For, faithful to its sacred page; Heaven still rebuilds its span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age The Better Land. www CAMPBELL. "I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore ?Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?— Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle-boughs?" -"Not there, not there, my child !" "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, "Not there, not there, my child !” "Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 'Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! MRS. HEMANS. The Wounded Eagle. EAGLE! this is not thy sphere ! Warrior-bird, what seek'st thou here? Wherefore by the fountain's brink Doth thy royal pinion sink? Wherefore on the violets' bed Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head? Eagle! wilt thou not arise ? Look upon thine own bright skies! There his pride of place hath won, Eagle, Eagle! thou hast bow'd Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth, Wert thou weary of thy throne ? MRS HFMANS. The Highlander. MANY years ago, a poor Highland soldier, on his return to his native hills, fatigued, as it was supposed, by the length of the march, and the heat of the weather, sat down under the shade of a birch tree, on the solitary road of Lowran, that winds along the margin of Loch Ken in Galloway. Here he was found dead, and this incident forms the subject of the following verses. FROM the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary, Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before him, He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat; The light shady boughs of the birch tree hung o'er him, And the stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet. He sunk to repose where the red-heaths are blended, One dream of his childhood his fancy pass'd o'er ; But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended, The sound of the bagpipe shall wake him no more. No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him, Though war launched her thunder in fury to kill; Now the angel of death in the desert has found him, Now stretched him in peace by the stream of the hill. Pale autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest, The fays of the wild chaunt the dirge of his rest; And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest, And moistenest the heath-bell that weeps on his breast. The Negro's Prayer. O SPIRIT, that rid'st in the whirlwind and storm, If ever from man, the poor indigent worm If black man, as white, is the work of thy hand, Ah give thy command, Let it spread through thy land, That Afric's sad sons may be free! If 'erst, when the man-stealers' treacherous guile, Entrap'd me all thoughtless of wrong, |