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herself, and does not hesitate, when thereto constrained, to leave her father, and trust for protection to that respect which was awakened alike by her high birth and high character among the whole Indian race. It is certainly a remarkable combination which we see in her, of gentleness and sweetness with strength of mind, decision, and firm consistency of purpose, and would be so in any female, reared under the most favorable influences.

The lot of Pocahontas may be considered a happy one, notwithstanding the pang which her affectionate nature must have felt, in being called so early to part from her husband and child. It was her good fortune to be the instrument, in the hand of Providence, for bringing about a league of peace and amity between her own nation and the English - a consummation most agreeable to her taste and feelings. The many favors, which she bestowed upon the colonists, were by them gratefully acknowledged, and obtained for her a rich harvest of attentions in England. Her name and deeds have not been suffered to pass out of the minds of men, nor are they discerned only by the glimmering light of tradition. Captain Smith has repaid the vast debt of gratitude which he owed her, by the immortality which his eloquent and feeling pen has given her. Who has not heard the beautiful story of her heroism? and who, that has heard it, has not felt his heart throb quick with generous admiration? She has become one of the darlings of history, and her name is as familiar as a household word to the numerous and powerful descendants of the “ feeble folk” whom she protected and befriended.

Her own blood flows in the veins of many honorable families, who trace back with pride their descent from this daughter of a despised people. She has been a powerful, though silent, advocate in behalf of the race to which she belonged. Her deeds have covered a multitude of their sins, When disgusted with numerous recitals of their cruelty and treachery, and about to pass an unfavorable judgment in our minds upon the Indian character, at the thought of Pocahontas our rigor relents.” With a softened heart, we are ready to admit that there must have been fine elements in a people, from among whom such a being could spring.

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Plea for the Red Man. CHARLES SPRAGUE.
I VENERATE the Pilgrim's cause,

Yet for the Red Man dare to plead;
We bow to Heaven's recorded laws,

He turned to nature for a creed;
Beneath the pillared dome,

We seek our God in prayer ;
Through boundless woods he loved to roam,

And the Great Spirit worshipped there.
But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt;
To one divinity with us he knelt;

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Note to Teachers. — The above table is designed to exercise the voice upon the vowel elements. The class should occasionally utter them in concert, thus : à, å, å, å; é, é; &c. The words are placed opposite the letters merely to denote their sounds. This is a useful exercise, and should be often repeated.

The elementary sound of a vowel may be ascertained, by pronouncing a word containing it in a slow, drawling manner. Notice the sound of the vowel as it issues from the mouth, and then utter it by itself with great suddenness and force.

Freedom, the self-same freedom we adore,
Bade him defend his violated shore.

He saw the cloud, ordained to grow,
And burst upon his hills in woe;
He saw his people withering by,

Beneath th' invader's evil eye;
Strange feet were trampling on his father's bones ;

At midnight hour he woke to gaze

Upon his happy cabin's blaze,
And listen to his children's dying groans.

He saw, and, maddening at the sight,
Gave his bold bosom to the fight;
To tiger rage his soul was driven;
Mercy was not nor sought nor given;
The pale man from his lands must fly;
He would be free, or he would die.

And was this savage ? Say,

Ye ancient few,

Who struggled through
Young Freedom's trial day, -
What first your sleeping wrath awoke ?
On your own shores war's 'larum broke;
What turned to gall e'en kindred blood ?
Round your own homes th’ oppressor stood :
This every warm affection chilled ;
This every heart with vengeance thrilled,
And strengthened every hand;

From mound to mound

The word went round-
“ Death for our native land."

Ye mothers, too, breathe ye no sigh
For them who thus could dare to die?
Are all your own dark hours forgot,

Of soul-sick suffering here?

Your pangs, as from yon mountain spot,*
Death spoke in every booming shot

That knelled upon your ear ?
How oft that gloomy, glorious tale ye tell,

As round your knees your children's children hang, of them, the gallant ones, ye loved so well, Who to the conflict for their country sprang !

In pride, in all the pride of woe,
Ye tell of them, the brave laid low,

Who for their birthplace bled ;
In pride, the pride of triumph then,
Ye tell of them, the matchless men,

From whom th' invaders fled.

And ye, this holy place who throng,

The annual theme to hear, And bid th' exulting song

Sound their great names from year to year ;
Ye, who invoke the chisel's breathing grace,
In marble majesty their forms to trace;

Ye, who the sleeping rocks would raise
To guard their dust and speak their praise ;
Ye who, should some other band
With hostile foot defile the land,
Feel that ye, like them, would wake,
Like them the yoke of bondage break,

Nor leave a battle-blade undrawn,
Though every hill a sepulchre should yawn, -
Say, have not ye one line for those,

One brother-line to spare,
Who rose but as your fathers rose,

And dared as ye would dare?

Alas for them! their day is o'er ;
Their fires are out from hill and shore;

* Bunker Hill.

No more for them the wild deer bounds;
The plough is on their hunting-grounds;
The pale man's axe rings through their woods;
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods;

Their pleasant springs are dry;
Their children - look! by power oppressed,
Beyond the mountains of the west,

Their children go — to die.

O, doubly lost! Oblivion's shadows close
Around their triumphs and their woes.
On other realms, whose suns have set,
Reflected radiance lingers yet;
There sage and bard have shed a light
That never shall go down in night;
There time-crowned columns stand on high,

To tell of them who cannot die;
E’en we, who then were nothing, kneel,
In homage there, and join earth’s general peal.
But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace,
To save his own, or serve another race;
With his frail breath his power has passed away;
His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay;

Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page,
Shall link him to a future age,

Or give him with the past a rank;
His heraldry is but a broken bow,
His history but a tale of wrong and woe;

His very name must be a blank.

Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps ;

O’er him no filial spirit weeps ; No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend, To bless his coming and embalm his end; E'en that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue; By foes alone his death-song must be sung;

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