They said, the world he fain would shun,
And seek the still and twilight wood,-
His spirit, weary of the sun,

In humblest things found chiefest good;—

That I was of a lowly frame,

And far more constant than the flower, Which, vain with many a boastful name, But flutter'd out its idle hour;

That I was kind to old decay,

And wrapt it softly round in green, On naked root and trunk of gray Spread out a garniture and screen :

They said, that he was withering fast,
Without a sheltering friend like me;
That on his manhood fell a blast,

And left him bare, like yonder tree;

That spring would clothe his boughs no more, Nor ring his boughs with song of bird,Sounds like the melancholy shore

Alone were through his branches heard.

Methought, as then, he stood to trace
The wither'd stems, there stole a tear,
That I could read in his sad face-

Brothers! our sorrows make us near.

And then he stretch'd him all along,
And laid his head upon my breast,
Listening the water's peaceful song.
How glad was I to tend his rest!

Then happier grew his soothèd soul.

He turn'd and watch'd the sunlight play Upon my face, as in it stole,

Whispering" Above is brighter day!"

He praised my varied hues,-the green,
The silver hoar, the golden brown;
Said-Lovelier hues were never seen;
Then gently press'd my tender down.

And where I sent up little shoots,

He call'd them trees, in fond conceit: Like silly lovers in their suits

He talk'd, his care awhile to cheat.

I said, I'd deck me in the dews,
Could I but chase away his care,
And clothe me in a thousand hues,
To bring him joys that I might share.

He answer'd, earth no blessing had
To cure his lone and aching heart;
That I was one, when he was sad,
Oft stole him from his pain, in part.

To meet the world, its care and strife, No more to watch this quiet flow,

Or spend with thee a gentle life.

And yet the brook is gliding on,
And I, without a care, at rest;

While back to toiling life he's gone,

Where finds his head no faithful breast.

Deal gently with him, World! I

pray;

Ye cares! like soften'd shadows come;

His spirit, well-nigh worn away,

Asks with ye but awhile a home.

O, may I live, and when he dies
Be at his feet a humble sod;
O, may I lay me where he lies,

To die when he awakes in God!

LYDIA HOWARD HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

Born at Norwich, Connecticut, 1791-died 1865.

YE

INDIAN NAMES.

say they all have pass'd away, That noble race and brave;

That their light canoes have vanish'd

From off the crested wave;

That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd,
There rings no hunter's shout:

But their name is on your waters,

Ye

may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow

Like ocean's surge is curl'd,

Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,
Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins,
That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves
Before the autumn's gale;

But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak

Old Massachusetts wears it

Within her lordly crown,

And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreath'd it

Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice'
Within its rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,
Doth seal the sacred trust:

Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.
Born at Boston, Mass: 1791-died 1875.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

(TO TWO SWALLOWS IN A CHURCH.)

GAY, guiltless pair!

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of

prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep: Penance is not for you,

Bless'd wanderers of the upper deep!

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays; Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In

yon blue dome not rear'd with hands!

Or, if ye stay,

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power!

Above the crowd

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.
'Twere heaven indeed,

Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On nature's charms to feed,
And nature's own great God adore.

NATHANIEL LANGDON FROTHINGHAM.
Born at Boston, Mass: 1793-died 1870.

THE CROSSED SWORDS.*

SWORDS cross'd,—but not in strife!

The chiefs who drew them, parted by the space
Of two proud countries' quarrel, face to face
Ne'er stood for death or life.

Swords cross'd, that never met

While nerve was in the hands that wielded them;
Hands better destined a fair family stem

On these free shores to set.

Kept cross'd by gentlest bands!

Emblems no more of battle, but of peace;
And proof how loves can grow and wars can cease,
Their once stern symbol stands.

It smiled first on the array

Of marshal'd books and friendliest companies;
And here, a history among histories,

It still shall smile for aye.

See that thou memory keep,

Of him the firm commander; and that other,

The stainless judge; and him our peerless brother;All fallen now asleep!

Yet more a lesson teach,

To cheer the patriot-soldier in his course,

That Right shall triumph still o'er insolent Force : That be your silent speech!

*See Note 7.