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The hands of the Moor

In his wrath do they bind him?
Oh! seal'd is his doom,

If the savage moor find him.
More fierce than hyenas,
Through darkness advancing,
Is the curse of the Moor,

And his eyes fiery glancing!

"Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosom'd stranger!"

A voice from the desert!

My wilds do not hold him;

Pale thirst doth not rack,

Nor the sand-storm infold him;

The death-gale pass'd by,

And his breath fail'd to smother,

Yet, ne'er shall he wake

To the voice of his mother!

"Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosom'd stranger!"

O lov'd of the lotus

Thy waters adorning,

Pour, Joliba! pour

Thy full streams to the morning!

The Halcyon may fly

To thy wave as her pillow;
But wo to the white man

Who trusts in thy billow!

"Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white bosom'd stranger!"

He launch'd his light bark,

Our fond warnings despising,
And sail'd to the land

Where the day-beams are rising;

His wife from her bower

May look forth in her sorrow,

But he shall ne'er come

To her hope of to-morrow!

"Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosom'd stranger!"

P. M. J.

THE THUNDER-STORM.

Psalm xxix.

BY EDMESTON.

SONS of the Mighty-pause and fear!

Jehovah's power proclaim !

The glory of his state revere,

And bow before his name!

C

His watery car is rolling by;

And hark! his voice of majesty
Divides the forks of flame!

He blasts the cedar, burns the oak,

And cleaves the mountains with a stroke.

He lays the forest thickets bare,
And lights the shade profound;
The deer, that crept for refuge there,
Springs from the burning ground!
The lion from his secret den,
Moans in instinctive horror then,
And crouches at the sound:

He knows his Maker's voice, and hides
In the deep cavern's inmost sides.

Amidst the storm Jehovah reigns,
And guards his people's weal;
He holds the lightnings fast in chains,
Though all creation reel;

And those whom he will deign to keep,
May lay them down in peace to sleep,
Nor heed the threat'ning peal;
Assur'd, beneath his mighty arm,
Danger is safe, and tumult calm.

ODE.

Written in Winter.

BY SCOTT.

WHILE in the sky black clouds impend,
And fogs arise, and rains descend;
And one brown prospect opens round,
Of leafless trees and furrow'd ground;
Save where unmelted spots of snow
Upon the shaded hill-side show;

While chill winds blow, and tempests roll, The scene appals the sight, depresses all the soul!

Yet worse, what polar climates share. Vast regions, dreary, bleak, and bare! There, on an icy mountain's height, Seen only by the moon's pale light, Stern Winter rears his giant form, His robe a mist, his voice a storm: His frown the shivering nations fly, And hid, for half the year, in smoky caverns lie.

Yet there the lamp's perpetual blaze
Can pierce the gloom with cheering rays;

Yet there the heroic tale or song

Can urge the lingering hours along;

Yet there their hands, with timely care,

*

The kajak and the dart prepare,

On summer seas to work their way,

And wage
the watery war, and make the seals their
prey.

Ye delicate! reproach no more
The seasons of your native shore.
Here soon shall Spring descend the sky,
With smiling brow and placid eye;
A primrose wreath surrounds her hair,
Her green robe floats upon the air;

And scatter'd from her liberal hand,

Fair blossoms deck the trees, fair flowers adorn the land.

THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS.

BY BARNARD.

SWEET is the scene when Virtue dies,
When sinks a righteous soul to rest;
How mildly beam the closing eyes!
How gently heaves th' expiring breast!

So fades a summer cloud away;

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies a wave along the shore.

A Greenland fishing-boat.

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