Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came, Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun, And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile, Of a bound warrior in his agony,

Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's, Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.

Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree

Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now. I'll not insult its fallen majesty,

Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould,

Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold

New, barren earth; no life sustains it there. But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."

Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,

Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy;

The best of blood glows in thy every feature,

And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy, Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;

Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye, He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow

All question of thy noble family;

For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society.

LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH.

[From the German of Friedrich Kind.]

BY D. SEYMOUR.

COULDST thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast?
Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers?
Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest

She grants to all her children's countless numbers?

In narrow bed they sleep away the hours

Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers;

No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow,
Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.

How naked art thou! Pale is now that face

Which once, no doubt, was blooming-deeply dinted, A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface;

Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted? Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning! No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening; Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, As though I power o'er thy destiny had.

I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee
To gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields;
But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee,

And try if to my spells thy silence yields;
Wert thou my brother once--and did those glances
Respond to love's and friendship's soft advances?
Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept?
Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept?

16

LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH.

What, silent still!-wilt thou make no disclosure ?
Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still?
Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure?
Hast thou then lost all thought, emotion, will?
Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered,
On a new field of life and duty entered?

Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine,

Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bone thine?

Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions,

The murderer or the murdered to be?

Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions,

Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free?

Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story,

Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory? The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand, Was it the scourge or guardian of the land?

Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains,
The tear may tremble in a mother's eye,

And as approaching death dries up life's fountains,

Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh;

Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying,
Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing,
And dream not that upon this little hill
The dews of night upon thy skull distil,

Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti

Who wrought such outrage on fair Germany?
Who made the field a desert, fired the city,
Defiled the pure, and captive led the free?
Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish,
Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish?
Then-God of righteousness! to thee belongs,
Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs.

The sun already toward the west is tending,

His rays upon thy hollow temples strike;

Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descending On good and bad, just and unjust alike.

The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing, Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying; Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then ; Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men.

Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortal
Were hurried out of life; we are at peace;
Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal,
Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease.
Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes,
And may the perfume of the forest roses

Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast!
Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.

SONG.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

I KNOW thou dost love me-ay! frown as thou wilt, And curl that beautiful lip

Which I never can gaze on without the guilt

Of burning its dew to sip.

I know that my heart is reflected in thine,

And, like flowers that over a brook incline,

They toward each other dip.

Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light, 'Mid the careless, proud, and gay,

I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night,
And pilfer its thoughts away.

I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour,
And thy soul in secret shall own the power
It dares to mock by day.

THE MINISINK.

BY A. B. STREET.

ENCIRCLED by the screening shade,
With scatter'd bush, and bough,
And grassy slopes, a pleasant glade
Is spread before me now;

The wind that shows its forest search
By the sweet fragrance of the birch
Is whispering on my brow,
And the mild sunshine flickers through
The soft white cloud and summer blue.

Far to the North, the Delaware
Flows mountain-curv'd along,
By forest bank, by summit bare,
It bends in rippling song ;
Receiving in each eddying nook
The waters of the vassal brook,

It sweeps more deep and strong;
Round yon green island it divides,
And by this quiet woodland glides.