THE OLIO.

From the Casl'et of September. THE SEMINOLE LOVER.
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 Come then my eagie'cye.

 We'll go 10 that land away. Nisfe ile tiesl ;.s 4it lri bui Eng, Thro' Inc patlilcss forest play, 4 ss from tic i white man 5 55a Our war-paths arc o'ergrown--

 And our record trees are gone. D tine white Wsu nome. for iIs caDln ire, And he proudly bids us on,

 On, toward the setting sun He claims our forest prey,

 And fine home that nature gave; The estiIIsepuichres where our fathers sleep And the spot leftdor our grave, All, all, he takes away Ours is scattered races

 No spot can we call our own, Like the homeless bird of the sswandering

 wing,

 We hover at night each one, Far from the morn left place. Come then my eagle eye,

 We'll go to that land away, Where tic tigers foot, the bnlbnl's wing, Thro' the patbless forest play, Far from the white mans sky. Bu6afo---N. +. L. E. L. 