HYMN TO DEATH. 67 Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud In their green pupilage, their lore half learned- God gave them at their birth, and blotted out His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope, Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down. Alas! I little thought that the stern power Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must ceaseFor he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off Untimely when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search, And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have To offer at thy grave-this-and the hope To copy thy example, and to leave A name of which the wretched shall not think As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou 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 THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 69 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 Shall rise, to free the land, or die. And for each corpse, that in the sea A hundred of the foe shall be A banquet for the mountain birds. Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain 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 That, shining from the sweet south-west, "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. THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 71 ""Twas I the broidered mocsen made, That shod thee for that distant land; 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid Thy bow in many a battle bent, "With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 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, |