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The murdered Traveller.-BRYANT.

WHEN Spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again,

The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded, careless, by.

The red-bird-warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,
And, fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,

When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset;

Nor how, when, round the frosty pole,
The northern dawn was red,

The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,

They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,

Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

So long they looked-but never spied
His welcome step again,

Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen,

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.-F. G. HALLECK.

GREEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,

There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth.

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine,-

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

To H--CHRISTIAN EXAMINER

SWEET child, that wasted form,
That pale and mournful brow,
O'er which thy long, dark tresses
In shadowy beauty flow-
That eye, whence soul is darting
With such strange brilliancy,
Tell us thou art departing-

This world is not for thee.

No! not for thee is woven
That wreath of joy and wo,
That crown of thorns and flowers,
Which all must wear below!
We bend in anguish o'er thee,
Yet feel that thou art blessed,
Loved one, so early summoned
To enter into rest.

Soon shall thy bright young spirit
From earth's cold chains be free;
Soon shalt thou meet that Savior,
Who gave himself for thee.
Soon shalt thou be rejoicing,
Unsullied as thou art,

In the blessed vision promised
Unto the pure in heart.

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The dying Raven.-RICHARD H. Dana.

COME to these lonely woods to die alone? It seems not many days since thou wast heard, From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note, Calling unto thy mates-and their clear answers The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves

Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,

Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us;-offspring bright
Of earth,—a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all.-Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,

Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it-vanity well feigned-
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces.-Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,

Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms.-There, on tall, bald trees,
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in the unseen winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music;
And, grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odors to the air they give.

Thus mutual love brings mutual delightBrings beauty, life;-for love is life;-hate, death.

Thou prophet of so fair a revelation,Thou who abod'st with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,

From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow,

Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days

Shone on the earth, midst thaw and steam, cam'st forth From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,

To speak of comfort unto lonely man,

Didst say to him,-though seemingly alone
'Midst wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground,—that 'twas not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair;-
That thou, albeit unseen, did'st bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.

More thou saidst,

Thou priest of nature, priest of God, to man!
Thou spok'st of faith, (than instinct no less sure,)

Of spirits near him, though he saw them not:
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye,

And see his solitude all populous:

Thou showd'st him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And didst him pray to listen to the flow

Of living waters.

Preacher to man's spirit!

Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!
Thou faithful one! is this thine end? 'Twas thou,
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen
In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong,

On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!

Thy kingly strength brought down, of storms
Thou conqueror!

The year's mild, cheering dawn
Upon thee shone a momentary light.
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest amongst thy hopes and promises-
Beautiful flowers, and freshly-springing blades-
Gasping thy life out.-Here for thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds-
To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless; and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. No answer give they back.
As I look up to their bright, angel faces,
Intelligent and capable of voice

They seem to me. Their silence to my soul
Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird,
For thee there is no sound,
No silence.-Near thee stands the shadow, Death ;-
And now he slowly draws his sable veil

Silence or sound.

Over thine eyes. Thy senses soft he lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call

Thou'lt hear no longer. 'Neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,

Thou'lt sail no more. Around thy trembling clawa

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