,
Ruin dealing: Death,-'t is Death!

Stop the ruffian, Time!-lay hold !—
Is there then no power so bold ?—
None to thwart him in his way ?
Wrest from him his precious prey,
And the tyrant robber slay?

Struggle not, my foolish soul;

Let Time's garments round thee roll.
Time, God's servant,-think no scorn,—
Gathers up the sheaves of corn
Which the specter, Death, hath shorn.
Brightly through the orient far
Soon shall rise a glorious star;
Cumbered then by Death no more,
Time shall fold his pinions hoar,
And be named the Evermore.

[Thomas Cole.

THE YOUNG AMERICAN.
SCION of a mighty stock!
Hands of iron, hearts of oak,-
Follow with unflinching tread
Where the noble fathers led!
Craft and subtle treachery,
Gallant youth, are not for thee,
Follow thou in words and deeds
Where the God within thee leads!

Honesty, with steady eye,
Truth and pure smplicity,

Love that gently winneth hearts,—
These shall be thy only arts.

Prudent in the council train,
Dauntless on the battle plain,
Ready at thy country's need
For her glorious cause to bleed.
Where the dews of night distill
Upon Vernon's holy hill,-
Where above it gleaming far
Freedom lights her guiding star,-

Thither turn the steady eye,
Flashing with a purpose high!
Thither, with a devotion meet,
Often turn the pilgrim feet!

[Alexander H. Everett.

DEGENERACY OF MODERN GREECE.

THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The mountain looks on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And, musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For, standing on the Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A King sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men and nations,—all were his!
He counted them at break of day,-
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now,—

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

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