Poetry

[From the "Wabash Courier."]

To Miss Eliza R. Snow.

Lady, a hand to thee unknown Thy Favored bark may safe outride Thou doest well,-raise high the strain!

Would pluck one lowly flower, The storm, and reach thy home; Angels attune thy lyre:

For thee-wilt thou not deign to own, I like the rock, must still abide Thy songs re-echoing shall remain

And twine it in thy bower? Amid the tempest's foam. When other sounds expire.

Thy form hath never met my eye, I would 'twere else-for I can feel Lady, my path may ne'er be thine

But I have heard thy lays, When others bow the knee; In this tempestuous life,

High themes-in strains sublimely high, I cannot-nay, I would not steel Yet oft thy tones, like balm divine,

Poured forth in Zion's praise. My heart 'gainst holy sympathy. Shall calm my bosom's strife.

'Tis true, thy people are not mine, I Catch the music of thy song. Adieu!-accept the gift I bring

I know no creeds nor forms; My bosom vibrates at the sound- From Nature's wildest bower:

Thy light around me doth not shine, Heaven speed thee Lady! mid the throng Thou'dst scorn a costlier offering-

Alone I brave life's storms. Of saints thou shalt be found. Receive my simple flower.

Shawnee Bard.