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Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward, and long after,
Listen for their harp-like laughter,
And carry in my heart for days
Peace that hallows rudest ways.


The sinking sun is taking leave,
And sweetly gilds the edge of eve,
While huddling clouds of purple dye
Gloomy hang the western sky;
Crows crowd croaking overhead,
Hastening to the woods to bed ;
Cooing sits the lonely dove,
Calling home her absent love;
From the hay-cock’s moistened heaps,
Startled frogs take vaulting leaps,
And along the shaven mead,
Jumping travellers, they proceed ;
Quick the dewy grass divides,
Moistening sweet their speckled sides.
From the grass or floweret's cup,
Quick the dew-drop bounces up.
Now the blue fog creeps along,
And the bird's forgot his song;
Flowers now sleep within their hoods
Daisies button into buds ;
From soiling dew the buttercup
Shuts his golden jewels up;
And the rose and woodbine, they
Wait again the smiles of May.



'Neath the willow's wavy boughs,
Dolly, singing, milks her cows;
While the brook, as bubbling by,
Joins in murmuring melody.
Swains to fold their sheep begin,
Dogs, loud barking, drive them in.
Hedgers now along the road
Homeward bend beneath their load;
And, from the long, furrowed seams,
Ploughmen loose their weary teams;
Ball, with urging lashes mealed,
Still so slow to drive afield,
Eager blundering from the plough,
Wants no whip to drive him now;
At the stable-door he stands,
Looking round for friendly hands
To loose the door its fastening pin,
And let him with his corn begin.
The night-wind now, with sooty wings,
In the cotter's chimney sings;
Now, as stretching o'er the bed,
Soft I raise my drowsy head,
Listening to the ushering charms
That shake the elm-tree's massy arms,
Till sweet slumbers stronger creep,
Deeper darkness stealing round;
Then, as rocked, I sink to sleep,
'Mid the wild winds' lulling sound.

TO THE RAINBOW.- Campbell.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art.



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Still seem as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach unfold

Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamed of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place

To cold, material laws !

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams

Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green, undeluged earth

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth

To watch thy sacred sign?

And when its yellow lustre smiled

O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,

To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang
On earth, delivered from the deep,

And the first poet sang.



Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

Unraptured greet thy beam ;
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme !

The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshened fields,

The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town;
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh as yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span;
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,

That first spoke peace to man.


LIKE the shadows in the stream,
Like the evanescent gleam
Of the twilight's failing blaze,
Like the fleeting years and days,
Like all things tha soon decay,
Pass the Indian tribes away.




Indian son and Indian sire!
Lo! the embers of your fire
On the wigwam hearth burn low,
Never to revive its glow!
And the Indian's heart is ailing,
And the Indian's blood is failing.
Now the hunter's bow 's unbent,
And his arrows all are spent!
Like a very little child
Is the red man of the wild ;
To his day there 'll dawn no morrow;
Therefore is he full of sorrow.

From his hills the stag is fled,
And the fallow deer are dead,
And the wild beasts of the chase
Are a lost and perished race;
And the birds have left the mountain,
And the fishes the clear fountain.


Indian woman, to thy breast
Closer let thy babe be pressed,
For thy garb is thin and old,
And the winter wind is cold;
On thy homeless head it dashes,
Round thee the grim lightning flashes.

We, the rightful lords of yore,
Are the rightful lords no more ;
Like the silver mist we fail,
Like the red leaves in the gale,
Fail like shadows, when the dawning
Waves the bright flag of the morning.

By the river's lonely marge
Rotting is the Indian barge;

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