What tho' for higher aims I daily sigh,
This is my work, and this my daily grind.

"I work, you say, on minds, and hearts, and souls,
Alas, 'tis true, but what can e'er atone
For dry, mechanic thought, and lifeless coals,
Which light not up, but turn the intellect to stone?

"Work on! ye faithful, grinding and hair-splitting band,
Work on, in slavish fear, and penitential pain,
But daily pray, that thro' this young and prosp'rous
land,
A system, higher, purer, freer, yet shall reign.

"Yours shall not be the blame, the people must it bear,
For, while they look for quick results, for hot-bed
flow'rs,
Amongst them, they the various ills must surely share,
Of hasty fev'rish work, compell'd by outside pow'rs."

Thus spoke the man, and closed his lips became,
The fire forsook his lately flashing eye,
His nerves relax'd, and o'er his brow, the same
Dark cloud of bitter woe, could I descry.

* * * * *

THE INDIAN.

When wooded hill, and grassy plain,