With its shining robes about it,
And its long soft yellow tresses;
And in rapture Hiawatha

Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin !
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin !”
And still later, when the autumn
Changed the long green leaves to yellow;
And the soft and juicy kernels

Grew like wampum hard and yellow,
Then the ripened ears he gathered,
Stripped the withered husks from off them,
As he once had stripped the wrestler,—
Gave the first feast of Mondamin,
And made known unto the people

This new gift of the Great Spirit.

GIDEON GRAY,

CHARLES MACKAY.

Gideon Gray-poor Gideon Gray!

He lies in the meadow grass,

And all day long looks up at the clouds,
And watches them as they pass,-

He smiles to them, sings to them, shouting aloud
If the little clouds lay behind ;

And waves his arms as the oak tree waves

Its boughs to the summer wind.

And what doth he think?

What doth he see

In the darkness and the shade?

His soul is in the outer dark,—

None knows but the God who made.

Gideon Gray-poor Gideon Gray !

He sits by the wintry fire,

And watches the live coals in the grate

He sings a song to the chirruping flames,
And balances to and fro

All day long, like the tick of the clock,
While the pine log embers glow.
There is no meaning in his mirth,—
His tenantless eyes express
-Nothing but ignorance of pain,
And a stone-like happiness.

Gideon Gray-poor Gideon Gray !

No misery touches him ;

He hath no care; the shadow of grief
Were light to a soul so dim.

Oh! give us grief, 'tis better than this;

Sorrow on Sorrow's head

Ten times piled were a lighter load

Than a happiness so dread.

Come, Sorrow, come! we'll bare our breasts
To meet thy heaviest blow,
Resigned-if Reason keep her seat

To guide us as we go.

THE FELON.

M. G. LEWIS.

Oh! mark his wan and hollow cheeks, and mark his eye-balls

glarc,

And mark his teeth in anguish clenched-the anguish of des

pair!

Know, three days since, his penance o'er, yon culprit left a

jail;

And since three days, no food has passed his lips, so parched

and pale.

"Where shall I turn?" the wretch exclaims;

shameful head?

How fly from scorn, or how contrive to earn my honest bread?

This branded hand would gladly toil; but when for work I

pray,

Who views this mark, 'A felon !' cries, and loathing turns

66

away.

My heart has greatly erred-but now would fan return to good!

My hand has deeply sinned-but yet has ne'er been stained with blood!

For alms, or work, in vain I sue-the scorners both deny;

I starve! I starve Then what remains? this choice-to sin, or die !

Here, Virtue spurns me with disdain,-there, Pleasure spreads

her snare;

Strong habit drives me back to vice; and, urged by fierce

despair,

I strive, while hunger gnaws my heart, to fly from shame-in

vain!

World! 'tis thy cruel will!-I yield, and plunge in guilt again!

"There's mercy in each ray of light that mortal eyes e'er saw; There's mercy in each breath of air that mortal lips e'er draw; There's mercy both for bird and beast in Heaven's indulgent plan;

There's mercy in each creeping thing; but man has none for

man!

Ye proudly honest! when you heard my wounded conscience

groan,

Had generous hand, or feeling heart, one glimpse of mercy

shown,

That act had made, from burning eyes, sweet tears of virtue

roll,

Had fixed my heart, assured my faith-and heaven had gained a soul !"

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

W. C. BRYANT.

When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,

The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

But there was weeping far away;
And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.

They little knew who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,

When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset ;-

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,

The mountain wolf and wild cat stole
To banquet on the dead ;-

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,

They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear,

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

So long they looked-but never spied
His welcome step again,

Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.

THE PIONEERS.

CHARLES MACKAY.

Rouse! brothers, rouse ! we've far to travel,

Free as the winds we love to roam,

Far through the prairie, far through the forest,
Over the mountains, we'll find a home.

We cannot breathe in crowded cities,
We're strangers to the ways of trade;
We long to feel the grass beneath us,
And ply the hatchet and the spade.
Meadows and hills and ancient woodlands
Offer us pasture, fruit and corn;
Needing our presence, courting our labor ;-
Why should we linger like men forlorn?

We love to hear the ringing rifle,

The smiting axe, the falling tree ;-
And though our life be rough and lonely,
If it be honest, what care we?
Fair elbow room for men to thrive in !
Wide elbow room for work or play!
If cities follow, tracing our footsteps,

Ever to westward shall point our way!
Rude though our life, it suits our spirit,

And new born states in future years Shall own us founders of a nation

And bless the hardy Pioneers.