Bright flash'd the teacher's languid eye, Flushed his pale cheek, with bright, tho' fleeting flame; Leap'd forth his voice with energetic cry, And thus, to me express'd, his thoughts they came.

"Inquirer, cease, thy words stir up the fire, That erst did fill my live and vig'rous brain; Thy words stir up the seeds of healthy ire, That still, with latent pow'r and force, remain.

"'Tis strange, thou think'st, that darkly on my brow The shadow of a careworn spirit stays; My youth, with springless step, doth make thee bow Thy head, in kindly wonder, and amaze.

"Thou would'st not look with such a puzzl'd air, Upon my weary pace, and heavy eye, If thou didst know the cause of my despair, The stem, substantial, solid reason why.

"Didst ever know, my friend, what I endure, In slavish, plodding work, from day to day, Which work should be in its own nature pure, And lifted high, from gross and heavy clay.

"Examinations, cram and pressure high, Are daily kept before my anxious mind; What tho' for higher aims I daily sigh, This is my work, and this my daily grind.

"I work, you say, on minds, and hearts, and souls, Alas, 'tis true, but what can e'er atone For dry, mechanic thought, and lifeless coals, Which light not up, but turn the intellect to stone?

"Work on! ye faithful, grinding and hair-splitting band, Work on, in slavish fear, and penitential pain, But daily pray, that thro' this young and prosp'rous land, A system, higher, purer, freer, yet shall reign.

"Yours shall not be the blame, the people must it bear, For, while they look for quick results, for hot-bed flow'rs, Amongst them, they the various ills must surely share, Of hasty fev'rish work, compell'd by outside pow'rs."

Thus spoke the man, and closed his lips became, The fire forsook his lately flashing eye, His nerves relax'd, and o'er his brow, the same Dark cloud of bitter woe, could I descry.

THE INDIAN.

When wooded hill, and gra.s.sy plain, With nature's beauties, gaily dress'd, Lay calm beneath the red man's reign, And smiling, in unconscious rest,

Then roam'd the forest's dusky son, In nature's wildness, proudly free, From where Missouri's waters run, Far north, to Hudson's icy sea.

From Labrador, bleak, lonely, wild, Where seal, 'mid icebergs, sportive play, Far westward wander'd nature's child, And wigwam built, near Georgia's Bay.

With bow of elm, or hick'ry strong, And arrow arm'd with flinty head, He drew with practis'd hand the thong, And quick and straight, the shaft it sped.

Full many a bounding deer or doe, Lay victims of his hand and eye, And many a s.h.a.ggy buffalo, In lifeless bulk did lowly lie.

The forest did his wants supply, Content he was with nature's scheme; For, fail'd the woods to satisfy, There came response from lake or stream.

His simple sh.e.l.l of birchen rind, Propell'd by skilful hands, and strong, Down cataracts and rivers pa.s.s'd, And over lakes, it went along.

With spears, from stone or iv'ry, wrought, Or hooks, ingenious made of bone, He stores from out the waters brought, Nor look'd for forest gifts, alone.

Contentment dwelt within his heart, And, from his dark and piercing eye His freedom showed, unbred of art, His honor look'd unconsciously.

Untaught by books, untrain'd by men, Vers'd in the thoughts of bard or sage, He yet had read from nature's hand, A book unwrit, yet wise its page.

One would have thought a man so bless'd And richly, too, with manly pow'rs, Had surely some far higher quest, Than living thus, in nature's bow'rs.

One would have thought, that when he knew The laws of G.o.d, and cultur'd men, His mind would take a n.o.bler view, And light pursue, with eager ken.

But such is not his happy state, Since light of knowledge round him shone; He still stands sadly at the gate, And few still go, where few have gone.

And whose the fault, and whose the blame, That thus his mind is still so dim, That wisdom's lamp, with shining flame.

Still gives so pale a light, for him.

Oh, thinking white man, look around, And, when you have discern'd the cause, Express yourself with certain sound, Concerning this poor forest child, Who left his father's hunting ground.

TO NOVA SCOTIA.

OH brothers, friends, down by the sea, We can thy voices hear, And painful is their tone, and free, Upon each brother's ear.

We hear each voice, pitch'd strong and high, And, could we see you now, Our hearts would heave another sigh, At each beclouded brow.

We hear thy voice, from day to day, In one long, doleful strain, Oh tell us why, oh brethren say Why sounds that voice of pain.

Are we not one, in race and creed, Rul'd by one gracious queen?

And we have all receiv'd our meed Of praise and pelf, I ween.

Why vex her now, who's rul'd so long Upon her virtuous throne?

Why sing her such a doleful song, And send her such a groan?

And why annoy that whiten'd head, Our land's adopted son, Who wisely drew love's slender thread, And wedded us in one.

And firmer yet he wish'd to bind Us to our country's weal, And see, plann'd by his master mind, One band of glitt'ring steel,

One shining track, which stretches far, From wild Columbia's sh.o.r.e, To where those doleful voices are, And the Atlantic's roar.

Oh brethren, friends down by the sea, With us your voices raise, Instead of groans, oh, shout with glee, With us, one shout of praise.

And trust him, brethren, trust us, too, Seek not from us to go; Our country's good is weal for you, And common, all our woe.

A SNOW STORM.

I hear the wintry wind again, I see the blinding snow, Pil'd high, by eddying winds, in heaps, No matter where I go.

The storm is raging hard, without; But let us not complain, For fiercely tho' it rages now, A calm will come again.

And, though the wildly raging storm Makes all things bleak and bare, Beside the fire we brave it well, And closer draw our chair.

In social fellowship, our hearts With kindly thoughts grow warm; Then is there not a pleasant side, E'en to a raging storm?

And when the angry storm has calm'd, As ev'ry storm must do, Then, sure, the tempest's handiwork, Has pleasant features, too.

An artist's eye would look around, Upon these calmer days, And view the pure white heaps of snow, With pleas'd and puzzl'd gaze.

Like purest marble, deftly carv'd, They stretch o'er vale and hill, Fair monuments, not made by man, But rear'd by nature's skill.

The sweeping curve, the graceful arch, The line so firm and free; A skilful sculptor well might say: "Can this teach aught to me?"