While on the moss her lover said, "Alabama"-here we rest.

Peace trod the flower-dappled shades,
The spell-bound woods were calm,
Health shook the pale magnolia boles,
And every breeze was balm;

The light that kissed the earth was love,
The land the lakes caressed,

And happiness there whispered bliss,
"Alabama"-here we rest.

But a change came o'er their heaven,

Red grew their silver star,

The waves bore great ships from the East,

And bearded men of war;

With burnished guns and axes

Into the woods they pressed,

Death woke the sleeping ones, who breathed "Alabama"-here we rest.

The strangers waxed in numbers,

As the great waves when they run, And the forest fled before them,

As a mist before the sun!

And all the elements of earth

Obeyed their high behest,

And the wood-child trembled as he said,

"Alabama"-here we rest.

The blood of those who fought for home,
Soon fell like streaming rain,

Foes swept resistless, in their might,
As fire sweeps through the cane;
Full oft at night a crimson cloud
Hung on the wigwam's crest,
And forms lay dead that late had said.
"Alabama"-here we rest.

The very woods grew pale with fear,
Each wild bird hushed its lute;
No more was seen the spotted deer,
The wilderness was mute;
No more beneath magnolia snows
Breathed lovers, in their quest,
Or said, 'neath Cherokee's white rose,
"Alabama"-here we rest.

No more against the timid fawn
Was twanged the bended bow,
But to the head the arrow drawn,
To fly and pierce the foe;
But unseen messengers of doom,

Struck down the bright plumed crest, And stiff the tongue which erst had sung "Alabama"--here we rest.

The forest black did melt in light,

As darkness into day,

And red men vanished from the white,
As stars from morning's ray ;

The groves grew sad, the dark woods dumb,
In hollow heights suppressed,

No echo answered voices back-

66 Alabama "-here we rest.

But few were left, and they were forced
Afar away to roam;

Off where the sun goes down to sleep,
The wanderers sought a home;

But one by one they drooped and died,
On broad, lone prairies, west,

And at their shallow graves they sighed,
"Alabama"-here we rest.

One may be wandering still, perchance, 'Mid Alabama's groves,

And dreaming of his father's race,

Their friends, their homes, their loves.

Now turns his eyes to heaven,

And hears, in cloud-land, blest,

Their happy voices chanting,

"Alabama"-here we rest.

THE

MAIZE.

"That precious seed into the furrow cast,

Earliest in Spring-time, crowns the harvest last."

PHOEBE CAREY.

A SONG for the plant of my own native West,
Where nature and freedom reside,

By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest,
To the corn! the green corn of her pride!
In climes of the East has the olive been sung;
And the grape been the theme of their lays,
But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be strung,
Thou bright, ever-beautiful Maize !

Afar in the forest where rude cabins rise,

And send up their pillars of smoke,

And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies
O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak-