In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock,

And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon.

The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone
Couch more magnificent.

nor couldst thou wish

Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings,

The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and traverse Barca's desert sands ;
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings, yet the dead are there,

And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep; the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night

Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

W. C. Bryant,

CCLX.

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

CHAINED in the market-place he stood,

A man of giant frame,

Amid the gathering multitude

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought-
He was a captive now;

Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
Was written on his brow:

The scars his dark broad bosom wore
Showed warrior true and brave:
A prince among his tribe before,
He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake "My brother is a king:

Undo this necklace from my neck,

And take this bracelet ring,

And send me where my brother reigns,
And I will fill thy hands

With store of ivory from the plains,
And gold dust from the sands."

-"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold
Will I unbind thy chain;
That bloody hand shall never hold

The battle-spear again.

A price thy nation never gave
Shall yet be paid for thee;

For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,

In land beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade

To shred his locks away,

And, one by one, each heavy braid

Before the victor lay.

Thick were the platted locks, and long,

And deftly hidden there

Shone many a wedge of gold among

The dark and crispèd hair.

"Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold,

Long kept for sorest need:

His heart was broken -crazed his brain wild:

At once his eye grew

He struggled fiercely with his chain,

Whispered, and wept, and smiled;

Yet wore not long those fatal bands,

And once, at shut of day,

They drew him forth upon the sands,

The foul hyena's prey.

W. C. Bryant.

ON

CCX.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

NCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,

And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave, Gush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry:

Oh, be it never heard again!

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who help'd thee flee in fear,

Die full of hope and manly trust

Like those who fell in battle here.