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The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak and

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And laurel leaves entwine,

On haggard face and form that droop'd Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,

and fainted

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This spray of Western pine!



WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavor.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her, together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit;

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

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