Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.

And now, would'st thou, O man, delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations? Then pass forth,
And find them midst those many-colored birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute,
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush
So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.

THE ANGLER'S SONG.

"There is no life more pleasant than the life of the well-governed angier."—Isaac Walton.

WHEN first the flame of day
Crimsons the sea-like mist,
And from the valley rolls away

The haze, by the sunbeam kissed,
Then to the lonely woods I pass,

With angling rod and line,
While yet the dew-drops, in the grass,
Like flashing diamonds shine.

How vast the mossy forest-halls,
Silent, and full of gloom!

Through the high roof the daybeam falls,
Like torch-light in a tomb.

The old trunks of trees rise round

Like pillars in a church of old, And the wind fills them with a sound As if a bell were tolled.

Where falls the noisy stream,
In many a bubble bright,
Along whose grassy margin gleam
Flowers gaudy to the sight,

There silently I stand,

Watching my angle play, And eagerly draw to the land

My speckled prey.

Oft, ere the carrion bird has left
His eyrie, the dead tree,
Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft

The cloud in heaven's blue sea,
Or ere the lark's swift pinion speeds
To meet the misty day,

My foot hath shaken the bending reeds,

My rod sought out its prey.

And when the Twilight, with a blush

Upon her cheek, goes by, And Evening's universal hush Fills all the darkened sky,

And steadily the tapers burn

In villages far away,

Then from the lonely stream I turn
And from the forests gray.

HYMN OF THE CHEROKEE INDIAN.

They waste us; ay, like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go,

Towards the setting day,

Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

BRYANT.

LIKE the shadows in the stream,
Like the evanescent gleam
Of the twilight's failing blaze,
Like the flecting years and days,
Like all things that soon decay,
Pass the Indian tribes away.

Indian son, and Indian sire!

Lo! the embers of your fire,
On the wigwam hearth, burn low,
Never to revive its glow;

And the Indian's heart is ailing,

And the Indian's blood is failing.

Now the hunter's bow's unbent,

And his arrows all are spent!

Like a very little child

Is the red man of the wild;

To his day there'll dawn no morrow; Therefore is he full of sorrow.

From his hills the stag is fled,

And the fallow-deer are dead,

And the wild beasts of the chase

Are a lost and perished race,

And the birds have left the mountain, And the fishes, the clear fountain.

Indian woman, to thy breast
Closer let thy babe be pressed,
For thy garb is thin and old,
And the winter wind is cold;
On thy homeless head it dashes;
Round thee the grim lightning flashes.

We, the rightful lords of yore,

Are the rightful lords no more;
Like the silver mist we fail,
Like the red leaves in the gale,-
Fail like shadows, when the dawning
Waves the bright flag of the morning.

By the river's lonely marge,
Rotting is the Indian's barge;

And his hut is ruined now,
On the rocky mountain brow;
The fathers' bones are all neglected,
And the children's hearts dejected.

Therefore, Indian people, flee
To the farthest western sea;
Let us yield our pleasant land

To the stranger's stronger hand;

Red men and their realms must sever;

They forsake them, and for ever!