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By night, alas, that fearful night!
How sinks my heart the tale to tell!
All, all was gone, that morning light

Saw blooming there so passing well:
Those cluster'd flowers, o'er all their pride
A thousand furious steps had trod,
And many a brave heart's ebbing tide
For pearly dew-drops stained the sod.

But hark! that sound you scarce may hear,
Amidst the dry leaves scatter'd there, -
Is it the wild-wolf's step of fear?

Or fell snake, stealing to his lair?

Ah me, it is the wild-wolf's heart,

With more than wolfish vengeance warm, –

Ah me, it is the serpent's art

Incarnate in the human form!

And now 'tis still! No sound to wake

The primal forest's awful shade,
And breathless lies the covert brake,
Where many an ambush'd form is laid:

I see the red-man's gleaming eye,

Yet all so hush'd the gloom profound,
The summer birds flit heedless by,
And mocking nature smiles around.

Yet hark, again! a merry note

Comes pealing up the quiet stream; And nearer still the echoes float,

The rolling drum, - the fife's loud scream! Yet careless was their march, the while,—

They deem no danger hovering near,

And oft the weary way beguile

With sportive laugh and friendly jeer.

Pride of their wild, romantic land,

In the first flush of manhood's day,
It was a bright and gallant band,

Which trod that morn the venturous way.
Long was the toilsome march,— and now
They pause along the shelter'd tide,
And pluck from many a cluster'd bough
The wild-fruits by the pathway side.

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Burst from the wild-wood depths, were here! The flame, the shot, - the deadly gasp,

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The shout, the shriek, -the panting breath,

The struggle of that fearful clasp,

When man meets man for life or death!

All, all were here! No manlier forms

Than theirs, the young, the brave, the fair,— No bolder hearts life's current warms

Than those that poured it nobly there!

In the dim forest's deep recess,

From hope, from friends, from succour far, Fresh from home's smile and dear caress, They stood to dare the unequal war!

Ah, gallant few! No generous foe

Had met you by that crimson'd tide;

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Vain even despair's resistless blow,

As brave men do and die, - they died!
Yet not in vain, — a cry, that shook

The inmost forest's desert glooms,
Swelled o'er their graves, until it broke
In storm around the red-man's homes!

But beating hearts, far, far away,

Broke, at their story's fearful truth,-
And maidens sweet, for many a day,

Wept o'er the vanish'd dreams of youth:
By the blue distant ocean-tide,

Wept, years, long years, to hear them tell, How by the forest's lonely side

The FLOWER OF ESSEX fell!

And that sweet nameless stream, whose flood,
Grew dark with battle's ruddy stain,
Threw off the tinge of murder's blood

And flowed as bright and pure again:
But that wild day, its hour of fame,—
Stamped deep its history's crimson tears,
'Till BLOODY BROOK became a name

To stir the hearts of after years!

THE YANKEE GIRL.

BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

EVERY land has its own "beau ideal of woman, and its own ladies have been bepraised in certain good set terms, with which everybody the least read in polite literature is perfectly acquainted. Who has not heard of the noble bearing, the beauty and domestic virtue of the dames of England? Of the sprightliness, grace and fascination of the ladies of France? How have the light footstep of Spain, the melting eye of Italy been said and sung. And to this florist's feast of nations, may not the plain old farmer, New England, come, spade in hand, and bring the flower of his own land? Let the English lady be enthroned as the lily,—the French, the ever bright and varying tulip, the Spanish and Italian, the full moss rose: the richest and most voluptuous of flowers. The Yankee girl is the rose laurel, whose blossoms no garden flower ever excelled in rosy delicacy and gracefulness of form, but whose root asks neither garden-bed nor gardener's care, but will take for itself strong hold where there is a handful of earth in the cleft of a rock, whose polished leaf shakes green and cheerful over the snows of the keenest winter. In her you shall find the union of womanly delicacy and refinement with manly energy and decision, womanly ingenuity and versatility in contrivance, with manly promptness and efficiency in execution.

While some ladies found their claim to interest on a delicate ignorance and inability as to all the practical parts of life, the only fear of the New England girl is that there should be anything that woman ever did, which she cannot do, and has not done a little better than ever it was done before. Born of frugal parents, who, with any other habits would be poor, she learns early to make energy and ingenuity supply the place of wealth. Born in a land where all are equal, no princess could surpass her in the feeling of self-respect. Born where the universal impulse of all is to rise, there is nothing in the way of knowledge and accomplishment, which she does not hope some day to acquire, and even without any advantages of culture, womanly tact, quickness of mind, and lady-like self-possession, add the charm of grace to her beauty. Now if you wish to find this lady of our fancy you must not look for her in our cities, where all the young ladies speak French, play on the piano, and are taught to be as much like one another as their bonnets. If you wish to investigate the flowers of a country, you do not look for them under the shade of damask curtains, in the windows of drawing rooms, but seek them, as they grow free and individual at the roots of old mossy trees, and in the clefts of overhanging ledges of rocks, or forming eye-lashes to the thousand bright eyes of merry brooks. So if you would see this Yankee girl as she is, take a flight up with us, up-up-not to the skies, but to the north of New Hampshire. Alight with us now in this cosy little nook, where the retiring mountains have left space for cultivation, and hard hands have been found to improve it. There, on the green breasted turf, have been dropped

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