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To copy thy example, and to leave

A name of which the wretched shall not think
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive

As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou
Whose early guidance trained my infant steps-
Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep
Of death is over, and a happier life

Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.

Now thou art not—and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance-he who bears False witness he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow-he who spreads abroad Polluted hands of mockery of prayer, Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look On what is written, yet I blot not out The desultory numbers-let them stand, The record of an idle revery.

THE MASSACRE AT SCIO.

WEEP not for Scio's children slain;

Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain

For vengeance on the murderer's head.

Though high the warm red torrent ran
Between the flames that lit the sky,
Yet, for each drop, an armed man

Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

And for each corpse, that in the sea Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds,

A hundred of the foe shall be

A banquet for the mountain birds.

Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain To keep that day, along her shore, Till the last link of slavery's chain

Is shivered, to be worn no more.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

AN Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover, slain in battle, slept;
Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Came down o'er eyes that wept;
And wildly, in her woodland tongue,
This sad and simple lay she sung:

"I've pulled away the shrubs that grew
Too close above thy sleeping head,

And broke the forest boughs that threw
Their shadows o'er thy bed,

That, shining from the sweet south-west,
The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

“It was a weary, weary road

That led thee to the pleasant coast, Where thou, in his serene abode, Hast met thy father's ghost;

Where everlasting autumn lies

On yellow woods and sunny skies.

"'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,

That shod thee for that distant land;

'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid
Beside thy still cold hand;

Thy bow in many a battle bent,
Thy arrows never vainly sent.

"With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,
And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,
And laid the food that pleased thee best,
In plenty, by thy side,

And decked thee bravely, as became

A warrior of illustrious name.

"Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed

The long dark journey of the grave,

And in the land of light, at last,

Hast joined the good and brave; Amid the flushed and balmy air,

The bravest and the loveliest there.

"Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,To her who sits where thou wert laid,

And weeps the hours away,

Yet almost can her grief forget,
To think that thou dost love her yet.

"And thou, by one of those still lakes

That in a shining cluster lie,

On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky,

A bower for thee and me hast made
Beneath the many-coloured shade.

"And thou dost wait and watch to meet My spirit sent to join the blessed, And, wondering what detains my feet From the bright land of rest,

Dost seem, in every sound, to hear

The rustling of my footsteps near."

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