THE wintry months are here again-- Around us are their snows and storms; The tempest shrieks along the plain, The forest heaves its giant forms. II. The drifting sleet flies from the hill, Thick clouds deform the threat'ning sky; While in the vale, the birds are still, And chain'd by frosts, the waters lie. III. Ah! where is now the merry May, The green banks, and the leafy bowers? The cricket's chirp, the linnet's lay, That gave such sweetness to the hours? IV. And where the sunny sky, that round This world of glad and breathing things, Came with its sweetness and its sound, Its golden light and glancing wings? V. Alas! the eye falls now no more On flowery field, or hill, or plain; Nor for the ear the woodlands pour One glad note of the summer's strain! VI. The green leaves stript have left the woods Towering--their tall arms bleak and bare; And now they choke the sounding floods, Or fill, in clouds, the rushing air! VII. Yet turn we here! The winter's fire, Its crackling faggots blazing bright, Hath joys that never, never tire, And looks that fill us with delight. VIII. Home's joys! Ah yes, 'tis these are ours, Home's looks and hearts! 'tis these can bring A something sweeter than the flowers, And purer than the airs of spring. IX. Then welcome be old Winter here! Ay! welcome be the stormy hour; Our kindly looks and social cheer Shall cheat the monarch of his power! X. With mirth and joy the hours we'll crown-- Love to our festival we'll bring! And calm the sturdy blusterer down, And make him smiling as the spring! _New-Haven, November 13th, 1837._ B. T. W. OCEOLA'S CHALLENGE. LATE accounts from St. Augustine state, that the recent capture of the Indian chiefs has by no means increased the friendly feelings of the red men toward the whites. 'There will yet be hard fighting, and they will be rendered more desperate than ever. Even the captives seem to doubt that they will be sent out of the country.' * * * * * COME on! O'er prairie, bluff, and swamp, By bush, and rock, and tree, Where'er an Indian's foot may tramp, Where'er ye march, where'er ye camp, My warrior band shall be! Come on! My words are plain and few, My greeting brief and free But if ye think it less than due, With deadly aim, my rifle true Shall welcome speak for me. Come on! And if ye miss the track Left by the red man's tread, Well shall ye know the pathway back! We'll strew it, lest a guide ye lack, With heaps of scalpless dead!