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Drink-drink-drink!

Till the brain begins to swim; Drink-drink-drink!

Till eyes are blood-shot and dim; Whilo all around is drear,

And the landlord refuses a drink Of burning, fiery rum, to cheer

The soul on perdition's brink.

Oh, talk not of Hell or Death !

I fear not that phantom of bone;
Ilis terrible shape but seems to me

A likeness of my own.
My life's but a living death;

Alas! I must reap what I've sown!
Oh, let me drink of the drunkard's cupla

In hell I must wear his crown:

Drink-drink-drink !

The appetite never flags;
What are its wages? Beds of straw-

Want-penury-and rags;
A rootless liouse-a naked floor;

No chairs nor tables are there ;--
A house that's a picture of woe and want,

With walls all blank and bare.

Drink-drink-drink!

And waste your precious time; Drink-drink-drink!

Though it lead to sin and crime. Al! never stop to think

Where your downward course will end; But laugh and quaff of the devil's drink,

If you do to liell descend !

Ye never can drown the voice

Of conscience, if you try,
By all the rum ever yet distilled;

Nor make God's truth a lie.
Oh, for an hour of youth !

Ere to drink I did begin ; When I loved religion, virtue, and truth,

And hated crime and sin.

Oh, moderate drinker, beware!

The snare of the mocker fly! Quick dash the poison chalice down, Ere the drunkard's death you die.

My fate is already sealed;

Repentance comes too late ;
Once there was time, but now, alas !

Tears cannot blot my fate.

Thus the inebriate sang,

And rocked on his chair to and fro;
Would that all could have leard him sing,

And the poison cup forego!
He gave a shriek, when his song was done,

And starting up with dread-
Back ! back ! ye liends! he wildly cried,

Then fell-his spirit had tled.

Oh, temperate drinker, beware!

He that is dead, we know,
Once felt as safe—and spoke as loud

'Gainst intemperance as you ; And yet-died, mad with drink,

Oh, who may his doom foretell, -
God gives us power to banish rum,
And save all from the drunkard's hell!

W. Hargreaves

THE MANIAC.

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe!

She is not mad who kneels to thee; For what I'm now too well I know,

And what I was, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair ;

My language shall be mild, though sad; But yet I firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad, I am not mad! My tyrant husband forged the tale

Which chains me in this dismal cell; My fate unknown my friends bewail,

( jailer, haste that fate to tell ! Oh, haste my father's heart to cheer !

His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad
To know, though kept a captive here,

I am not mad, I am not mad !
He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;

He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp still, still I see,

'Tis gone! and all is gloom again.

Cold, bitter cold !-No warmtlı ! no light.

Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,

Although not mad; no, no,-not mud !

'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,

What ! I, the child of rank and wealth, Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,

Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah! while I dwell on blessings thed,

Which nevermore my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head;

But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad!

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,

A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,

Nor round her neck how fast you clung; Nor how with her you sued to stay ;

Nor how that suit your sire forbado ; Nor how--I'll drive such thoughts away;

They'll make me mad; they'll make me mad!

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled !

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! None ever bore a lovelier child,

And art thou ifow forever gone ? And must I never see thee more,

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad? I will be free! unbar the door!

I am not inad; I am not mad!

Oh, hark ! what mean those yells and cries?

His chain some furious madman breaks ; He comes,--I see his glaring eyes;

Now, now, my dungeon-grate lie shakes. Help! Help!-He's gone !-Oh, fearful woe,

Such screams to lear, such sights to see! My brain, my brain,--I know, I know

I am not mad, but soon shall be.

THE INDIAN CHIEF TO THE WHITE SETTLER.

Think of the country for which the Indians fought! Who can blame them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope, that glorious eminence, that

“throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East, with richest band,
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,”-

as he looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, at a summer sunset, the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the slanting beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forest,-could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process, from beneath his control, into the hands of the stranger?

As the river chieftains--the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains—ranged this lovely, valley, can it be wondered at, if they beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's axe—the fishing-place disturbed by his saw-mills ? Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the Pocomtuck Indians, who should have ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain, (rising as it does before us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur,)in company with a friendly settler,-contemplating the progress already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness should fold his arms and say, “White man, est, these broad regions were purchased, for a few bau bles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew not what they did.

“ The stranger came, a timid suppliant,-few and feeble, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchments over the whole, and says, 'Ic is mine.'

“Stranger! there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots ? Shall I wander to the west, the fierce Mohavk,--the man-eater, -is my foe. Shall I fly to the e? Jú, the great water is before me.

No, stranger ; here I have lived, and here will I die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee.

“Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction ; for that alone I thank thee. And now 'izke heed to thy steps; the red man is thy foe. When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thes; when thou liest down by night, my knife is at thy tlioat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy, i nd the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; Thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalp

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