THE MOHAWK AND THE INDIAN CAPTIVE. BY WILLIAM L. STONE. IN yonder sylvan dale, the hills and woods among, Bright as the sweetest vale the poets e'er have sung,Where Mohawk's silver tide adorns the fairy scene, Rejoicing in his pride, mid groves forever green :There, dark as clouds of night, the lurking savage came, With hatchet burnished bright, and torch of lurid flame, To wake with horrid yell the hamlet's sweet repose, By deeds no tongue can tell-the deeds of savage foes. The warwhoop, shrill and wild, through darkest gloom was heard ; The mother clasped her child, the father grasped his sword: But e'er the morning's dawn the cruel work was o'er; The dusky foe was gone, the vale was steeped in gore. The dying and the dead were strewed along the plain, And fewer those who fled than those among the slain :And loud the plaintive cry broke on the saddened ear; And deep the heaving sigh, and scalding was the tear. With throbbing bosoms there, amid the field of blood, In anguish and in prayer, full many a mourner stood;With swimming eyes, distressed-transfixed as by a spell, The maiden smote her breast, with grief she could not tell. A mother there was one-a widow-and she wept But see! what form is there, thus bounding from the wood, Like panther from his lair, back on the trail of blood? A prouder ne'er was seen in chase across the lea. throng; And o'er his eagle-crest, a banner white he waves, As though to make request, of good intent he craves. Wrapped in his blanket warm, loose o'er his shoulder flung Yet guarded safe from harm, a lovely infant hung. way; Quick by the mother's side, her own lost infant lay! The babe looked up, and smiled,-and sweet the thrill of joy, As now with transports wild she clasped her darling boy While rapid as the light, the warrior leaped the flood, Sprang swiftly from the sight, and vanished in the wood. THE WATER. BY MRS. SEBA SMITH. How beautiful the water is! Didst ever think of it, When down it tumbles from the skies On all that's in its way- "Tis rushing now adown the spout While sporting thus, I know. The earth is dry, and parched with heat, To cool the thirsty tree. It washes, rather rudely too, It scours the tree, till every leaf Is freed from dust or stain, Then waits till leaf and branch are stilled, And showers them o'er again. Drop after drop, is tinkling down How beautiful the water is! To make you wonder in the morn To see the earth so bright: To find a youthful gloss On every shrub and tree, spread And flowrets breathing on the air A dainty thing the water is, It hangs its gems on every leaf, And then the water wins the smile How beautiful the water is! No spot can ever lonely be, It hath a thousand tongues of mirth, And every heart is gladder made, INDIAN CHANT. BY H. R. SCHOOLCRAFT. FIRST VOICE. THE eagles scream on high, SECOND VOICE. 'Tis fame my soul desires, THIRD VOICE. The deer a while may go Unhunted o'er the heath, For now I seek a nobler foe, And prize a nobler death. |