Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume IX, Issue 453, 14 February 1867, Page 3

Select Poetry.

THi: FLOODED HUT OF THE MISSISSIPI,

/jflN the wide-rolling river at eve set the sun, And the long-toiling day of the woodman was done, And he flung down the ase that had felled the huge tree. And ms own little daughter he placed ou his kueo; She looked up, with smiles, at a dovecot o'erhead—

Where, circling around, flew the pigeons she fed— And mors fondly tho sire clasp’d his child to bi-

breast— AA UU AICS (A MW—»UiU VftAIUU. Ut>f iUO UUU VI Hl* nest.

J “ v "*«w-ivmuß tifoi iOto mgu id iuc uigul, The ■sfide-roUins river, at won?. Rhfw*<i its might** I'or ii leap’d o’fcr its bounds, and invaded'the wood Where the humble abode of the wood-cutter stood. All was danger around, and no aid was in view, And higher and higher the wild waters grew, And the child—looking up at the dovecot in air, Cned, “ Father—oh father, I wish we were there!”

w My child,” said the father, “that dovecot of thine Should ehliven our faith in the Mercy Divine ; ’Twas a dove that brought Noah the sweet branch of peace, To show him the anger of heaven did cease: Then kneel, my lov’d child, by thy fond father’s side. And pray that our hut may in safety abide, fr olll all fear may our bosoms be proof— H bile the dove of the deluge is over our roof.” —Sixpenny Magazine. EEQI'IESGAT. me when I die, A grave among the com and clover; Let me peaceful lie In some field with forests nigh, Where the blossoms bending over Mingle sigh for sigh. With ever rustling leaves Whispering to the rustling sheaves. Let the tall grass wave High above my grave. And strew, each fall, their trersures o’er me: Leaves of gold and brown Softly floating down. Or driven wildly onward when ’tis stormy. 0 give me not a tomb, White and marble, cold and dreary, In the churchyard’s gloom; Bather, when I’m weary. Let me lie at rest ’Neath the clover, growing fair, In the warm sunshiny air, With its thready tendrils twining round In my breast. So tranquil be my sleep When the hazy slanting beams Rest on forest, vale, and steep, Through long summer afternoons Be my slumber still and deep. Let the new and waning moons Como and go and bring me dreams. Arnold.