The hoarse answer, "Relief," makes the shade of a grief
Die away, with the step on the sod.
A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer
Confide my beloved to God.
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
With a solemn pendulum-swing !
Though I slumber all night, the fire burns bright,
And my sentinels' scabbards ring.
"Boot and saddle!" is sounding. Our pulses are bounding.
"To horse!" and I touch with my heel
Black Gray in the flanks, and ride down the ranks,
With my heart, like my sabre, of steel.
Horace Binney Sargent.
INDIAN NAMES.
Ye say they all have passed away—
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave;
That, 'mid the forests where they roamed,
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters—
Ye may not wash it out.
'Tis where Ontario's billow,
Like ocean's surge is curled;
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their cone-like cabins,
That clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the Autumn's gale;
