THE INDIAN BOY. BY S. J. SMITH. From the blood-stain'd track of ruthless war, An Indian Boy had fled; Remote from his home, in the wild woods far, A moss bank pillow'd his head. His glossy hair was damp with dew, And it seem'd that a straggling tear or two Had wander'd down his cheek. For he saw in his dream, the bayonet's gleam, He saw his kindred fall; And he heard his mother's dying scream, In his fev'rish sleep he turn'd and roll'd, His head the stately reptile rais'd, Unclos'd his fiery eye; On the sleeping Boy for a moment gaz'd, 'Twas well, young savage, well for thee, It was only the serpent's lair; Thy fate perchance would different be, His short nap o'er, uprose the child, Thro' the deepest gloom of the forest wild, Where high in air the cypress shakes O'er the beaver's stream, and the dark blue lakes, At the close of the day, in a wildering glen, A covert met his view; And he crept well pleas'd in the sheltering den, And soon his weary eyelids close, 'Twas only the famish'd she-wolf's nose, And forth she hied at the noon of night, 'Twas well, young savage, well for thee, But where, alas! poor wanderer! canst thou stray, Where white intruders shall molest no more? Like ocean's billows, their resistless way, A whelming deluge, spreads from shore to shore. Their onward march, insatiate as the grave, And lo! their missions distant climes explore, But, oh! my country-tho' neglect alone Have crush'd the savage with a weight malign. We seize the comforts bounteous Heav'n has given, With strange diseases vex him from his birth; We sooth his sorrows with no hopes of Heaven, Yet drive him headlong from his home on earth. As shrinks the stubble from the rushing blaze, By whiskey poison'd, all that war may spare. But can the Power, whose awful mandate roll'd A people perish from th' uncumber'd earth? No-from their slumber let the good and wise Then lead the wild man of the forest forth, With kindness lure him, to his eye disclose A new creation-make him feel the worth Of all Industry on a land bestows. The page of knowledge to his view unroll, The Charms of virtue to his mind display; And open wide to his benighted soul, The full effulgence of the Gospel Day. THE BEARER OF DESPATCHES. BY JAMES HALL. SHORTLY after the defeat of the British army at Fort Erie, in the brilliant sortie planned and executed by General Brown, that officer received intelligence that General Izard was on his way to join him with a large force. A few weeks sooner, this intelligence would have been highly gratifying. The American army, hemmed in by a foe whose numbers more than quadrupled their own, had been placed in an embarrassing situation. The Fort was situated on low flat ground, and the season being very wet, the constant tramping of so many men had converted the whole place into one great mud puddle; the garrison, who were lodged in tents, were exposed to continual rains; there was no spot secure from the elements, and a dry vestment, bed, or blanket, was, at times, not to be found within our line of sentinels; while the frequent alarms, and the necessary "watch and ward" left only intervals for that broken slumber which refreshes not. But little But little pay, if any, had been received during the campaign-money there was absolutely none-and our diet was necessarily confined to the ration of meat and bread, which was not of the best kind. The perpetual shower of cannon balls and bursting of bomb-shells was not a matter of complaint, for this was soldier's luck; to be shot at was our vocation; and as we failed not to amuse ourselves at the batteries during a part of every |