They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won ; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun; Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air.

So, with the glories of the dying day,

Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, The memory of the brave who passed away

Tenderly mingled ;—fitting hour to muse

On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead.

For ages, on the silent forests here,

Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer

Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim.

Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods,
Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods.

Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look,
For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase,
And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brook

Took the first stain of blood; before thy face

The warrior generations came and passed,
And glory was laid up for many an age to last.

Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze
Goes down the west, while night is pressing on,
And with them the old tale of better days,

And trophies of remembered power, are gone.
Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough
Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now

I stand upon their ashes in thy beam,
The offspring of another race, I stand,
Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream;

And where the night-fire of the quivered band
Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung,.
I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue.

Farewell! but thou shalt come again—thy light
Must shine on other changes, and behold
The place of the thronged city still as night-

States fallen-new empires built upon the old

But never shalt thou see these realms again

Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men.

HYMN TO DEATH.

OH! could I hope the wise and pure in heart
Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem
My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,—

I would take up the hymn to Death, and say
To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee
And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow
They place an iron crown, and call thee king
Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world,
Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair,

The loved, the good-that breathest on the lights
Of virtue set along the vale of life,

And they go out in darkness. I am come,
Not witn reproaches, not with cries and prayers,
Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible ear
From the beginning. I am come to speak
Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept

Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again :
And thou from some I love wilt take a life

Dear to me as my own.

Yet while the spell

Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee

In sight of all thy trophies, face to face,
Meet is it that my voice should utter forth
Thy nobler triumphs; I will teach the world
To thank thee.-Who are thine accusers?-Who?
The living! they who never felt thy power,
And know thee not. The curses of the wretch
Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand
Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come,
Are writ among thy praises. But the good—
Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace,
Upbraid the gentle violence that took off
His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell?

Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer! God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief, The conqueror of nations, walks the world, And it is changed beneath his feet, and all Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm— Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heart Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp Upon him, and the links of that strong chain

That bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost break

Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust.

Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes Gather within their ancient bounds again.

Else had the mighty of the olden time,
Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned
His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet
-The nations with a rod of iron, and driven
Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge,
In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know
No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose

Only to lay the sufferer asleep,

Where he who made him wretched troubles not
His rest-thou dost strike down his tyrant too.
Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge
Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold.
Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible
And old idolatries;-from the proud fanes
Each to his grave their priests go out, till none
Is left to teach their worship; then the fires
Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss
O'ercreeps their altars; the fallen images
Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns,
Chanted by kneeling multitudes, the wind
Shrieks in the solitary aisles. When he

Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all

The laws that God or man has made, and round

Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth,

Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven,

And celebrates his shame in open day,

Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off