lieve that there will come forth from her quiet farmhouses, strength to defend her liberties, and virtue to preserve them.

AGRICULTURE.

Saw you the farmer at his plough,
As you were passing by?
Or wearied 'neath his noon-day toil
When summer suns were high?

And thought you that his lot was hard?
And did you thank your God

That you and yours were not condemn'd
Thus like a slave to plod?

Come, see him at his harvest-home,
When garden, field, and tree,
Conspire, with flowing stores to fill
His barn and granary.

His healthful children gaily sport
Amid the new-mown hay,
Or gladly aid, with vigorous arm,
His task as best they may.

The dog partakes his master's joy,
And guards the loaded wain,
The feathery people clap their wings,
And lead their youngling train.

Perchance, the hoary grandsire's eye,
The glowing scene surveys,
And breathes a blessing on his race,
Or guides their evening praise.

The Harvest-Giver is their friend,
The Maker of the soil,

And Earth, the Mother, gives them bread,
And cheers their patient toil.

Come, join them round their wintry hearth,
Their heartfelt-pleasures see,

And you can better judge how blest.
The farmer's life may be.

BIRDS IN AUTUMN.

NOVEMBER came on, with an eye severe,
And his stormy language, was hoarse to hear,
And the glittering garland, of brown and red,
Which he wreath'd for awhile, round the forest's head,
In sudden anger he rent away,

And all was cheerless, and bare, and grey.

Then the houseless grasshopper told his woes,
And the humming-bird sent forth a wail for the rose,
And the spider, that weaver, of cunning so deep,
Roll'd himself up, in a ball, to sleep,

And the cricket his merry horn laid by,

On the shelf with the pipe of the dragon-fly.

Soon voices were heard, at the morning prime,
Consulting of flight, to a warmer clime,

"Let us go! let us go!" said the bright-wing'd jay,
And his grey spouse sang from a rocking spray
"I am tir'd to death of this hum-drum tree,
I'll go, if 'tis only this world to see."

"Will you go," ask'd the robin, "my only love?"
And a tender strain from the leafless grove
Responded, "wherever your lot is cast,
Mid sunny skies, or the wintry blast,

I am still at your side, your heart to cheer,
Though dear is our nest, in this thicket here."

"I am ready to go, cried the plump young wren,
From the hateful homes of these northern men,
My throat is sore, and my feet are blue,
I fear I have caught the consumption too,
And the Oriole told with a flashing eye,
How his plumage was spoil'd by the frosty sky.

Then up went the thrush, with a trumpet-call, [wall,]
And the martins came forth from their box on the
And the owlets peep'd out from their secret bower,
And the swallows conven'd on the old church tower,
And the council of blackbirds was long and loud,
Chattering and flying from tree to cloud.

“The dahlia is dead on her throne," said they,
And we saw the butterfly, cold as clay,
Not a berry is found on the russet plains,
Not a kernel of ripen'd maize remains,
Every worm is hid, shall we longer stay,
To be wasted with famine, away! away!"

But what a strange clamour on elm and oak,

From a bevy of brown-coated mocking-birds broke!
The theme of each separate speaker they told,
In a shrill report, with such mimickry bold,
That the eloquent orators stared to hear,
Their own true echoes, so wild and clear.

;

Then tribe after tribe, with its leader fair,
Swept off, through the fathomless depth of air
Who maketh their course to the tropics bright?
Who nerveth their wing for its weary flight?
Who guideth that caravan's trackless way,
By the stars at night, and the cloud by day?
The Indian fig with its arching screen,
Welcomes them in, to its vistas green
And the breathing buds of the spicy tree,
Thrill at the burst of their revelry,

And the bulbul starts, 'mid his carol clear,
Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear.
O wild-wood wanderers! how far away
From your rural homes in our vales ye stray;
But when they are wak'd by the touch of Spring,
We shall see you again with your glancing wing,
Your nests 'mid our household trees to raise,
And stir our hearts in our Maker's praise.

THE INDIAN KING.

AMONG the early settlers of these United States, were some pious people, called Huguenots, who fled from the persecutions in France, under Louis the

Fourteenth. It has been said, that wherever the elements of their character, mingled with this New World, the infusion was salutary.

Industry, patience, sweet social affections, and piety, firm, but not austere, were the distinctive features of this interesting race. A considerable number of them, chose their abode in a part of the State of Massachusetts, about the year 1686, and commenced the labours inseparable from the formation of a new colony.

In their vicinity, was a powerful tribe of Indians, whom they strove to conciliate. They extended to them the simple rites of hospitality, and their kind and gentle manners, wrought happily upon the proud, yet susceptible nature of the aborigines.

But their settlement had not long assumed the marks of regularity and beauty, ere they observed in their savage neighbours, a reserved deportment. This increased, until the son of the forest, utterly avoided the dwellings of the new comers, where he had been pleased to accept a shelter for the night, or a covert for the storm.

Occasionally, some lingering one, might be seen near the cultivated grounds, regarding the more skilful agriculture of the white inhabitants, with a dejected and lowering brow. It was rumoured that these symptoms of disaffection arose from the influence of an aged chief, whom they considered a prophet, who denounced the "pale intruders ;" and they grieved that they should not have been more successful in conciliating their red brethren.

Three years had elapsed since the establishment of their little colony. Autumn was now advancing