M. FLINT.

MOUNDS ON THE WESTERN RIVERS.

THE sun's last rays were fading from the west,
The deepening shade stole slowly o'er the plain,
The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest,

And all was silence, save the mournful strain With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain, Her absent lover to her lonely nest.

Now, one by one, emerging to the sight,

The brighter stars assumed their seats on high; The moon's pale crescent glowed serenely bright, As the last twilight fled along the sky, And all her train, in cloudless majesty, Were glittering on the dark blue vault of night.

I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound,

And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene; From the dark summit of an Indian mound

I saw the plain, outspread in living green; Its fringe of cliffs was in the distance seen, And the dark line of forest sweeping round.

I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose;
Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay;
There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes,
There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay;
And mighty tribes, swept from the face of day,
Forgot their wars, and found a long repose.

Ye mouldering relics of departed years,

Your names have perished; not a trace remains, Save where the grass-grown mound its summit rears From the green bosom of your native plains. Say, do your spirits wear Oblivion's chains? Did Death for ever quench your hopes and fears?

Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss,
Which simple Nature to your bosoms gave,
Find other worlds, with fairer skies than this,

Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave,
In whose bright climes the virtuous and the brave
Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ?—

Where the great hunter still pursues the chase,
And, o'er the sunny mountains, tracks the deer;
Or where he finds each long-extinguished race,

And sees, once more, the mighty mammoth rear
The giant form which lies embedded here,
Of other years the sole remaining trace.

Or, it may be, that still ye linger near
The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride;
And, could your forms to mortal eye appear,
Or the dark veil of death be thrown aside,
Then might I see your restless shadows glide,
With watchful care, around these relics dear.

If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet

Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. I would not thus profane their lone retreat, Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head Lay pillowed on his everlasting bed, Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet.

Farewell! and may you still in peace repose;
Still o'er you may the flowers, untrodden, bloom,

And softly wave to every breeze that blows,
Casting their fragrance on each lonely tomb,

In which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, And mingle with the clay from which they rose.

LINES ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER.

Ox yonder shore, on yonder shore,

Now verdant with the depth of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. A Brother weeps.
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan
Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmured at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.

In sounds that seem like Sorrow's own,
Their funeral dirges faintly creep;
Then, deep'ning to an organ tone,

In all their solemn cadence sweep,
And pour, unheard, along the wild,
Their desert anthem o'er a child.

X

She came, and passed. Can I forget,

How we, whose hearts had hailed her birth, Ere three autumnal suns had set,

Consigned her to her mother Earth! Joys and their memories pass away; But griefs are deeper traced than they.

We laid her in her narrow cell,

We heaped the soft mould on her breast,
And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell
Upon her lonely place of rest.
May angels guard it ;-may they bless
Her slumbers in the wilderness.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
The sweeping flood, with torrent moan,
At evening lifts its solemn roar,
As, in one broad, eternal tide,
Its rolling waters onward glide.

There is no marble monument,
There is no stone, with graven lie,

To tell of love and virtue blent

In one almost too good to die. We needed no such useless trace To point us to her resting place.