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When the summer harvest was gathered in,
He was a stranger there, and all that day
The winds of Autumn came over the woods,
The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
Then the hunter turned away from that scene,
THE INDIAN HUNTER.
The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
had passed on, by that still lake-side The fisher looked down through the silver tide, And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed, A skeleton wasted and white was laid, And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.
THE SONG AT TWILIGHT
When evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven; When not a murmur, not a sound,
To Fancy's sportive ear is given;
When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye; When Nature, softened by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie ;
Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give, 0, sister, sing the song I love,
And tears of gratitude receive.
The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And, hovering, trembles half afraid, O, sister, sing the song once more,
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.
"T were almost sacrilege to sing
Those notes amid the glare of day; Notes borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away.
When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Shouldst thou still linger here above, Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,
And, sister, sing the song I love ?