"Thou wert the noblest king And thou didst wear in knightly ring, And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, "Thou that my boyhood's guide How will that sad still face of thine Felicia Ilemans THE BIBLE IN HARMONY WITH TEMPERANCE. AND does that blessed Book of books, which none To poisonous alcoholic wines? And Can the Christian plead a Bible charter Where danger lurks at every step? Hath be Of nature's splendid scenery can boast? Can it be thought that He, whose boundless love The mighty undertaking-can it be That He approves the use of that which tends To spoil the powers of darkness, death, and hell, A prostrate, helpless, dying, rebel world— A signature divine upon that cup Which, as a mocker sparkles to deceive? When first He showed his wonder-working arm, And seal'd with blood the cov'nant of his grace- With lust-inspiring wine? Did He command His dying passion and undying love, By drinking at his sacred board of that Which, as a second curse, since the old flood, Has spread a tide of moral pestilence O'er all the earth,-'neath whose corrupting stream PROPHET and PRIEST and SAINT, have sunk o'erwhelm'd, And with unnumbered millions found, alas! Perdition's deepest, darkest, direst hell? Nay, Christian! startle not; no skeptic's sneer, Or scowl of infidel, or jest profane, Is couch'd beneath the queries now proposed We take with firm confiding trust and love The God of Heaven and earth, and lowly bow And cling with faith and love to Jesus' cross, The stain, which infidels would be well pleased to view THE AMERICAN INDIAN. Nor many generations ago, where you now sit, circled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and helpless, the council fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky shores. Here they warred; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying death-song, all were here; and when the tiger strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace. Here, too, they worshiped; and from many a dark bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of the universe he acknowledged in every thing around. He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind his lonely dwelling; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his mid-day throne; in the flower that snapped in the morning breeze; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirlwinds; in the timid warbler that never left its native grove; in the fearless eagle whose untired pinion was wet in clouds; in the worm that crawled at his feet; and in his own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that Light, to whose mysterious source he bent, in humble, though blind adoration. And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The former were sown for you; the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the character of a great continent, and blotted forever from its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of nature, and the children of educa tion have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. Here and there a stricken few remain; but how unlike their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors! The Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing, the theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone! and his degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked. in majesty, to remind us how miserable is man when the foot of the conqueror is on his neck. As a race, they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the untrodden West. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them forever. Charles Sprague. BETSY AND I ARE OUT. From "The Toledo Blade." DRAW up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout, "What is the matter," says you? I swan! it's hard to tell! So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me; There was a stock of temper we both had, for a start; The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed, Was somethin' concerning heaven-a difference in our creed; And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow; I held my opinion, and Betsy another had; And when we were done a talkin', we both of us was mad. And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way; And there have been days together-and many a weary week— When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak; And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the summer and fall, If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all. And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me; Write on the paper, lawyer-the very first paragraph- Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam, There's a little hard money besides, that's drawin' tol'rable pay, |