ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN INTO THE UNION.
But where are your Indians—so feeble and few?
So fall'n from the heights where their forefathers grew!
From the forests they fade, o'er the waters that bore
The names of their baptism, they venture no more—
O soothe their sad hearts ere they vanish afar,
Nor quench the faint beams of their westering star.
Those ladies who sit on the sofa so high,
Are the stateliest dames of our family,
Your thirteen old sisters, don't treat them with scorn,
They were notable spinsters before you were born,
Many stories they know, most instructive to hear,
Go, make them a curtsy, 'twill please them, my dear.
They can teach you the names of those great ones to spell,
Who stood at the helm, when the war tempest fell,
They will show you the writing that gleam'd to the sky
In the year seventy-six, on the fourth of July;
When the flash of the Bunker-Hill flame was red,
And the blood gush'd forth from the breast of the dead.
There are some who may call them both proud and old,
And say they usurp what they cannot hold;
Perhaps, their bright locks have a sprinkle of gray,
But then, little Michy, don't hint it, I pray;
For they'll give you a frown, or a box on the ear,
Or send you to stand in the corner, I fear.
ADMISSION OF MICHIGAN INTO THE UNION.
They, indeed, bore the burden and heat of the day,
But you've as good right to your penny as they;
Though the price of our freedom, they better have known,
Since they paid for it, out of their purses alone,
Yet a portion belongs to the youngest, I ween,
So, hold up your head with the "Old Thirteen."
DEEP Solitude I sought. There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky.
And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount,
For which it long had thirsted 'mid the strife
And fever of the world.-I thought to be
There without witness. But the violet's eye
Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild-rose smiled,
And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek,
There were glad voices too. The garrulous brook,
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told
Its history.-Up came the singing breeze,
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake
Responsive, every one.-Even busy life
Woke in that dell. The dexterous spider threw
From spray to spray, the silver-tissued snare.
The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced
The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel.
To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee,
While, from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird
To be alone and silent in thy realm,
Spirit of life and love!-It might not be !-
There is no solitude in thy domains,
Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast
He locks his joy, and shuts out others' grief.
Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world
Without a witness. Even the desert place
Speaketh thy name. The simple flowers and streams
Are social and benevolent, and he,
Who holdeth converse in their language pure,
Roaming among them at the cool of day,
Shall find, like him who Eden's garden drest,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.
"SHOW me a king, whose high decree By all his realm is blest,
Whose heaven-deputed sway shall be
Deep in his subjects' breast."
And lo! a radiant throne was nigh,
A gorgeous purple robe,
A lofty form, an eagle eye,
That aimed to rule the globe.
Peers at his bidding came and went,
Proud hosts to battle trod;
Even high-soul'd Genius humbly bent
And hailed him as a god.
Wealth spread her treasures to his sight,
Fame bade her clarion roll;
But yet his sceptre seemed to blight
The freedom of the soul.
And deep within his bosom lay
The poison'd shaft of care,
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