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He heard a footstep, at his door
One enter'd, one well known before,
Of firm, unfailing friendship proved
In times that faithless hearts had moved.
Then Logan mann'd himself to bear
All he might hear with unmoved air.
'With thee be peace!' the chieftain said,
His friend the greeting fair repaid.
Logan look'd keenly in his face,
As if he sought his thoughts to trace.
-Vainly; all there was cold and still
As midnight on the ice bound rill.
A moment's pause, then calm and brief
The visitant address'd the chief.
'Logan, I bring thee tidings dread,
The storm of war above thy head
Has burst, and thou art left alone,
For to the land of souls are gone
Thy children and thy wife,'-
The flash that wakes the tempest's roar,
Bursting around the wanderer's head
With sheeted flames and thunder dread,
Scarcely each shrinking sense confounds,
As Logan's now these dreadful sounds.
As one upon a rugged steep,

-no more.

High beetling o'er the roaring deep,
Supported by some slender vine

Whose tendrils round the rocks entwine,

Feels when it breaks, and far beneath
He plunges living into death,

So Logan felt, his mind was toss'd,

In chaos and confusion lost,

His brain whirl'd dizzily, and sight,

And sense, and thought were banish'd quite. All hope was reft, and far below

Roll'd the deep gulf of rayless wo.

Joys that had been, and those that he

Had fondly thought in time should be,
-All he had lost, together came
Bursting upon his mind like flame,

With the dread sense that nought could save
Or rush between them and the grave.
-T was but an instant; like the light
Of meteor darting through the night,
So swiftly that the gazer's eye
Scarce marks it as it passes by,

Vanish'd that tempest of the soul,
Which then resumed its self-control,
Struggling each outward sign to hide
Of softness that might shame his pride,
And stain his lofty, warrior fame
With weakness of unmanly name.

"T is well,' he said and paused,—the tone
Firm and majestic was his own;

His tearless eye was calm and bright,
His dark lip show'd no tinge of white,
And his whole mien was self possess'd
As if no passion stirr'd his breast.

LEVI FRISBIE

Was born at Ipswich, Massachusetts, in 1784. He was the son of a clegyman of that place. He was graduated at Cambridge in 1802, and began the study of law, but was obliged to desist by a disorder of his eyes. In 1805, he was appointed Latin Tutor in Harvard University. In 1811, he became Professor of Latin, and in 1817, Professor of Moral Philosophy. This last office he retained till his death, July 9th, 1822. He never recovered his sight, and in the latter part of his life, wrote by means of a machine. A collection of his miscellaneous works, with a biographical sketch by Professor Norton, was published in Boston the year after his death. It contains a few pieces in verse.

MORNING HYMN.

WHILE nature welcomes in the day,
My heart its earliest vows would pay
To Him whose care hath kindly kept
My life from danger while I slept.

His genial rays the sun renews;

How bright the scene with glittering dews!

The blushing flowers more beauteous bloom, And breathe more rich their sweet perfume.

So may the Sun of righteousness
With kindliest beams my bosom bless,
Warm into life each heavenly seed,
To bud and bear some generous deed.

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Wilt Thou this day my footsteps guide,
And kindly all I need provide,
With strength divine my bosom arm
Against temptation's powerful charm.

Where'er I am, oh may I feel
That God is all around me still,
That all I say, or do, or mean;
By his all-searching eye is seen.

Oh may each day my heart improve,
Increase my faith, my hope, my love,
And thus its shades around me close
More wise and holy than I rose.

EVENING HYMN.

My soul, a hymn of evening praise
To God, thy kind preserver, raise,
Whose hand this day hath guarded, fed,
And thousand blessings round me shed.

Forgive my sins this day, Oh Lord,
In thought or feeling, deed or word;
And if in aught thy law I've kept,
My feeble efforts Lord accept.

While nature round is hush'd to rest,
Let no vain thought disturb my breast;
Shed o'er my soul religion's power,
Serenely solemn as the hour.

Oh bid thy angels o'er me keep
Their watch to shield me while I sleep,
Till the fresh morn shall round me break,
Then with new vigor may I wake.

Yet think, my soul, another day
Of thy short course has roll'd away;
Ah think how soon in deepening shade
Thy day of life itself shall fade.

How soon death's sleep my eyes must close
Lock every sense in dread repose,

And lay me 'mid the awful gloom
And solemn silence of the tomb.

This very night, Lord, should it be,
Oh may my soul repose in thee,
Till the glad morn in heaven shall rise,
Then wake to triumph in the skies.

DREAM. TO ***

STAY, stay, sweet vision, do not leave me Soft sleep, still o'er my senses reign; Stay, loveliest phantom, still deceive me; Ah! let me dream that dream again.

Thy head was on my shoulder leaning;
Thy hand in mine was gently prest;
Thine eyes so soft and full of meaning,
Were bent on me and I was blest.

No word was spoken, all was feeling,
The silent transport of the heart;
The tear that o'er my cheek was stealing;
Told what words could ne'er impart.

And could this be but mere illusion?
Could fancy all so real seem?

Here fancy's scenes are wild confusion-
And can it be I did but dream.

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I'm sure I felt thy forehead pressing,
Thy very breath stole o'er my cheek,
I'm sure I saw those eyes confessing
What the tongue could never speak.

Ah! no, 't is gone, 't is

gone,

and never

Mine such waking bliss can be ;
Oh I would sleep, would sleep for ever,
Could I thus but dream of thee.

MRS LITTLE,

OF Boston. She is the daughter of the Hon. Ashur Robbins, of Massachusetts. She has made her writings acceptable to the public under the signature of Rowena. The piece we have selected possesses great merit, and shows both taste and talent.

THANKSGIVING.

It is thanksgiving morn-'t is cold and clear;
The bells for church ring forth a merry sound;
The maidens, in their gaudy winter gear,
Rival the many-tinted woods around;
The rosy children skip along the ground,
Save where the matron reins their eager pace,
Pointing to him who with a look profound
Moves with his 'people' toward the sacred place
Where duly he bestows the manna crumbs of grace.

Of the deep learning in the schools of yore
The reverend pastor hath a golden stock:
Yet, with a vain display of useless lore,
Or sapless doctrine, never will he mock
The better cravings of his simple flock;
But faithfully their humble shepherd guides
Where streams eternal gush from Calvary's rock;
For well he knows, not learning's purest tides

Can quench the immortal thirst that in the soul abides.

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