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When Ur's beechen woods wave red

In the burning hamlet's light ;-
Then from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in night!

With a leap, like Tell's proud leap

When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep

From the flashing billow sprung*
They shall wake beside their Forest-sea,

In the ancient garb they wore
When they link'd the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli's moonlight shore :

And their voices shall be heard,

And be answered with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,

And the signal-fires blaze out.
And the land shall see such deeds again

As those of that proud day,
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way;

And when the rocks came down

On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crown'd casques,t o’erthrown,

Before our fathers fell!
For the Kühreihen'st notes must never sound

In the land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain!

And the yellow harvests wave

For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave

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,
The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here in the narrow battle dell!

If yet, the wilds among,

Our silent hearts may burn,
When the deep mountain-horn hath rung,

And home our steps may turn, -
Home !-home!--if still that name be dear,
Praise to the men who perish'd here!
Look on the white alps round !

Up to their shining snows
That day the stormy rolling sound,

The sound of battle, rose
Their caves prolong'd the trumpet's blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it pass'd !
They saw the princely crest,

They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast,

Borne down, and trampled here!
They saw-and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land !
Praise to the mountain-born,

The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel array was worn,

They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field,
To break an empire's lance and shield!
Look on the white Alps round!

If yet, along their steeps,
Our children's fearless feet may bound,

Free as the chamois leaps :
Teach them in song to blesss the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!
If, by the wood-fire's blaze,

When winter stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days

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
Comes o’er them with a gladdening sound,

Think on the battle dell!
For blood first bathed its flowery sod.
That chainless hearts might worship God!


[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-
ger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that
it brings them news from the other world.-See PicART's Cerem.
nies and Religious Customs.]
Thou art come from the spirits land, thou bird !

Thou art come from the spirit's land :
Through the dark pine grove set thy voice be heard,

And tell of the shadowy band !
We know that the bowers are green and fair

In the light of that summer shore,
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,

They are there—and they weep no more!
And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst

From the Fountain of youth ere now,
For there must the stream in its freshness burst

Which none may find below!
And we know that they will not be lured to earth

From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,

Though their hearts were once with ours:
Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,

And bent with us the bow,
And heard the tales of our fathers' days,

Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thru bird of the solemn strain !

Can those who have loved forget!
We call-and they answer not again-

Do they love-do they love us yet ?
Doth the warrior think of his brother there,

And the father of his child ?
And the chief, of those that were wont to share

His wandering through the wild ?
We call them far through the silent night,

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 ?*


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 !
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee!
But there came a voice from a distant shore:
He was call'd-he is found ’midst his tribe no more!


Yes, I came from the spirits' land,

From the land that is bright and fair;
I came with a voice from the shadowy band,

To tell that they love you there.
To say, if a wish or a vain regret

Could live in Elysian bowers,
'Twould be for the friends they can ne'er forget,

The beloved of their youthful hours.
To whisper the dear deserted band,

Who smiled on their tarriance here,
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land,

Are the friends they have loved so dear
'Tis true, in the silert night you call,

And they answer you not again;
But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all-

Sound only was made for pain.
That their land is bright and they weep no more,

I have warbled from hill to hill;
But my plaintive strain should have told before,
That they love, oh! they love you

They bid me say that unfading flowers

You'll find in the path they trode ;
And a welcome true to their deathless bowers,

Pronounced by the voice of God.

He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him—we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step-but the step was thine.

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept !
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song-
Mournful, though sweet-she hath left us long!
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him-she pass'd alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled.
The winter is white on his lonely head,
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest-yet she comes not back!
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step-but the step was thine !

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here !
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky !
Where are they ?-thou’rt seeking some distant coast-
O ask of them, stranger !-send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom lo pine,
And to watch for a step-but the step was thine !


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

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