Waving her golden veil Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire; Hushed was his parting sigh, While from his noble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing Calmly the first-born of glory have met; Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing! Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet! Faint is the feeble breath, Murmuring low in death, "Tell to our sons how their fathers have died"; Nerveless the iron hand, Raised for its native land, Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. Over the hill-sides the wild knell is tolling, From their far hamlets the yeomanry come; As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling, Circles the beat of the mustering drum. Darken the waves of wrath, Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall; Red glares the musket's flash, Sharp rings the rifle's crash, Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, Pale is the lip of scorn, Voiceless the trumpet horn, Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high; Low on the turf shall rest, Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by. Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving, Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail, Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale; Far as the tempest thrills Over the darkened hills, Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, Woke all the mighty land, Girded for battle, from mountain to main. Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying! Long o'er the foaming brine Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun; Wide as o'er land and sea Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won! THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG. O more the summer floweret charms, So, ere the waning seasons claim With golden wine and glowing flame Once more the merry voices sound And long and loud the baying hounds And through the woods, and o'er the hill, The driver's horn is sounding shrill, Up, sportsmen, and away! No bars of steel, or walls of stone, The whitening wave, the purpled skies, Braid with their dim and blending dyes And who will leave the grave debate To rule amid our island-state, And wear our oak-leaf crown? And who will be awhile content To hunt our woodland game, Ah, who that shares in toils like these Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, And follow through his green retreats QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. HERE, O where are the visions of morn ing, Fresh as the dews of our prime ? Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, Down the back entry of time. Where, O where are life's lilies and roses, Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Look in the columns of old Advertisers, - Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies, Gone like our friend rodas axis Achilles, Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion, Yet, though the ebbing of Time's mighty river A SONG FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF HAR VARD COLLEGE, 1836. HEN the Puritans came over, Our hills and swamps to clear, With tomahawks and scalping-knives, The crows came cawing through the air The bears came snuffing round the door |