tion. His last poem, "Jesus Lead Me, I am Blind," was written and set to music while on his deathbed. Mr. Hewitt has composed upwards of fifty pieces of music under the nom de plume of Eugene Raymond, many novelettes under the name of Col. Marcus Kennedy, and his humorous articles have always been under the name of "Jenks." His first published poem with his own music was published in Boston. He wrote "The Minstrel's Return from the War" when eighteen years old, which was exceedingly popular. Another well-known composition is "Rock Me to Sleep, Mother." Among his patriotic pieces may be mentioned "Our Native Land,” “American Boy." His cantatas were very popular, especially "Flora's Festival" and the "Fairy Bridal." He is also the author of several oratorios. He has written a number of dramas and a score of light operas, among which the "Vivandies" and "Blind Artist" may be mentioned as full of bright and sprightly airs. During the war the professor was prolific of songs relating to the southern army, and after the war his patriotic national songs attained great popularity. In 1853 he published a book of poems which had a large sale. He has written campaign songs ever since he was twenty-one. G. O. B.

THE AMERICAN BOY. "FATHER, look up and see that flag, How gracefully it flies;

Those pretty stripes—they seem to be A rainbow in the skies."

"It is your country's flag, my son,
And proudly drinks the light
O'er ocean's waves and foreign climes—
A symbol of our might."

"Father, what fearful noise is that,

Like thundering of the clouds; Why do the people wave their hats, And rush along in crowds?"

"It is the voice of cannonry— The glad shouts of the free; This is a day to mem'ry dear,— 'Tis Freedom's jubilee."

"I wish that I was now a man, I'd fire my cannon too, And cheer as loudly as the restBut, father, why don't you?" "I'm getting old and weak, but still My heart is big with joy;

I've witness'd many a day like this, Shout ye aloud, my boy.”

"Hurrah for Freedom's jubilee!

God bless our native land; And may I live to hold the sword Of Freedom in my hand!”

"Well done, my boy!-grow up and love
The land that gave you birth;
A home where Freedom loves to dwell
Is Paradise on earth."

THE MOUNTAINS.

YE look to the skies, with your hoary peaks,
And the clouds come gathering round,
With the sun-set tints on their pouting cheeks
And their fleecy girths unbound;
The muttering voice of the storm is heard,
It is rolling along your crest,
It frights alike the valley bird,

And the eagle from her nest.

When I was a boy, with a glad halloo,
I'd climb to a lofty crest,

To see the sun wade the eastern blue,
Or sink in the golden west,

And the monarch bird scream'd the echo back,
Expanding his wings of might;

And the dun deer leap'd o'er her rocky track, To glens of livelong night.

I loved to study the rocks and woods
The finger of God was there,

His beauty I saw in the gentle floods,
And his voice was in the air;

And while from the dizzy peak I gazed,
Or in the dim valley trod,

Three words in the golden picture blazed, Eternity-Nature—God.

SONG OF THE AMERICAN GIRL.

OUR hearts are with our native land,
Our song is for her glory;
Her warrior's wreath is in our hand,
Our lips breathe out her story.
Her lofty hills and valleys green
Are smiling bright before us,
And like a rainbow sign is seen,

Her proud flag waving o'er us.

And there are smiles upon our lips

For those who meet her foemen,
For Glory's star knows no eclipse
When smiled upon by woman.
For those who brave the mighty deep
And scorn the threat of danger

We've smiles to cheer-and tears to weep,
For every ocean ranger.

Our hearts are with our native land,
Our song is for her freedom;
Our prayers are for the gallant band
Who strike where honor 'll lead 'em.
We love the taintless air we breathe,

'Tis Freedom's endless dower: We'll twine for him a fadeless wreath Who scorns a tyrant's power.

They tell of France's beauties rare,
Of Italy's proud daughters;
Of Scotland's lassies-England's fair,
And nymphs of Shannon's waters;
We heed not all their boasted charms,
Though lords around them hover-
Our glory lies in Freedom's arms—
A Freeman for a lover!

THE LAKE SPIRIT'S SONG.

COME to the lake of the Dismal Swamp,
I wait in my light canoe,

The pale moon dims my fire-fly lamp,
And my drink is the midnight dew.
The ghost of the warrior chief I see,

And he calls me his maiden bride;
And I hear the moan of the cypress tree,
Where the maid by my arrow died!

Come let us sail in my phantom bark,
And sport in my fire-fly light;
Chase the swift-bat with our meteor spark
'Till the sun drink the dews of night.
We'll skim o'er the waters blythe and gay,
Tho' the murderer's howl we hear;
And we'll seek a cave for the sunbright day,
Where we'll sleep till the stars appear.
Come to my bark, it is moored for thee,
The whippoorwill warbles "come;"
You'll love, I'm sure, it's sad melody,

For it sings o'er your loved one's tomb. My fire-fly lamp begins to burn dim,

The morn-star is shining bright;
Now, away-away o'er the lake I skim,
And I bid thee, dearest, good night.

IND

MRS. M. SWAFFORD.

(BELLE BREMER.)

[NDIANA is rapidly gaining recognition as a literary centre, not only because it is the home of two of the greatest, if not the two greatest, American writers of the past decade, James Whitcomb Riley and Gen. Lew Wallace, and of others of international reputation, but because in every section of the state live poets and prose writers of unusual merit and growing fame. Yet the Wabash Valley has been a specially congenial clime for literary workers, and so fruitful of poets that it was once proposed to form an association of poets of the Wabash Valley. In this favored region Mrs. M. Swafford ("Belle Bremer"), of Terre Haute, Ind., was born and bred. Her parents were Virginians, her father of German and her mother of English descent. Her love for the South and Southern scenery, and her tropical warmth of feeling so patent in her poems, are thus partly due to hereditary instincts and influences. But they are strengthened by her own temporary yearly residence in the South, which her delicate health makes necessary. She finds in her winter home at Huntsville, Alabama, much of her inspiration, and to this Southern environment the Oriental coloring of her verse is no doubt largely due. She delights to call herself semi-Southern, but not by way of disparagement to her Northern home. By education and primary attachment she is an Indiana woman and has proved to be the first woman in Terre Haute to publish a book. This honor she has lately attained in the publication of "Wych Elm."

Mrs. Swafford began her literary work about fifteen years ago, writing at first short stories, which were favorably received. Her first story and her first poem also were accepted and published. She has had, indeed, very little of the experience so common to most writers implied by the words, "Returned with thanks." Her delicate health and trouble with her eyes have interfered greatly with the amount of her literary productions, as she is at times compelled to lay aside her pen entirely. She is a graphic and interesting prose writer, but for several years she has devoted her limited time, by preference, almost exclusively to verse.

Mrs. Swafford is the wife of Dr. Swafford, a prominent physician of Terre Haute. She is a member of the large literary coterie of that city. Also of the "Western Association of Writers," and has taken part in the exercises of several of its conventions, and is identified with its beginning. In person she is a frail little brunette

M. E. C.

Our day is now with the things gone by, And our boat is ready to sail, alas!

For down by the shore the boatman calls, And so, with lingering steps, we pass Forever outside the enchanted walls.