150 THE SHOWER. All things of earth-the grateful things! They hear the sound of the warning burst, It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain! It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers It hath kissed the tomb of the lily pale, And it bears their life on its living wings- And, yet, it comes! the lightning's flash With a distant roar, and a nearer crash, It comes, with the rush of a god's descent With a rush, as of a thousand steeds, His heavy tread-it is lighter now— And yet it passeth on; And now it is up, with a sudden lift,- The pleasant rain hath gone. HIS CAPTORS TO ANDRE. The pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain! And the happy earth gives back her smiles, As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart, So came the good of the pleasant rain, It shall breathe this truth on the human ear, That to bring the gift of a bounteous heaven HIS CAPTORS TO ANDRE. BY J. W. MILLER. Look on us, Briton! readest thou Aught base or craven here? On these swart lips and toil-worn brows Look, man of courts, for knowest thou not Rude arms and peasant-vest Are lightnings in a patriot's grasp, Proof-mail upon his breast? 151 152 HIS CAPTORS TO ANDRE. Go to! we would not wrong the truth That broad, pale forehead's lift of pride Nor hope thou thus by prayer or threat Within our souls there is a voice Within our eyes a fire— Leaving to pity's moan no ear, No glance to low desire: Our country's wrong-our country's hope- We may but read that lightning scroll- We may but meet thee as a foe Lead thee but as a slave Startest thou? yet that proud form may bow FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR. 153 To fill a felon's grave! Go thou with us-our last resolve Perchance thy doom-is toldThinkest thou to buy a patriot's soul! Briton! put up thy gold! FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR. BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. A MIGHTY form lay stretched and cold Beside his last retreat, The spear was in his mantle's fold, The quiver at his feet; Grave, hoary men with stifled moan Moved on sedate and slow, Strange sight!-amid that funeral train With arching neck and curling mane, But when the wail grew wild and loud, His fiery nostril spread, As though he heard the war-whoop proud 154 FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR. 'Steed of the winds!-thy lord doth roam Where no pale tyrant's eye shall come His hunting spear in lightning gleams, He must not at the chase be late, Haste! Haste!'-the death-shot seals his fate, One leap,-one groan,—and all was hushed.He bowed his noble head, And free the deep, red streamlet gushed To lave his master's bed. Sad groups to guard their chieftain's clay While low a weeping mourner lay With dark, dishevelled hair. Full oft her widowed cry, Goes forth upon the stilly night, "Why warrior,-didst thou die ?' |