ISAKER SMITH

THE DYING CHIEF.

THE stars looked down on the battle-plain,
Where night-winds were deeply sighing,
And with shattered blade, near his war-steed slain,
Lay a youthful chieftain dying.

Proudly he lay on his broken shield,

By the rushing Guadalquivir,

While, dark with the blood of his last red field,
Swept on the majestic river.

There were hands which came to bind his wound, There were eyes o'er the warrior weeping; But he raised his head from the dewy ground, Where the land's high hearts were sleeping!

And "Away!" he cried, "your aid is vain,
My soul may not brook recalling ;

I have seen the stately flower of Spain
As the autumn vine-leaves falling!

"I have seen the Moorish banners wave

O'er the halls where my youth was cherished;
I have drawn a sword that could not save,
I have stood where my king hath perished!

"Leave me to die with the free and brave,
On the banks of my own bright river!
Ye can give me naught but a warrior's grave
By the chainless Guadalquivir!"

THE PILOT.

O, PILOT! 't is a fearful night,
There's danger on the deep;

I'll come and pace the deck with thee,
I do not care to sleep."

"Go down," the sailor cried, "go down ;

This is no place for thee;

Fear not! but trust in Providence,

Wherever thou mayest be."

"Ah, Pilot, dangers often met

We all are apt to slight,

And thou hast known these raging waves

But to subdue their might."

"It is not apathy," he cried,

"That gives this strength to me;
Fear not! but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou mayest be.

"On such a night the sea engulfed
My father's lifeless form;
My only brother's boat went down,
In just so wild a storm;

And such, perhaps, may be my fate
But still I say to thee,

Fear not! but trust in Providence,

Wherever thou mayest be."

T. H. BAYLY.

THE AMERICAN UNION.

THOU, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,
With all its hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what master laid thy keel,
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!

Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave, and not the rock ;
"T is but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!

In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee:

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,

Are all with thee are all with thee!

LONGFELLOW.

THE BIRD TO THE SPORTSMAN.

WOULDST thou have me fall, or fly?
Hear me sing, or see me die?
If thy heart is cold and dull,
Knowing nothing beautiful,-
If thy proud eye never glows.
With the light love only knows, -
If the loss of friends or home
Ne'er hath made life wearisome,
If thy cheek has never known
Tears that fall with sorrow's moan,
If a hopeless mother's sigh
Brings no tear-drop from thine eye,
Thou may'st smile to see me die.

But, if thou canst love the lay
Welcoming the birth of May, -
Or summer's song, or autumn's dirge,
Cheering winter's dreary verge, -
If thou lovest Beauty's hues,

Decked with light or gemmed with dews,

If, all meaner thoughts above,

Thou canst hope, and trust, and love,

If, from all dishonor free,

Thou canst Nature's lover be,

PLEASURES THAT DO NOT FAIL.

THERE are pleasures that time will not take away. While animal spirits fail, and joys which depend upon the liveliness of the passions decline with years, the solid comforts of a

holy life, the delights of virtue and a good conscience, will be a new source of happiness in old age, and have a charm for the end of life.

As the stream flows pleasantest when it approaches the ocean; as the flowers send up their sweetest odors at the close of day; as the sun appears with greatest beauty in his going down; so, at the end of his career, the virtues and graces of a good man's life come before him with the most delightful remembrance, and impart a joy which he never felt before. Over all the moments of life religion scatters her favors, but reserves her best, her choicest, her divinest blessings, for the last hour.

LOGAN.

NOT TO MYSELF ALONE.

"Nor to myself alone,"

The little opening flower, transported, cries, -
"Not to myself alone I bud and bloom;
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume,
And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes;
The bee comes sipping, every eventide,
His dainty fill;

The butterfly within my cup doth hide
From threatening ill.”

"Not to myself alone,”

The circling star with honest pride doth boast,
"Not to myself alone I rise and set;

I write upon night's coronal of jet

His power and skill who formed our myriad host;
A friendly beacon at Heaven's open gate,
I gem the sky,

That man may ne'er forget, in every fate,
His home on high."