Shine on! shine on! with you I tread To me, to me, there comes no night. O, what concerns it him, whose way Or one more year of life has fled? Swift years, but teach me how to bear, And speed your courses as ye will. When life's meridian toils are done, That shines not here-on things below. But sorrow, sickness, death-the pain The fondness of a parent's care, The changeless trust that woman gives, The smile of childhood-it is there, That all we love in them still lives. Press onward through each varying hour; Let no weak fears thy course delay; Immortal being, feel thy power; Pursue thy bright and endless way. Saturday Afternoon.-N. P. WILLIS. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walked the world for fourscore years; And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, It is very true; it is very true; I'm old, and " I 'bide my time;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, Play on, play on; I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, Fall of Tecumseh.-NEW YORK STATESMAN. WHAT heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam, 'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain, From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, The savage was heard, with untrembling breath, One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard, The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred As if by the lightning riven. The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke, Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke, In the mist that hung over the field of blood, That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight, The moment was fearful; a nightier foe Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him; But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. O ne'er may the nations again be cursed Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye, Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps, The Missionaries' Farewell.-ANONYMOUS. LAND where the bones of our fathers are sleeping, Land of our fathers, in grief we forsake thee, God is thy God; thou shalt walk in His brightness; Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean: Dark are our hearts; but the fire of devotion Shall learn from our lips the glad song of salvation. Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows! *This highly intellectual savage, appropriately styled "king of the woods," was no less distinguished for his acts of humanity than heroism. He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the war of 1812-15. Mozart's Requiem.-Rurus DAWES. THE tongue of the vigilant clock tolled one, The shrouded moon looked out upon A cold, dank region, more cheerless and dun, Mozart now rose from a restless bed, Though long had he wooingly sought to wed He knelt to the God of his worship then, He was tall, the stranger who gazed on him, His cheek was pale, and his eye was dim, "Mozart, there is one whose errand I bear, Who cannot be known to thee; He grieves for a friend, and would have thee prepare A requiem, blending a mournful air With the sweetest melody.' "I'll furnish the requiem then," he cried, Mozart grew pale when the vision fled, He knew 'twas a messenger sent from the dead, |