When, with as withered hearts
And hopes as dead and cold,
A gallant army formed their last array
Upon that field, in silence and deep gloom,
And at their conqueror's feet
Laid their war-weapons down.
Sullen and stern, disarmed but not dishonored :
Brave men, but brave in vain, they yielded there:
The soldier's trial task
Is not alone "to die."
Honor to chivalry! the conqueror's breath
Stains not the ermine of his foeman's fame,
Nor mocks his captive's doom,
The bitterest cup of war.
Saratoga, the Lake, N. Y.
LADY stands beside the silver lake.
"What," said the Mohawk, "wouldst thou have me do?"
"Across the water, sir, be pleased to take
Me and my children in thy bark canoe."
"Ah!" said the Chief, "thou knowest not, I think, The legend of the lake, - hast ever heard
That in its wave the stoutest boat will sink,
If any passenger shall speak a word?"
"Full well we know the Indian's strange belief,"
The lady answered, with a civil smile;
"But take us o'er the water, mighty Chief;
In rigid silence we will sit the while."
Thus they embarked, but ere the little boat
Was half across the lake, the woman gave
Her tongue its wonted play, - but still they float,
And pass in safety o'er the utmost wave!
Safe on the shore, the warrior looked amazed,
Despite the stoic calmness of his race;
No word he spoke, but long the Indian gazed
In moody silence in the woman's face.
"What think you now?" the lady gayly said;
"Safely to land your frail canoe is brought!
No harm, you see, has touched a single head!
So superstition ever comes to naught!"
Smiling, the Mohawk said, "Our safety shows
That God is merciful to old and young;
Thanks unto the Great Spirit! - well he knows
The pale-faced woman cannot hold her tongue!"
John Godfrey Sa.re.
Schoharie, N. Y.
THE SABBATH EVENING WALK.
E sat till evening sank upon the vale
With dewy shadows soft; the mountain-tops
With clear sharp outline gleaming still in light,
And at our feet, meadow, and waving grain,
And orchards clustering round the village roof.
Our seat was in the shadow of a grove
Of fir-trees and tall pines, amid whose boughs,
Heavy with dew, the delicate-fingered wind
Played mournful airs. Anon from out the vale
Came various sounds commingled, pleasing all;
Watch-dog and lowing herd, and children's laugh,
And vesper song of some belated bird.
Once, too, the village bell awoke; a peal
Solemn, yet soothing, deep and silvery tones,
Floating in liquid cadence on the wind,
And mingling with the music of the pines.
And this was once thy home; familiar all
To thy dear eyes these scenes so new to mine.
Yon dewy valley with its Sabbath smile,
Yon fir-clad mountains girding it around,
And yonder village with its single street,
Beheld thy joyous girlhood, and the growth
Of that pure spirit whose sweet ministry
Hath taught my world-worn heart to trust again.
Ah! how mysteriously the threads of life
Are woven. In the sunshine of those days,
No revelation came to tell thy heart
For whom its stores of love were ripening;
Nor mid the shadows that encompassed me
Had even one faint sunbeam pierced! and now,
Hand within hand, and heart on heart reposing,
My sadder nature drawing light from thee,
And tempering the buoyancy of thine,
We stand, and bless together this sweet vale,
And treasure up for memory's dearest page
Our Sabbath evening's walk beneath the pines.
George Washington Greene.
TO SENECA LAKE.
N thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break
As down he bears before the gale.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north-wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.
At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.
On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
Oh, I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er!
NE evening in the pleasant month of May, On a green hillock swelling from the shore Above thy emerald wave, when the clear west Was all one sheet of light, I sat me down, Wearied, yet happy. I had wandered long, That bright, fair day; and all the way my path Was tended by a warm and soothing air, That breathed like bliss; and round me all the woods Opened their yellow buds, and every cottage Was bowered in blossoms, for the orchard trees Were all in flower. I came, at close of day, Down to thy brink, and it was pleasure there To bathe my dripping forehead in thy cool,
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