But, oh! thy young and glowing heart could not respond to mine,

My whitened hairs seemed mocked by those rich sunny curls of thine ;

And though thy gentle faith was kind as woman's faith can be,

"Twas as the spring-flower clinging round the winter

blighted tree.

My speech is faltering and low

fast

the world is fading

The sands of life are few and slow this day will be

my last;

I've something for thine ear

failing word,

bend close list to my

Lay what I utter to thy soul, and start not when 'tis heard.

There's one who loves thee-though his love has never lived in speech

He worships as a devotee the star he cannot reach; He strives to mask his throbbing breast and hide its burning glow;

But I have pierced the veil and seen the struggling heart below.

Nay, speak not. I alone have been the selfish and un

wise;

Young hearts will nestle with young hearts, young eyes will meet young eyes.

And when I saw his earnest glance turn hopelessly

away,

I thanked the hand of Time that gave me warning of

decay.

I question not thy bosom, Kate I cast upon thy

name

No memory of jealous fear, no lightest shade of

blame.

I know that he has loved thee long, with deep and secret truth;

I know he is a fitting one to bless thy trusting youth.

Weep not for me with bitter grief; I would but have thee tell,

That he who bribed thee to his heart has cherished thee right well.

I give thee to another, Kate-and may that other

prove

As grateful for the blessing held, as doting in his

love.

Bury me in the churchyard where the dark yew branch

es wave,

And promise thou wilt come sometimes to weed the old

man's grave;

'Tis all I ask! I'm blind- I'm faint- take, take my parting breath

I die within thy arms, my Kate, and feel no sting of

THE INDIAN HUNTER.

Он, why does the white man follow my path,
Like the hound on the tiger's track?

Does the flush on my dark cheek waken his wrath?
Does he covet the bow on my back?

He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breeze Bear riches for him alone;

And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood Which the white man calls his own.

Why, then, should he come to the streams where none But the red-skin dare to swim?

Why, why should he wrong the hunter one,

Who never did harm to him?

The Father above thought fit to give,

The white men corn and wine:

There are golden fields where they may live,

But the forest shades are mine.

The eagle hath its place of rest,

The wild-horse where to dwell;

And the Spirit that gave the bird its nest,

Made me a home as well.

Then back, go back from the red-man's track,
For the hunter's eye grows dim

To find that the white man wrongs the one
Who never did harm to him.

THE POOR MAN'S FRIEND.

No sable pall, no waving plume,
No thousand torch-lights to illume;
No parting glance, no struggling tear,
Is seen to fall upon the bier.

There is not one of kindred clay,
To watch the coffin on its way;

No mortal form, no human breast,

Cares where the poor man's bones may rest.

But one deep mourner follows there,
Whose grief outlives the funeral prayer:
He does not sigh, he does not weep,
But will not leave the sodless heap.

No! he who was the poor man's mate,
And made him more content with fate
The old gray dog that shared his crust,
Is all that stands beside his dust.

He bends his listening head, as though
He thought to hear a voice below ;
He pines to miss that voice so kind,
And wonders why he's left behind.

The sun goes down, the night is come
He needs no food, he seeks no home,
But, stretched upon the dreamless bed,
With doleful howl calls back the dead.

The passing gaze may coldly dwell
On all that polished marbles tell,
For temples built on churchyard earth
Are claimed by riches more than worth.

But who would mark with undimmed eyes,
The mourning dog that.starves and dies?
Who would not ask, who would not crave,
Such love and faith to guard his grave?

HARVEST SONG.

I LOVE, I love to see

Bright steel gleam through the land; 'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be

In the reaper's tawny hand.

The helmet and the spear

Are twined with laurel wreath;

But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear, And blood-spots rest beneath.

I love to see the field

That is moist with purple stain;

But not where bullet, sword, and shield,

Lie strown with the gory slain.

No, no: 'tis when the sun

Shoots down his cloudless beams,