The dawn is up-the guest is gone,
The cottage hearth is blazing still:
Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone!
Hark to the wind upon the hill!

SONG OF THE VIOLET.

A HUMBLE flower long time I pined
Upon the solitary plain,

And trembled at the angry wind,

And shrunk before the bitter rain. And oh! 'twas in a blessed hour A passing wanderer chanced to see, And, pitying the lonely flower, To stoop and gather me.

I fear no more the tempest rude,
On dreary heath no more I pine,
But left my cheerless solitude,

To deck the breast of Caroline.
Alas! our days are brief at best,
Nor long, I fear, will mine endure,
Though sheltered here upon a breast
So gentle and so pure.

It draws the fragrance from my leaves.
It robs me of my sweetest breath,
And every time it falls and heaves,
It warns me of my coming death.
But one I know would glad forego
All joys of life to be as I;

An hour to rest on that sweet breast,
And then, contented, die.

FAIRY DAYS.

BESIDE the old hall-fire-upon my nurse's knee, Of happy fairy days-what tales were told to me! I thought the world was once-all peopled with princesses,

And my heart would beat to hear-their loves and their distresses;

And many a quiet night,-in slumber sweet and deep,

The pretty fairy people-would visit me in sleep.

I saw them in my dreams-come flying east and west,

With wondrous fairy gifts-the new-born babe they bless'd;

One has brought a jewel-and one a crown of gold, And one has brought a curse-but she is wrinkled and old.

The gentle queen turns pale-to hear those words

of sin,

But the king he only laughs—and bids the dance begin.

The babe has grown to be-the fairest of the land, And rides the forest green-a hawk upon her

hand,

An ambling palfrey white-a golden robe and

crown:

I've seen her in my dreams-riding up and down: And heard the ogre laugh-as she fell into his

snare,

At the little tender creature-who wept and tore her hair!

But ever when it seemed-her need was at the

sorest,

A prince in shining mail-comes prancing through the forest,

A waving ostrich-plume-a buckler burnished bright;

I've seen him in my dreams-good sooth! a gallant knight.

His lips are coral red-beneath a dark mustache; See how he waves his hand-and how his blue eyes flash!

"Come forth, thou Paynim knight !"-he shouts in accents clear.

The giant and the maid-both tremble his voice to hear.

Saint Mary guard him well!-he draws his falchion keen,

The giant and the knight—are fighting on the green.

I see them in my dreams—his blade gives stroke on stroke,

The giant pants and reels—and tumbles like an oak!

With what a blushing grace-he falls upon his

knee

And takes the lady's hand- and whispers, "You are free !"

Ah! happy childish tales-of knight and faërie ! I waken from my dreams-but there's ne'er a knight for me;

I waken from my dreams-and wish that I could be

A child by the old hall-fire-upon my nurse's knee !

POCAHONTAS.

WEARIED arm and broken sword
Wage in vain the desperate fight:
Round him press a countless horde,
He is but a single knight.
Hark! a cry of triumph shrill

Through the wilderness resounds,
As, with twenty bleeding wounds,
Sinks the warrior, fighting still.

Now they heap the fatal pyre,
And the torch of death they light;
Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire!

Who will shield the captive knight? Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd, Cold the victim's mien, and proud, And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart?

Who avert the murderous blade? From the throng, with sudden start, See there springs an Indian maid. Quick she stands before the knight:

Loose the chain, unbind the ring; I am daughter of the king, And I claim the Indian right!"

Dauntlessly aside she flings

Lifted axe and thirsty knife;
Fondly to his heart she clings,
And her bosom guards his life!
In the woods of Powhattan,
Still 'tis told by Indian fires,
How a daughter of their sires
Saved the captive Englishman.

FROM POCAHONTAS.

RETURNING from the cruel fight
How pale and faint appears my knight !
He sees me anxious at his side;

'Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide? Or deem your English girl afraid

To emulate the Indian maid?"

Be mine my husband's grief to cheer,
In peril to be ever near;
Whate'er of ill or woe betide,
To bear it clinging at his side;
The poisoned stroke of fate to ward,
His bosom with my own to guard :
Ah! could it spare a pang to his,
It could not know a purer bliss!
'Twould gladden as it felt the smart,
And thank the hand that flung the dart!

THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF

KIOFF.

AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS.

I.

[The poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova.]

A THOUSAND years ago, or more,
A city filled with burghers stout,
And girt with ramparts round about,
Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore.