AN INDIAN MARCH.

BENEATH tall branches, gray with eld Their labyrinthine course they held, While well the hindmost of the line, From view conceal'd betraying sign; Sending keen glances in the rear, Lifting bow'd herb and grassy spear, Or, doubling, when the oozy ground

Yielded beneath the slightest foot, Like hunted foxes when the hound

And hunter are in hot pursuit. The red-breast perch'd in arbour green, Sad minstrel of the quiet scene, While hymning, for the dying sun, Strains like a broken-hearted one, Raised not her mottled wing to fly, As swept those silent warriors by; The woodcock, in his moist retreat, Heard not the falling of their feet; On his dark roost the gray owl slept; Time with his drum the partridge kept; Nor left the deer his watering-place, So hush'd, so noiseless was their pace.

A DESERTED HALL.

UNDER the neglected arbour
Foxes in the night-time bark,
And the bat and spider harbour
In its chambers drear and dark.
Weeds, about the door-stone growing,
Whisper of decay and blight--
On the hearth no ember glowing
Sheds a warm and cheerful light.

Near the ruin is a river,

And the waves while flowing on,
From their lips of crystal, ever
Breathe that word of mourning-Gone!
Round the place old poplars cluster,
And the leaves give out strange tones
When the moon flings pallid lustre
On the roof and basement stones.

THE ERRAND OF WAN-NUT-HAY.

TREADING upon the grassy sod
As if her feet with moss were shod,
Fled on her errand, Wan-nut-hay;
Nor paused to list or look behind,
While groves of outline undefined

Before her darkly lay:
Boldly she plunged their depths within,
Though thorns pierced through her moccasin,
And the black clouds, unseal'd at last,
Discharged their contents, thick and fast,
Drenching her locks and vesture slight,
And blinding with large drops her sight.

The grizzly wolf was on the tramp

To gain the covert of his lair; Fierce eyes glared on her from the swamp, As if they ask'd her errand there; The feather'd hermit of the dell, Flew, hooting, to his oaken cell; And grape-vines, tied in leafy coil To gray-arm'd giants of the soil, Swung, like a vessel's loosen'd shrouds, Drifting beneath a bank of clouds. From the pine's huge and quaking cone Came sobbing and unearthly tone, While trunks decay'd, of measure vast, Fought for the last time with the blast, And near her fell with crashing roar, That shook the cumber'd forest floor.

A FLORIDIAN SCENE. WHERE Pablo to the broad St. John His dark and briny tribute pays, The wild deer leads her dappled fawn, Of graceful limb and timid gaze; Rich sunshine falls on wave and land, The gull is screaming overhead, And on a beach of whiten'd sand

Lie wreathy shells with lips of red. The jessamine hangs golden flowers On ancient oaks in moss array'd, And proudly the palmetto towers,

While mock-birds warble in the shade; Mounds, built by mortal hand, are near,

Green from the summit to the base,
Where, buried with the bow and spear,
Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase.
Cassado, nigh the ocean shore,

Is now a ruin, wild and lone,
And on her battlements no more
Is banner waved or trumpet blown;
Those doughty cavaliers are gone

Who hurl'd defiance there to France, While the bright waters of St. John Reflected flash of sword and lance.

But when the light of dying day

Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time And the wan features of decay

Wear soften'd beauty, like the clime, My fancy summons from the shroud The knights of old Castile again, And charging thousands shout aloud"St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain!" When mystic voices, on the breeze That fans the rolling deep, sweep by, The spirits of the Yemassees,

Who ruled the land of yore, seem nigh; For mournful marks, around where stood Their palm-roof'd lodges, yet are seen, And in the shadows of the wood Their tall, funereal mounds are green.

An old Spanish fort.

MR. MCLELLAN is a native of the city of Portland. He was educated at Bowdoin College, in Maine, where he was graduated in 1826. He subsequently studied the law, and for a few years practised his profession in Boston. He has recently resided in the country, and devoted his

attention principally to agricultural pursuits. In the spring of 1830 he published "The Fall of the Indian;" in 1832, "The Year, and other Poems;" and in 1844 a third volume, comprising his later miscellaneous pieces in verse. His best compositions are lyrical.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead! On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle pour'd

Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword

With slaughter deeply dyed.

Their bones are on the northern hill,

And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,

The land they loved so well.

Then glory to that valiant band,
The honour'd saviours of the land!

O, few and weak their numbers were-
A handful of brave men;

But to their Gon they gave their prayer,
And rush'd to battle then.
The GoD of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.
They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garner'd, on the plain,
And muster'd, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,

To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?

And where are ye to-day?

I call the hills reply again
That ye have pass'd away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright
Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have pass'd away.

THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.*

WILD was the night; yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by,

The few that his stern heart cherish'd;
They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perish'd.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,

By the order hastily spoken,

That he dream'd of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumph'd the Frenchman's "eagle;"
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain,
His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,
At the pyramids, at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows,
And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,

He led again, in his dying dreams,
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,

Made pale at his cannons' rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day,
A day that shall live in story:

In the rocky land they placed his clay,
"And left him alone with his glory."

"The 5th of May came amid wind and rain. Na POLEON's passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than the elements around. The words 'tête d'armée,' (head of the army,) the last which escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were watching the current of a heady fight. About eleven minutes before six in the evening, NAPOLEON expired." -SCOTT's Life of Napoleon.

THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS.

WELL do I love those various harmonies That ring so gayly in spring's budding woods, And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, And lonely copses of the summer-time, And in red autumn's ancient solitudes.

If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd down With any of the ills of human life;

If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss
Of brethren gone to that far distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike ;—
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest-birds.

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half-hid
Amid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers,
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.

With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes; And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig, That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.

In the last days of autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field, And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge.

Lone whip-poor-will, There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still: And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush And the green, roving linnet are at rest, And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.

Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines

The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green

marge

Is seldom visited by human foot,
The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath-silence of the wilderness:
And you may find her by some reedy pool,

Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock,
Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.

Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,
Gray watcher of the waters! Thou art king
Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.

How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down
And seest the shining fishes as they glide;
And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist,
Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.

And now, wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations? Then pass forth,
And find them midst those many-colour'd birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute,
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush
So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down To slumber by the darken'd woods-the herds Have left their pastures, where the sward grows

green

And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,

And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar
Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade
And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound;
While answering Echo, from the distant hill,
Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.
How tenderly the trembling light yet plays
O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves,
With a strange beauty-like the yellow flush
That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by.
Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass
Like winter shadows o'er the peaceful mind,
'T were sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad,
With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast
And happy palaces, and lead a life

Of peace in some green paradise like this.

The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods:-the raging sword

Hath never gather'd its red harvest here!
The peaceful summer-day hath never closed
Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam
Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller hete
Hath never left his sickle in the field,
To slay his fellow with unholy hand;
The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
The thrilling murmuring of the dying man,
And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,
Have never broke its Sabbath-solitude.

JONES VERY is a native of the city of Salem. In his youth he accompanied his father, who was a sea-captain, on several voyages to Europe; and he wrote his " Essay on Hamlet" with the more interest from having twice seen Elsineur. After his father's death, he prepared himself to enter college, and in 1832 became a student at Cambridge. He was graduated in 1836, and in the same year was appointed Greek tutor in the university. While he held this office, a religious enthusiasm took possession of his mind, which gradually produced so great a change in him, that his

friends withdrew him from Cambridge, and he returned to Salem, where he wrote most of the poems in the small collection of his writings published in 1839. His essays entitled "Epic Poetry," "Shakspeare," and "Hamlet," are fine specimens of learned and sympathetic criticism; and his sonnets, and other pieces of verse, are chaste, simple, and poetical, though they have little range of subjects and illustration. They are religious, and some of them are mystical, but they will be recognised by the true poet as the overflowings of a brother's soul.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BRIGHT image of the early years

When glow'd my cheek as red as thou, And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-wing'd shadows o'er my sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page,

Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

The morning's blush, she made it thine,

The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee;
And in thy look, my Columbine!
Each fond-remember'd spot she bade me see.

I see the hill's far-gazing head,

Where gay thou noddest in the gale;
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread
The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song

Break from each bush and well-known tree, And, on light pinions borne along,

Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again,
And, hastening to each flowery nook,
Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,

Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom

Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;
And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,
Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee
That echoed on thy native hill;
And when, loved flower! I think of thee,
My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON A POET'S TABLE.

POET's hand has placed thee there,
Autumn's brown and wither'd scroll!
Though to outward eye not fair,
Thou hast beauty for the soul;

Though no human pen has traced
On that leaf its learned lore,
Love divine the page has graced,--
What can words discover more?

Not alone dim autumn's blast
Echoes from yon tablet sear,--
Distant music of the past
Steals upon the poet's ear.

Voices sweet of summer-hours,
Spring's soft whispers murmur by;
Feather'd songs from leafy bowers
Draw his listening soul on high.

THE HEART.

THERE is a cup of sweet or bitter drink,
Whose waters ever o'er the brim must well,
Whence flow pure thoughts of love as angels

think,

Or of its demon depths the tongue will tell; That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward

stains

While from within the tide forever flows; And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains The treacherous hand on such a task bestows; But ever bright its crystal sides appear, While runs the current from its outlet pure; And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure. And bless the cup that cheers their fainting sou While through this parching waste they seek their heavenly goal.

TO THE CANARY-BIRD.

I CANNOT hear thy voice with others' ears, Who make of thy lost liberty a gain; And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears Feel not that every note is born with pain. Alas! that with thy music's gentle swell [throng, Past days of joy should through thy memory And each to thee their words of sorrow tell, While ravish'd sense forgets thee in thy song. The heart that on the past and future feeds, And pours in human words its thoughts divine, Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds, Its song may charm the listening ear like thine, And men with gilded cage and praise will try To make the bard, like thee, forget his native sky.

THY BEAUTY FADES.

Tur beauty fades, and with it too my love, For 't was the selfsame stalk that bore its flower; Soft fell the rain, and breaking from above The sun look'd out upon our nuptial hour; And I had thought forever by thy side With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell; But one by one Time strew'd thy petals wide, And every hope's wan look a grief can tell : For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway, Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all, Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay, With charms that shall the spirit's love enthrall, And for a season turn the soul's pure eyes [defies. From virtue's changeless bloom, that time and death

THE WIND-FLOWER.

Thor lookest up with meek, confiding eye
Upon the clouded smile of April's face,
Unharm'd though Winter stands uncertain by,
Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace.
Thou trustest wisely! in thy faith array'd,
More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king;
Such faith was His whom men to death betray'd,
As thine who hearest the timid voice of Spring,
While other flowers still hide them from her call
Along the river's brink and meadow bare.
Thee will I seek beside the stony wall,
And in thy trust with childlike heart would share,
O'erjoy'd that in thy early leaves I find

A lesson taught by Him who loved all human kind.

ENOCH.

I LOOK'D to find a man who walk'd with God,
Like the translated patriarch of old ;—
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none like DAVID turn'd a willing ear;
GoD walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
For him no heart-built temple open stood,
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.

MORNING.

THE light will never open sightless eyes, It comes to those who willingly would see; And every object,—hill, and stream, and skies, Rejoice within the encircling line to be; "Tis day,-the field is fill'd with busy hands, The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din, The traveller with his staff already stands His yet unmeasured journey to begin; The light breaks gently too within the breast,Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,-it is no day To those who find on earth their place to stay.

NIGHT.

I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near When I this conscious being may resign; Whose only task thy words of love to hear, And in thy acts to find each act of mine; A task too great to give a child like me, The myriad-handed labours of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say; Yet when thou seest me burden'd by thy love, Each other gift more lovely then appears, For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darken'd couch I sleep, Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep.

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd; In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound, And to our eyes the vision is denied; We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewilder'd falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

THE TREES OF LIFE.

For those who worship THEE there is no death, For all they do is but with THEE to dwell; Now, while I take from THEE this passing breath, It is but of THY glorious name to tell; Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find, But in them both my soul doth ever flow; They come as viewless as the unseen wind, And tell thy noiseless steps where'er I go; The trees that grow along thy living stream, And from its springs refreshment ever drink, Forever glittering in thy morning beam, They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink; And as more high and wide their branches grow, They look more fair within the depths below.