THY quiet spirit lulls the lab'ring brain, 

 Lures back to thought the flights of 



vacant mirth, 

 Consoles the mourner, soothes the couch of 



pain, 

 And wreathes contentment round the 



humble hearth; 

 While savage warriors, soften'd by thy 



breath, 



Unbind the captive, hate had doom'd to 

 death. 



REV. WALTER COTTON. 



THE TOBACCONIST'S INDIAN 



WHEN I was young I shook with fright 



Whene'er I passed you by; 

 E'en in my dreams at dead of night 



I saw your cruel eye. 

 116 



