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No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid;
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye-

Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul.

DIMOND

THE SPIDER AND THE BEE.

WITH Viscous thread, and finger fine,
The spider spun his filmy line;
The extremes with stronger cordage tied,
And wrought the web from side to side.

Beneath the casement's pendant roof,
He hung aloft the shadowy woof:-
There in the midst compressed he lies,
And patient waits the expected prize.

When, lo! on sounding pinion strong,
A bee, incautious, rushed along ;
Nor of the gauzy net aware,
Till all entangled in the snare.

Enraged, he plies his buzzing wings,
His far-resounding war-song sings;
Tears all that would his course control,
And threatens ruin to the whole.

With dread, with gladness, with surprise,
The spider saw the dangerous prize;
Then rushed relentless on his foe,
Intent to give the deadly blow.

But as the spider came in view,
The bee his poisoned dagger drew;
Back at the sight the spider ran,
And now his crafty work began.

With lengthened arms the snares he plied,
And turned the bee from side to side;
His legs he tied, his wings he bound,
And whirled his victim round and round.

And now with cautious steps and slow,
He came to give the fatal blow;
When, frightened at the trenchant blade,
The bee one desperate effort made.

The fabric breaks the cords give way;
His wings resume their wonted play;
Far off on gladsome plume he flies,
And drags the spider through the skies.

Shun vice's snares; but if you 're caught,
Boldly resist, and parley not;

Then, though your foe you cannot kill,
You'll lead him captive where you will.

ANONY MOUS

DEATH-SONG OF OUTALISSI.

"AND I could weep; "- the Oneida chief
His descant wildly thus begun;
"But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son!
Or bow this head in woe;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

(That fires yon heaven with storms and death,)

Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy!

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep :—

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"To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once loved home?
The hand is gone that cropped its flowers;
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,

Would sound like voices from the dead!

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed,
And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft? -
Ah! there in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each moldering bone,
And stones, themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp for there-
The silence dwells of my despair!

"But hark, the trump! - to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,

Amid the clouds that round us roll;

He bids my soul for battle thirst,
He bids me dry the last the first
The only tear that ever burst

From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief."

CAMPBELL

DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

THE king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe :

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and 1 am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

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Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet my father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee; I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;— But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee! And thy dark sin!-oh! I could drink the cup,

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer.
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently - and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

WILLIS

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Not in shect nor in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

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