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When Ur's beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet's light ;-
With a leap, like Tell's proud leap
When away the helm he flung,
From the flashing billow sprung*
In the ancient garb they wore
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answered with a shout,
And the signal-fires blaze out.
As those of that proud day,
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
Before our fathers fell!
In the land that wears the chain,
And the yellow harvests wave
For no stranger's hand to reap,
The men of Grütli sleep.
SWISS SONG, ON THL ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE. [The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anni
versaries of their ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thankgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where niasses are sung for the souls of the departed.-See Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.]
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet they gird a land * The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler s marked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung.
Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond's Switzerland.
I The Kühreihen, the celebrated Ranz des Vaches.
Where Freedom's voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,
If yet, the wilds among,
Our silent hearts may burn,
And home our steps may turn, -
Up to their shining snows
The sound of battle, rose
They saw the knightly spear,
Borne down, and trampled here!
The brethren of the glen!
They stood as peasant-men!
If yet, along their steeps,
Free as the chamois leaps :
When winter stars gleam cold,
May proudly yet be told, Forget not then the shepherd race, Who made the hearth a holy place! Look on the white Alps round!
If yet the Sabbath-bell
Think on the battle dell!
THE MESSENGER BIRD.
[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird
that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messen-
Thou art come from the spirit's land :
And tell of the shadowy band !
In the light of that summer shore,
They are there—and they weep no more!
From the Fountain of youth ere now,
Which none may find below!
From the land of deathless flowers,
Though their hearts were once with ours:
And bent with us the bow,
Which are told to others now!
But tell us, thru bird of the solemn strain !
Can those who have loved forget!
Do they love-do they love us yet ?
And the father of his child ?
His wandering through the wild ?
And they speak not from cave or hill;
* An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, In the 16th century, with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters.-See ROBERTson's History of America.
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still ?*
THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.
An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only gone on a journey, and being in constant expectation of their re: turn, look for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers.Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs.]
“J'ai passé-moi-même," says Chateaubriand in his Souvenirs d'Amerique, “ chez une peuplade indienne qui se prenait à pleurer à la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la Contrée des Ames, et depuis long-teins en voyage.”']
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept !
* ANSWER TO THE MESSENGER BIRD.
BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY.
From the land that is bright and fair;
To tell that they love you there.
Could live in Elysian bowers,
The beloved of their youthful hours.
Who smiled on their tarriance here,
Are the friends they have loved so dear
And they answer you not again;
Sound only was made for pain.
I have warbled from hill to hill;
You'll find in the path they trode ;
Pronounced by the voice of God.
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept !
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
THE ISLE OF FOUNTS.
AN INDIAN TRADITION. : The river St. Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh,
which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich highland; one of which the present generation of the Creek Indians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth: they say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in pusuit of game; but that in their endeavors to approach it, they were involved in perpetual laby: rinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seein ed to fly before them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved, at length, to leave the delusive