He breathed for them. "Yes, grateful men," he said,
"Time has not from your memory yet erased
The elm-tree treaty." Silence reign'd once more—
And like the morning mist the scene dissolved,
And disappear'd. I waked!-'t was darkness all
The rain beat heavily, rough blew the blast,
And all was silence, solitude, and night!

A NEW YEAR'S GREETING,

TO A CIRCLE OF FRIENDS.

A KINDLY greeting to you all—
To all an opening year of gladness;
May never sorrow round you fall

More dark than evening's twilight sadness.

The wintry blast may whistle shrill,

And clouds may dim the face of heaven;
But Friendship's wreath shall blossom still,
On this our gladsome New-Year's even.

While lips and hearts are smiling thus,
And hands are fondly clasp'd together,
Oh what are cloudy skies to us,

Or fortune's bright or sunny weather?

We may not meet, to hail again

Another year with hearts of lightness;
Some beating pulse may rest ere then,
Some eye have lost its wonted brightness.

We may have met, perchance-alas !
To mingle hearts and then be parted;
Or some dark blight may o'er us pass,
And leave us lone and broken-hearted.

But let the future smile, or frown,

The wing of hope is waving o'er us;

One gem of bliss is still our own,

And one bright rose of joy before us.

Then may the rose be cherish'd well-
The sparkling gem be sullied never—
And parted Friendship's only knell,

Be when our hearts are still'd forever.

TO A PARTICULAR FRIEND.

"We took sweet counsel together, we went to the house of the Lord in company.". -PSALMS.

WE'VE sat beside the forest stream,

And watch'd the bright wave rippling by,
Now flashing back the summer beam,
Then dark'ning like a half-shut eye,
As whispering to the joyous breeze,
Down closer bent the shadowing trees.

Thy hand was clasp'd in mine, my friend,
And heart to heart was answering then;
Although, perchance, our tones might send
No echo down the rocky glen-

Or if we spoke, 't was language fraught
With all the others' voiceless thought.

Oh! it was sweet to linger there,

Beneath a sky so purely blue,

And breathe the gather'd sweets, the air

Had stolen from flowers it wander'd through—
How could there come a thought of ill

Amidst a scene so calm and still!

But yet, a holier chord than this,

Around our breasts its power hath twined;
And though, perchance, those hours of bliss
May fade, like moonlight, from the mind,
Can love aside be careless cast,
O'er which the breath of prayer hath past?

Oh, no! and though not oft we meet,

Within the house of worship now,

The hours may come, less calm and sweet
Than those beneath the greenwood bough;
Those hearts may ne'er be wholly riven,
Which side by side have bow'd to Heaven.

WHERE ARE THEY?

"I came to the halls of my fathers, and asked, "Where are they?" and the echoes answered "where."

WHERE are they? where! they all are gone,
Whose smiles were wont to answer mine,

When in the hours that long have flown,
These halls were fond affection's shrine?

Gray moss is on the smooth flag-stone,
That once was worn with bounding feet,
When eyes, now dim, all brightly shone,
And minstrel's song resounded sweet.

The harp still decks the mouldering walls,
With all its tuneful chords unstrung,
And silent are the echoing halls,

Where oft the merry laugh has rung.

Where now are all the lips and eyes,

Whose smiles once cheer'd my native bower?
And where are those whose parting sighs,
I've treasured many a weary hour?

There many a cheek was wet with tears,
And choking voices sigh'd adieu,
But now no friendly form appears,

Of all the wanderer's childhood knew.

I called, Where are they? but in vain―
There was no friend to greet me there—
The harp's last chord then burst in twain,
And echo only answer'd " Where?"

[The piece below, was written upon the perusal of an article in a newspaper, announcing the Decree issued by the Executive of the Republic of Mexico, totally abolishing the system of Slavery within its limits, on the anniversary of National Independence, in the year 1829.]

EMANCIPATION.

GLADNESS in Mexico! A pealing shout,
From franchised men, goes proudly o'er her hills;
And the rich hymn is swelling up to Heaven,
Bearing the full heart's gratitude. No more
The wild bird springing upward from its nest,
Or the free waters in their gushing glee,
Seem taunting man that they are masterless,
While his proud thoughts and swelling pulse are crush'd
Beneath vile bonds. No more at eventide,
The serf stalks gloomily to seek a home,
He scarce can call his own; or goes at dawn
Unwillingly to toil :-the heavy spell,

That 'numb'd his veins with leaden sluggishness,
Hath lost its power; and now, his glad limbs bound
Across the glorious earth, as though they were
Nought but an essence. Hear ye not the voice
Of his wild carol pour'd upon the air,

As like the woodland bird "with folded wing
He drops into his nest"-or goes at morn,
With light and eager spirit to the toil

From which no hand withholds the just reward!
Oh, it is sweet to wear a heart, whose throbs
Are stifled by no fetters-and an eye

That quails not to the mightiest! But the soul

*

Of him whose hand hath wrench'd the bonds of thrall
From the sad bosoms that beneath them pined,
Hath yet a higher joy !—and there is one,*
Whose name the grateful Mexican shall teach
His son to lisp, ere yet his infant lip

Hath learn'd to murmur, father.

But our land!—

The curse is on it still!-the slave-fiend stalks

* Guerrero.

Amidst our pleasant valleys and green hills;
A tyrant to the tyrants he has made;

Muttering fierce threats, and crowding on their hearts
Visions and shapes of terror, like the wild

And elfish faces that look forth at eve,

On wilder'd travellers, 'midst the cheating shades,
And gibe and chatter at the fears they raise.

So men go crouching to the demon power,
Scarce daring e'en to syllable his name,
Lest they should waken up his smother'd rage;
And offering human victims at his shrine,
Instead of nobly standing forth, like men,
To drive him yelling from the glorious earth,
That he pollutes and blackens with his tread.

Whom call ye slaves? Are not the cravens such,
Who dare not act with justice?—Men who prate
In sweet smooth sentences, of christian love,
And with much sympathy, lament the fate

Of those from whose swoll'n limbs they will not strike
One single link, in all their weight of chains?
Strange that the high capacities of mind,
Should be so blinded by the gleam of gold-
Till even the soul itself is valued less,
Than" so much trash as may be grasped thus."

THE CHEROKEE.

GAZE on this landscape! once in fleet career,
The desert chieftain trod exulting here!
Cleft with light bark the still and shaded floods,
Pierced the recesses of the old gray woods;
Pour'd 'midst their hidden dells his wild halloo,
And the light shaft with aim unerring threw.

Proud was his spirit, fierce, untamed and free,
Scorning to crouch to pain, from death to flee,
With feelings suited to his savage state,
Faithful alike to friendship or to hate,
Seeking no meed beyond a warrior's fame,
And fearing nought except a coward's shame.