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The romance of some warrior-dream!
O! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love;
The stream beneath the green hill flowing,
The broad-armed trees above it growing,
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing:
Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;
Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead,

The buried glory of a land

Whose soil with noble blood is red, And sanctified in every part,

Nor feel resentment like a brand, Unsheathing from his fiery heart!

O! greener hills may catch the sun

Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run

Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low;
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy,
And pillared fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave

The green, luxuriant ivy climb;
And nearer to the rising sun

The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky;
And breezes soft as sighs of love

Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet unto thee, New England, still

Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms, And thy rude chart of rock and hill

Seem dearer than the land of palms; Thy massy oak, and mountain-pine

More welcome than the banian's shade! And every free, blue stream of thine

Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!




Ay, this is freedom! These pure skies

Were never stained with village smoke; The fragrant wind, that through them flies,

Is breathed from wastes by plow unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,

And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
In the green desert-and am free.

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No taint in these fresh lawns and shades: Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades.

Alone, the fire, when frost winds sear
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,

With roaring like the battle's sound,
And trains of smoke that heavenward tower,
And streaming flames that sweep the plain,
Fierce, as if kindled to devour

Earth to the well-springs of the main.

Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast

And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue,
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?

Broad are these streams; my steed obeys,
Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods; I thread the maze

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day's last glimmer dies

O'er woody vale and grassy hight; And kind the voice and glad the eyes, That welcome my return at night.



O, YONDER is the well known spot,

My dear, my long-lost, native home; O, welcome is yon little cot,

Where I shall rest, no more to roam! O, I have traveled far and wide,

O'er many a distant foreign land; Each place, each province I have tried,

And sung and danced my saraband; But all their charms could not prevail To steal my heart from yonder vale.

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[This is a lecture of Mrs. Caudle to her husband for having loaned an umbrella. His part in the conversation is left to be inferred from her occasional repetition of his words.]

BAH! that's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil! Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold, than taken our umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle?


say, do you hear the rain? Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense: you don't impose upon me; you can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh! you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle; don't insult me;

he return the umbrella? Any body would think you were born yesterday. As if any body ever did return an umbrella! There do you hear it? Worse and worse. Cats and dogs! and for six weeks; always six weeks; and no umbrella! I should like to know how the children are to go to school tomorrow. They sha'n't go through such weather; I am determined. No; they shall stop at home and never learn anything, (the blessed creatures!) sooner than go and get wet! And when they grow up, I wonder whom they'll have to thank for knowing nothing; whom, indeed, but their father? People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.

But I know why you lent the umbrella: oh, yes, I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow: you knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you' hate to have me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle; no, sir; if it comes down in buckets full, I'll go all the more. No; and I'll not have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice, high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteen-pence, at least; sixteen-pence! two-and-eight-pence; for there's back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for'em; for I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do, throwing away your property, and beggaring your children, buying


Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care; I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will; and what's more I'll walk every step of the way; and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman; 'tis you that's the foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold it always does: but what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death: yes, and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course!

Nice clothes I get, too, tramping through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear 'em then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir;

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