THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

GATHER him to his grave again,
And solemnly and softly lay,
Beneath the verdure of the plain,

The warrior's scattered bones away.
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old,
The homage of man's heart to death;
Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.

The soul hath quickened every part,—
That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,
That strong arm,-strong no longer now.
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,
Of God's own image; let them rest,
Till not a trace shall speak of where
The awful likeness was imprest.

For he was fresher from the Hand
That formed of earth the human face,

And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race.

In many a flood to madness tost,
In many a storm has been his path;
He hid him not from heat or frost,
But met them, and defied their wrath.

Then they were kind,-the forest here,
Rivers, and stiller waters, paid

A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade. Fruits on the woodland branches lay, Roots in the shaded soil below, The stars looked forth to teach his way, The still earth warned him of the foe.

A noble race! but they are gone,

With their old forests wide and deep; And we have built our homes upon

Fields where their generations sleep. Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, Upon their fields our harvest waves, Our lovers woo beneath their moon ;Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves!

BRYANT.

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE.

'BEGONE, thou fond, presumptuous elf!"

Exclaimed a thundering voice,

"Nor dare to trust thy foolish self

Between me and my choice!"

A small cascade, fresh swoln with snows,
Thus threatened a poor briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,

And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.

"Dost thou presume my course to block?
Off, off! or, puny thing!

I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling."
The flood was tyrannous and strong;
The patient briar suffered long,

Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past;
But, seeing no relief, at last

He ventured to reply.

"Ah!" said the briar, "blame me not;

Why should we dwell in strife?

We, who in this sequestered spot,
Once lived a happy life!

You stirred me on my rocky bed,—

What pleasure through my veins you spread!
The summer long, from day to day,
My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
Nor was it common gratitude

That did your cares repay.

"When spring came on with bud and bell,

Among these rocks did I

Before you hang my wreaths, to tell

That gentle days were nigh!

And, in the sultry summer hours,
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
And, in my leaves,—now shed and gone,
The linnet lodged, and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you

Had little voice or none.

"But now, proud thoughts are in your breast; What grief is mine you see.

Ah! would you think, even yet how blest
Together we might be !

Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Some ornaments to me are left,—

Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
With which I, in my humble way,
Would deck you many a winter's day,
A happy eglantine."

What more he said I cannot tell.
The torrent thundered down the dell,
With unabating haste;

I listened, nor aught else could hear;
The briar quaked,—and much I fear
Those accents were his last.

WORDSWORTH.

FINIS.