Then give him, in his full and perfect worth,
To serve the land that smiled upon his birth.

Such woman is—and shall proud man forbear,
The converse of the mind with her to share ?
No! she with him shall knowledge' pages scan,
And be the partner, not the toy, of man !
When smit with angry fortune's adverse gale,
E'en his stern spirit seems at length to quail-
When all his hopes are wreck’d, his health has flown,
And strangers claim the land he calls his own :
When friends who flatter'd 'neath the summer sky,
With brow estranged, his alter'd fortunes fly,
Then, woman, it is thine, with changeless heart,
In all his wretchedness to bear a part:
To quit the scenes thy smiles could once illume,
And sink with him to poverty and gloom ;
To soothe his sorrows, calm his aching head,
And hang in speechless fondness o'er his bed,
His woes, his wants, his sufferings to share,
Thine alter'd lot without one plaint to bear;
To lock thy silent sorrows in thy breast,
And smile, as thou wert wont, in days more blest ;
His steps to follow to earth's farthest verge,
O'er icy mount, or ocean's foaming surge;
With hopes of better days his heart to cheer,
And with thy smile, to shed the first fond tear.
Such changeless faith is woman's constant still,
Through each reversing scene of good and ill.
When man is crush'd by storms that o'er him roll,
Then rises woman's timid, shrinking soul:
Pain, peril, want, she fearlessly will bear,
To dash from man the cup of dark despair ;
And only asks for all her tireless zeal,
To share his fate—whate'er he feels, to feel-
To breathe in his fond arms her latest breath,
And murmur out the loved one's name in death.

THE INDIAN MOTHER TO HER SON.

Thy foot is on thy father's grave,
Thine

eye is on thy father's foes,
Here sleeps what once was free and brave!

There, last his war-whoop yell arose ! And where thy sire's last deed was done, There first thine arm shall wake, my son.

Thou see'st this flower—thy father's heart

Hath nourish'd up its early bloom; And thou, to me, hast been a part

Of life, and hope, through years of gloom.The flowret's stem is rent--and thou Must tear thee from thy mother now.

Ay, hie thee forth—the red man's yell,

To-night, shall break our foemen's sleep; And shrieks, and flames, and blood, shall tell,

How Indian hearts their vengeance keep!
How Indian sons in memory nurse
Their dying sires' revengeful curse.

Yon evening wreath of fleecy smoke

Curls gently up against the sky,But once through darker volumes broke

The midnight flame, the mother's cry! And there again the day-beam's smile, Shall view a black deserted pile.

The morning of thy life was there

Where white man's foot now blights the soil ; And there return'd from chase or war,

Thy sire was wont to share his spoilRevenge his death! I charge thee, boy

And win the warrior's noble joy.

THE INDIAN CAMP.

I stood amidst its solitude! where erst

The mighty of the desert dwelt, ere yet The thunder-cloud of desolation burst

In darkness o'er them; ere their sun had set, And pale-faced strangers from the ocean's strand, Had look’d with evil eye across their fathers' land.

When, like the wild-deer of their own dark woods,

They trod with bounding steps its gloomy maze Fearless and free; or stemm’d the rushing flood

In light canoe; and pausing but to raise Their whoop of terror, rush'd to distant war, With breast and brow still mark'd with many a former scar.

Methinks I see them now, as evening came,

Returning homeward from the lengthen'd chase,
The haughty fierceness of their brows grown tame,

And round their necks fond childhood's soft embrace;
While lips of age their simple welcome spoke,
And silent smiles of love in gentle eyes awoke.

But there was left no relic of them there,

Save that tradition told of one lone spot, Where they had long been sepulchred; it bore

No stone, no monument, that they might not Be all forgotten; but the forest bough, In aged strength bent down above each mouldering brow.

The gushing stream beside whose limpid waves

They oft had Aung them when the chase was o'er, Or paused amid its hurrying course to lave

Their thirsty lips, and heated brows, of yore, Still rushes nigh them with its shining waves, But pours them only round their silent graves.

ESSAYS

PHIL ANTHROPIC AND MOR A L.

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