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my son



to the battle my Boy!

Dear child of
There is strength in thine arm, there is hope in thy heart,

Thou art ripe for the labours of war.
Thy Sire was a stripling like thee

When he went to the first of his fields.
He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd,

Before him his trophies were borne,
These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the Rain

Have rusted their raven locks.
Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived

The day of the warriors reward,
When the banners sun-beaming were spread,
And all hearts were dancing in joy
To the sound of the victory drum.

The Heroes were met to receive their reward,
But distinguish'd among the young Heroes that day,
The pride of his nation thy Father was seen :

The swan-feathers hung from his neck
His face like the rainbow was tinged,

And his eye-how it sparkled in pride !
The Elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow

The crown that his valour had won,

And they gave hiin the old honour'd name. They reported the deeds he had done in the war,

And the youth of the nation were told
To respect him, and tread in his path.

My Boy! I have seen, and with hope,
The courage that rose in thine

When I told thee the tale of his death.
His war-pole now is grey with moss,
His tomahawk red with rust,
His bow-string whose twang was deatla
Now sings as it cuts the wind,
But his memory is fresh in the land
And his name with the names that we love,

Go now and revenge him my Boy! That his Spirit no longer may hover by day

O'er the hut where his bones are at rest,

Nor trouble our dreams in the night.
My Boy I shall watch for the warriors return,

And my soul will be sad
Till the steps of thy coming I see.



When dark December holds his reign,
With many a tempest in his train,
Chacing our Summer sports away ;
When clouds abridge the scanty day,
And the North-wind, plunderer keen,
Hath spoil'd the forest of its green ;
Mine be the delightful art,
To make these gloomy scenes impart
Pensive pleasure to the mind,
Or dream of joys I cannot find,
And, flapt by Winter's chilling wing,
To revel in ideal Spring :
All Summer's fragrance to inhale,
And seem to catch the sea-born gale,
Whilst I o'er P-'s summits bold
Anticipated journeys hold,
Oft bidding to the mind's eye rise
Each yaried sweet that --- supplies.

Thus Fancy, in mine ear, repeating
Of absent friends the cordial greeting,
Destined by Heaven, perhaps once more,
To meet upon the much-lov'd shore ;
Bids the sage Winter's self be gay,
Adorns Him, like the youthful May,
With all her visionary flowers,
And lends her pinions to the hours !

Hail! Fancy hail !- sportive Queen
With Thee let Hope be ever seen,
And disposses the despot Spleen:
Instruct me with thy chymic skill
To extract a good from every il] ;
For me thy magic wand employ,
Which all its touches, turns to joy !
May thy bright visions as they rise,
Be ripen'd to realities!
Still, still thy charming tales pursue,
Sweet Power, 'till Time shall prove them true !

C. H, S.

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