Loud shrieked the engle as he dashed Rude was the garb, and strong the frame Of him who plied his ceaseless toil: The soul that warmed that frame, disdained The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees, The streams whose bright lips kissed their flowers, The winds that swelled their harmonies Through those sun-hiding bowers, His roof adorned, a pleasant spot, Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not, The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, Of deeds that wrought the change. The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge, The rose of Summer spread its glow, His garden spade, or drove his share He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood And darkening thick the day His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, Its fangs with dying howl; The beaver sank beneath the wound Humble the lot, yet his the race! THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD. H. W. LONGFELLOW, We sat within the farm-house old, Not far away we saw the port The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The light-house-the dismantled fort— The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we had once thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, The first slight swerving of the heart, Or say it in too great excess. The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, The windows, rattling in their frames- At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece. her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power: In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard: Then wore his monarch's signet ring: Then pressed that monarch's throne-aking; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on-the Turk awoke; He woke to die midst flame. and smoke, And death shots falling thick and fast Bozzaris cheer his band; "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; Strike for your altars and your fires; Strike-for the green graves of your sires; God-and your native land!" the They fought-like brave men, long and well; Bleeding at every vein. And the red field was won: Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the mother's, when she feels, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible-the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. Of sky and stars to prison'd men: To the world-seeking Genoese, Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee-there is no pronder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells: For thine her evening prayer is said At palace conch, and cottage bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even he who gave thee birth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; SONG OF MARION'S MEN. W. C. BRYANT. Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good green wood, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Wo to the English soldiery That little dread us near! And hear the tramp of thousands Then sweet the hour that brings release We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. That lifts his tossing mane. Grave men there are by broad Santee, THE SONG OF STEAM. GEORGE W. CUTTER. Late of Covington, Ky. Harness me down with your iron bands; For I scorn the power of your puny hands, How I laugh'd as I lay conceal'd from sight At the childish boast of human might, When I saw an army upon the land, Or waiting the wayward breeze; When I measured the panting courser's speed, The flight of the courier-dove, Or the lines of impatient love I could not but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripp'd afar When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chain'd to the flying car! Ha, ha, ha! they found me at last; They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast. And laugh'd in my iron strength! O! then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind and tile. Hurrah! hurrah! the water's o'er, The rivers the san hath earliest blest, Or those where his beams decline; The giant streams of the queenly West, And the Orient floods divine. The ocean pales where'er I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice, I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine My tireless arm doth play, Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline, I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, I hammer the ore and turn the wheel Where my arms of strength are made. I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint- And all my doings I put into print I've no muscles to weary, no breast to decay, RHYME OF THE RAIL. JOHN G. SAXE. Born in Highgate, Vermont, in 1816-Educated for the bar-Many years editor of "The Sentinel," at Burlington, Vt. Singing through the forests, Shooting under arches, Men of different "stations" Gentleman in shorts, Looming very tall; Gentleman at large; Talking very sma.. ; Gentleman in tights, With a loose-ish mien ; Gentleman in gray, Looking rather green. Asking for the news; Stranger on the right, Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker, Wonder what they mean 9 Faith, he's got the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine! Stranger on the left, Closing up his peepers, Now he snores amain, Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "Association !" Ancient maiden lady Anxiously remarks, That there must be peril 'Mong so many sparks; Roguish looking fellow, Turning to the stranger, Says it's his opinion She is out of danger! Woman with her baby, Sitting vis-a-vis ; Baby keeps a squalling, Woman looks at me; Asks about the distance, Says it's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars Are so very shocking! Market woman careful If it came, would surely Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges, Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges, Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale; Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail! GONE. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. Born in 1808 in Haverhill, Mass., of Quaker parentage-The most noted of the poets of the anti-slavery party. Another hand is beckoning us, And glows once more with Angel-steps Our young and gentle friend whose smile Made brighter summer hours, Amid the frosts of autumn time No paling of the cheek of bloom No shadow from the Silent Land The light of her young life went down, The glory of a setting star- As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemedEternal as the sky; And like the brook's low song, her voice- And half we deemed she needed not The blessing of her quiet life Fell on us like the dew; And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed, Like fairy blossoms grew. Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds The measure of a blessed hymn, To which our hearts could move; We miss her in the place of prayer, Once more her sweet "Good night!" Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home His child. Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms, Our human hearts and Thee. Still let her mild rebuking stand And grant that she who, trembling, here May welcome to her holier home SNOW. REV. RALPH HOYT. Born in New York about 1810-Clergyman of the Protestant Episcopal Church. The blessed morn is come again; Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, "Break, break from the enchanter's chain, 'Tis winter, yet there is no sound Of winds upon their battle-ground; The snow is falling-all around The jocnnd fields would masquerade Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade And join'd the revel, all array'd E'en the old posts, that hold the bars Forgetful of their wintry wars [sars, High-capp'd. and plumed, like white hus. The drifts are hanging by the sill, Maria brings the water-pail- |