The Old CHIKKASAH to bis GRANDSON. Now go to the battle my Boy! Dear child of my son There is strength in thine arm, there is hope in thy heart, Thou art ripe for the labours of war. Thy Sire was a stripling like thee When he went to the first of his fields. He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd, These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the Rain Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived When the banners sun-beaming were spread, To the sound of the victory drum. The Heroes were met to receive their reward, And his eye-how it sparkled in pride! And they gave him the old honour'd name. They reported the deeds he had done in the war, And the youth of the nation were told To respect him, and tread in his path. My Boy! I have seen, and with hope, His bow-string whose twang was death But his memory is fresh in the land And his name with the names that we love. Go now and revenge him my Boy! That his Spirit no longer may hover by day O'er the hut where his bones are at rest, Nor trouble our dreams in the night. My Boy I shall watch for the warriors return, And my soul will be sad Till the steps of thy coming I see. ERTHUSYO. To a FRIEND. When dark December holds his reign, With many a tempest in his train, Chacing our Summer sports away; When clouds abridge the scanty day, And the North-wind, plunderer keen, Hath spoil'd the forest of its green; Mine be the delightful art, To make these gloomy scenes impart Or dream of joys I cannot find, All Summer's fragrance to inhale, Whilst I o'er P- 's summits bold Anticipated journeys hold, Oft bidding to the mind's eye Each varied sweet that L rise supplies. Thus Fancy, in mine ear, repeating And lends her pinions to the hours! Hail! Fancy hail !-O sportive Queen Still, still thy charming tales pursue, Sweet Power, 'till Time shall prove them true! C. H. S. |