’Neath a tree by the margin of a woodland, Whose spreading leafy boughs sweep the ground, With a path leading thither o’er the prairie, Where silence hung her night garb around; Where oft I have wander’d in the evening, When the summer winds were fragrant on the lea, There I saw the little beauty Belle Brandon, And we met ’neath the old arbor tree. REPEAT. There I saw the little beauty, Belle Brandon, And we met ’neath the old arbor tree. Belle Brandon was a birdling of the mountain, In freedom she sported on the lea, And they said the life current of the red man Tinged her veins, from a far distant sea. And she loved her humble dwelling on the prairie, And her guileless happy heart clung to me, And I loved the little beauty, Belle Brandon, And we both loved the old arbor tree. REPEAT.--And I loved the little beauty, &c. On the trunk of an aged tree I carved them, And our names on the sturdy oak remain, But I now repair in sorrow to its shelter, And murmur to the wild winds my pain. And I sat there in solitude repining, For the beauty dream night brought to me, Death has wed the little beauty, Belle Brandon, And she sleeps ’neath the old arbor tree. REPEAT.--Death has wed the little beauty, &c. The Dying Californian. 51 Lay up nearer, brother, nearer, for my limbs are growing cold, And thy presence seemeth dearer when thy arms around me fold I am dying, brother, dying, soon you’ll miss me in your berth, And my form will soon be lying ’neath the ocean’s briny surf. Hearken to me, brother, hearken, I have something I would say, Ere this vail my vision darken, and I go from hence away; I am going, surely going, but my hopes in God are strong, I am willing, brother, knowing that He doeth nothing wrong. Tell my father when you greet him, that in death I pray’d for him, Pray’d that I might one day meet him, in a world that’s free from sin; Tell my mother, God assist her, now that she is growing old, Tell, her son would glad have kiss’d her, when his lips grew pale and cold. Hearken to me--catch each whisper, ’tis my wife I speak of now. Tell, oh, tell her, how I miss’d her, when the fever burnt my brow: Hearken to me, closely listen, don’t forget a single word, That in death my eyes did glisten when the tears her memory stirr’d. Tell her then to kiss my children, like the kiss I last impress’d, Hold them fast as last I held them, fold’d closely to my breast; Give them early to their Maker, putting all their trust in God, And He will never forsake her--He has said so in His word.