FALL OF TECUMSEH.

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, With a rudely-built tumulous o'er him;

roam,

To the war-blast indignantly tramping? Their mouths are all white, as if frosted

with foam,

The steel-bit impatiently champing.

Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein,
Conducting the free and the fearless.

A! see them rush forward, with wild disdain,
Through paths unfrequented and cheerless.

From the mountains had echoed the charge of death,
Announcing the chivalrous sally;

The savage was heard, with untrembling breath,
To pour his response to the valley.

One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard,
And nought but the war-whoop given ;

The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred,
As if by the lightning riven.

The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke,
The blood-stifled gasp of the dying,
Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke,
That upward went wildly flying.

In the mist that hung over the field of blood,
The chief of the horsemen contended;
His rowels were bathed in the purple flood,
That fast from his charger descended.

That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight,
But the rider repressed not his daring,

Till met by a savage, whose rank and might
Were shown by the plume he was wearing.

The moment was fearful; a mightier foe

Had ne'er swung a battle-axe o'er him;
But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow,
And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him.

O ne'er may the nations again be cursed
With conflict so dark and appalling !—
Foe grappled with foe, till the life blood burst
From their agonized bosoms in falling.
Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot
Where the hopes of the red man perished;
But the fame of the hero who fell shall not,
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished.

He fought, in defence of his kindred and king,
With a spirit most loving and loyal;
And long shall the Indian warrior sing
The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal.

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye,
In his arm slept the force of the thunder,
But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by,
And left the freed captive to wonder

sweeps

By the mound where his followers bore him,

THE ENGINEER'S STORY.

O, children, my trips are over,
The engineer needs rest;
My hand is shaky; I'm feeling

A tugging pain i' my breast;
But here, as the twilight gathers,
I'll tell you a tale of the road,
That'll ring in my head forever,
Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was dropping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" labored—
Climbing the top of the grade;
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,

Till we reached the upland's cress,

I held my watch to the lamplight—
Ten minutes behind the time!
Lost in the slackened motion

Of the up-grade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track,
So I touched the gauge of the boile
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,
Thirty an hour, or so,

The engine leaped like a demon,
Breathing a fiery glow;

But to me-ahold of the lever-
It seemed a child alway,
Trustful and always ready

My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding it steady that night,
And my eye on the track before us,
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,

Where a child of three or four,
As the up train passed, oft called me,
A playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle

As we swept around the curve,
When something asar in the shadow,
Struck fire through every nerve.

I sounded the brakes, and crashing
The reverse lever down in dismay,
Groaning to Heaven-eighty paces
Ahead was the child at its play!

One instant-one, awful and only,
The world flew round in my brain,
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead
To keep back the terrible pain:
The train I thought flying forever,
With mad irresistible roll,

While the cries of the dying, the night wind
Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine-
How I got there I never could tell—
My feet planted down on the crossbar,

Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,
One hand firmly locked on the coupler,

And one held out in the night,

While my eve gauged the distance, and measured
The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;
I saw the curls of her hair,

And the face that, turning in wonder,
Was lit by the deadly glare.

I know little more-but I heard it

The groan of the anguished wheels, And remember thinking—the engine In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! To the day of my dying

I shall think the old engine reared back, And as it recoiled, with a shudder

I swept my hand over the track;
Then darkness fell over my eyelids,
But I heard the surge of the train,
And the poor old engine creaking,
As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel,
My fingers enmeshed in her hair,
And she on my bosom a-climbing,
To nestle securely there.
We are not much given to crying-

We men that run on the road

But that night, they said, there were faces,
With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning
As I neared the cabin again,

My hand on the lever pressed downward
And slackened the speed of the train.
When my engine had blown her a greeting,
She always would come to the door;
And her look with a fullness of heaven
Blesses me evermore.

66

When little Hal, the captain's son,

A lad both brave and good,
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran,
And on the main truck stood!

A shudder shot through every vein-
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky;

No hold had he above, below;
Alone he stood in air :

To that far height none dared to go-
No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, but not a man could speak,
With horror all aghast-

In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue ;-

As riveted unto the spot,

Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck :-he gasped, "Oh, God; thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasped,

And aimed it at his son.
*Jump, far out, boy, into the wave!
Jump, or I fire," he said;

That only chance your life can save;
Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed.

He sunk-he rose-he lived-he moved
And for the ship struck out.

On board we hailed the lad belo...
With many a manly shout.
His father drew, in silent joy,

Those wet arms round his neck,
And folded to his heart his boy-
Then fainted on the deck.

"Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is dragged here from her home. On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight; The tyrant's creature, Marcus, asserts an owner's right, Oh, shame on Roman manhood! Was ever plot more clear?

But look! the maiden's father comes! Behold Vir ginius here!"

D Ironsides at anchor lay,

In the harbor of Mahon;

A dead calm rested on the bay-The waves to sleep had gone;

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide.

Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down

Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.

But of him who performed such a notable deed
'Quite little the journalist gives us to read.
In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold,
There is nothing except, in few syllables told,
His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew.
Away in Nevada-they don't tell us where,
Nor does it much matter-a railway is there,
Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines,
With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes-
Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread,
Now shooting past cliffs that impend o'er the head,
Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within,
Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din;
And ran every day with its train o'er the road,
An engine that steadily dragged on its load,

And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew.
With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train,
While the sparks fell around and behind him like
rain,

As he came to a spot where a curve to the right Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight,

And peering ahead with a far-seeing ken,

Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then.
Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire-
The further extreme of the tunnel on fire!
And the volume of smoke as it gathered and rolled,
Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold,

But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew.
Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still,
And his nerves felt a jar but no tremulous thrill;
And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly
closed lashes,

And his lips-not with fear-took the color of ashes.
"If we falter, these people behind us are dead!
So close the doors, fireman-we'll send her ahead!
Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings!
Open the throttle-valve! Give her her wings!"
Shouted he from his post in the engineer's room,
Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom,

This man they call Johnny Bartholomew.
Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath,
On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death,
On, on through that horrible cavern of hell,
Through flames that arose and through timbers that
fell,

Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and ire,

With a rush and a roar like a wild tempest's blast,
To the free air beyond them in safety they passed!
While the clang of the bell and the steam pipe's shrik
yell,

Told the joy at escape from that underground hell
Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew.

Did the passengers get up a service of plate?
Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate?
Women kiss him? Young children cling fast to his
knees?

Stot men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze?
And where was he born? Is he handsome? Has he
A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee?

Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short?
Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort,
And all that they give us about him to-day,
After telling the tale in a commonplace way,
Is the man's name is Johnny Bartholomew.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

THE FRENCH ARMY RETREATING FROM
MOSCOW.

AGNIFICENCE of ruin! what has time
In all it ever gazed upon of war,

Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime.
Seen, with that battle's vengeance to com

pare?

How glorious shone the invader's pomp afar! Like pampered lions from the spoil they came; The land before them silence and despair, The land behind them massacre and flame; Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they now? A name.

Homeward by hundred thousands, column-deep, Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the flood, When mighty torrents from their channels leap, Rushed through the land the haughty multitude, Billow on endless billow; on through wood, O'er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale, The death-devoted moved, to clangor rude Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of mail, Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam palɩ

Again they reached thee, Borodino ! still Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay, The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill, Friend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to clay; In vain the startled legions burst away; The land was all one naked sepulchre; The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay, Still did the hoof and wheel their passage tear, Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses mould ering drear.

GEORGE CROLY.

As the weaker gasped and fell
From the ladder to the well-
To the poisoned pit of hell
Down below!

"To the man who sets them free,"
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee-

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine.
"Brings them out and sets them free,
I will give that man," said he,
"Twice that sum, who with a rope
Face to face with death shall cope.
Let him come who dares to hope!"
"Hold your peace!" some one replied,
Standing by the foreman's side;

"There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!" Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw