If shed for her, whose fading eyes
Will open soon on Paradise:

The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,
Or ere ye cease, if shed for me.

STRIKE

THE BISON-TRACK.

the tent! the sun has risen; not a cloud has ribbed the dawn,

And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and

wan:

Prime afresh the trusty rifle,-sharpen well the hunting

For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I

hear!

Fiercely stamp the tethered horses as they snuff the morning's fire,

And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of keen desire ;

Strike the tent,—the saddles wait us! let the bridle-reins be slack,

For the prairie's distant thunder has betrayed the bison's

track!

See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-surging

roar,

Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of

shore !

Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost

of the van,

And the stubborn horns are striking through the crowded

caravan.

Now the storm is down upon us,―let the maddened horses

go!

We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow!

Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red eyes' angry glare

Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing air!

Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless

race,

And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert

space:

Yet the rein may not be tightened, nor the rider's eye

back,

look

Death to him whose speed should slacken, on the maddened

bison's track!

Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warm

For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm: Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless, swing your rifles as we

run!

Ha! the dust is red behind him: shout, my brothers, he is won!

Look not on him as he staggers,-'tis the last shot he will

need;

More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede,

Ere we stem the swarthy breakers, while the wolves, a hungry pack,

Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison

track!

Lucretia M. Davidson.

A PROPHECY.

LET me gaze awhile on that marble brow,

On that full, dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die,

I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy.

That brow may beam in glory awhile;

That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile;
That full, dark eye may brightly beam

In Life's gay morn, in Hope's young dream;
But clouds shall darken that brow of snow,
And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow.
I know by that spirit so haughty and high,
I know by that brightly flashing eye,

That, maiden, there's that within thy breast

Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblessed:
The strife of love with pride shall wring
Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string;
And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee,
Shall be drained to the dregs in agony.
Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye
A dark and a doubtful prophecy :

Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse;
Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse.
I see the cloud and the tempest near;

The voice of the troubled tide I hear;
The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief,
The rushing waves of a wretched life:
Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see,

And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee.

Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave:
Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave.

When I am cold, and the hand of Death
Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath;
When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip;
When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep-
Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high,
And think on my last sad prophecy.

I

AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY.

DREAMED a.dream in the midst of

my slumbers,

And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers; My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre,

I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter:

It seemed that a law had been recently made,

That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid;
And in order to make them all willing to marry,
The tax was as large as a man could well carry.
The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use-
'Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse,

And declared that to save their own hearts' blood from

Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling.
But the rulers determined them still to pursue,
So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue:
A crier was sent through the town to and fro,
To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow,
And to call out to all he might meet in his way,
"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day :"

And presently all the old maids in the town,
Each in her very best bonnet and gown,
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale,
Of every description, all flocked to the sale.
The auctioneer then in his labor began,

And called out aloud, as he held up a man,
"How much for a bachelor? who wants to buy?"
In a twink, every maiden responded, "I,-I."
In short, at a highly extravagant price,

The bachelors all were sold off in a trice:

And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.

Margaret M. Davidson.

то HER

SISTER

LUCRETIA.

H, thou, so early lost, so long deplored!

OH

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near!

And while I touch this hallowed harp of thine, Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear.

For thee I pour this unaffected lay';

To thee these simple numbers all belong : For though thine earthly form has passed away, Thy memory still inspires my childish song.

Take, then, this feeble tribute-'tis thine ownThy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o'er, Arouse to harmony each buried tone,

And bid its wakened music sleep no more!