LIFE IN THE WEST.

Ho! brothers,-
-come hither and list to my story,-
Merry and brief will the narrative be:

Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory

Master am I, boys, of all that I see.

Where once frown'd a forest a garden is smiling,-
The meadow and moorland are marshes no more;
And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
The children who cluster like grapes at the door.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest,
The land of the heart is the land of the West.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

Talk not of the town, boys,-give me the broad prairie,
Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free;
Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea.

A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;
With proud independence we season our cheer,
And those who the world are for happiness ranging
Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own;
We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,
And care not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labor,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor,
And die, boys, in peace and good will to mankind.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
You know how we live, boys, and die in the West!
Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!

WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE.

When other friends are round thee,

And other hearts are thine,

When other bays have crown'd thee,

More fresh and green than mine,

Then think how sad and lonely
This doating heart will be,

Which, while it throbs, throbs only,
Beloved one, for thee!

Yet do not think I doubt thee,
I know thy truth remains;
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.

Thou art the star that guides me
Along life's changing sea;
And whate'er fate betides me,
This heart still turns to thee.

UP WITH THE SIGNAL.

Up, up with the signal! The land is in sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've pass'd,
And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last.
In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find,
To soothe us in absence of those left behind.
Land-land-ho! All hearts glow with joy at the sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

The signal is waving! Till morn we'll remain,
Then part in the hope to meet one day again

Round the hearthstone of home in the land of our birth,
The holiest spot on the face of the earth!

Dear country! our thoughts are as constant to thee
As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea.
Ho!-land-ho! We near it,- -we bound at the sight.
Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

The signal is answer'd! The foam-sparkles rise
Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes!
May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care
Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair!
One health, as chime gayly the nautical bells,

To woman-God bless her!-wherever she dwells!

THE PILOT'S ON BOARD!—and, thank Heaven! all's right!
So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.'

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough:
In youth it shelter'd me,

And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies.

"After I had sung the noble ballad of 'Woodman, Spare that Tree,' at Boulogne," says Mr. Henry Russell, the vocalist, "an old gentleman among the audience, who was greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of the words, rose and said, 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell; but was the tree really spared?' 'It was,' said I. I am very glad to hear it,' said he, as he took his seat amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly. I never saw such excitement in a concert-room."

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy,

Here, too, my sisters play'd.
My mother kiss'd me here;

My father press'd my hand:
Forgive this foolish tear,-
But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

This book is all that's left me now!
Tears will unbidden start,-

With faltering lip and throbbing brow,
press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasp'd;

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear,

Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,

Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who lean'd God's word to hear!

Her angel face-I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!

Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasure give

That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE,

THE accomplished editor of the "Louisville Journal," was born at Preston, Connecticut, December 18, 1802. He was graduated at Brown University, 1823, and then studied law; but he never practised his profession, preferring to devote himself to editorial labors. In 1828, he established "The New England Weekly Review," at

Hartford, and conducted it for two years, when he resigned it to the poet Whittier, and removed to the West, where he assumed the charge of the "Louisville Journal," which he soon raised to a first-class journal, and which has continued to the present time to maintain its character for solid ability and playful wit united, scarcely second to that of any other journal in the country.

Mr. Prentice has written some very beautiful poetry for his own journal and for other periodicals; but his compositions have never been collected in a volume. The following pieces have been much admired :

SABBATH EVENING.

How calmly sinks the parting sun!
Yet twilight lingers still;

And beautiful as dream of heaven

It slumbers on the hill;

Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things,
Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings,

And, rendering back the hues above,
Seems resting in a trance of love.

Round yonder rocks the forest-trees
In shadowy groups recline,

Like saints at evening bow'd in prayer

Around their holy shrine;

And through their leaves the night-winds blow,

So calm and still, their music low

Seems the mysterious voice of prayer,

Soft echoed on the evening air.

And yonder western throng of clouds,
Retiring from the sky,

So calmly move, so softly glow,
They seem to Fancy's eye
Bright creatures of a better sphere,
Come down at noon to worship here,
And, from their sacrifice of love,
Returning to their home above.

The blue isles of the golden sea,
The night-arch floating high,
The flowers that gaze upon the heavens,
The bright streams leaping by,
Are living with religion,-deep
On earth and sea its glories sleep,
And mingle with the starlight rays,
Like the soft light of parted days.

The spirit of the holy eve
Comes through the silent air
To feeling's hidden spring, and wakes
A gush of music there!

And the far depths of ether beam

So passing fair, we almost dream

That we can rise, and wander through
Their open paths of trackless blue.

Each soul is fill'd with glorious dreams,
Each pulse is beating wild;

And thought is soaring to the shrine
Of glory undefiled!

And holy aspirations start,

Like blessed angels, from the heart,

And bind-for earth's dark ties are riven

Our spirits to the gates of heaven.

I THINK OF THEE.

TO A LADY.

I think of thee when morning springs
From sleep, with plumage bathed in dew,
And, like a young bird, lifts her wings
Of gladness on the welkin blue.

And when, at noon, the breath of love
O'er flower and stream is wandering free,
And sent in music from the grove,

I think of thee,-I think of thee.

I think of thee, when, soft and wide,
The evening spreads her robes of light,
And, like a young and timid bride,
Sits blushing in the arms of night.

And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea,
And stars are forth, like blessed things,
I think of thee,-I think of thee.

I think of thee;-that eye of flame,

Those tresses, falling bright and free,

That brow, where "Beauty writes her name,"

I think of thee,-I think of thee.

RUFUS DAWES.

RUFUS DAWES was born in Boston, on the 26th of January, 1803. His father, Thomas Dawes, was a member of the State Convention called to ratify the Constitution, and was for many years one of the Judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, distinguished for his learning, eloquence, wit,' and spotless integrity. Our poet entered Harvard College in 1820. On leaving it, he entered

He was remarkable not only "for his great reach of mind," (to use Daniel Webster's words respecting him,) but for his quickness of repartee. He was very short in stature; and one day, standing in State Street, Boston, with six very tall men, among whom were Harrison Gray Otis and Josiah Quincy, Mr. Otis said, "Judge Dawes, how do you feel" (looking down on him at the same time very significantly) "when in the company of such great men as we?" "Just like a fourpence halfpenny among six cents," was his prompt reply.