Where Silence, Death, and Horror reign, Unchecked, across the wide domain ; There is a desert of the MIND More hopeless, dreary, undefined! There Sorrow, moody Discontent, Where nought but dreariness is found; The wildest ills that darken life To passion's dark and boundless sea. There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest, When storms are warring in the breast ; In bosoms lashed by hidden woes; M. FLINT. MOUNDS ON THE WESTERN RIVERS. THE sun's last rays were fading from the west, 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 ; 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, In whose bright climes the virtuous and the brate Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ?. Where the great hunter still pursues the chase, And sees, once more, the mighty mammoth rear Or, it may be, that still ye linger near 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; 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. ON yonder shore, on yonder shore, Now verdant with the depth of shade, Forgive this tear. A Brother weeps. She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone, In sounds that seem like Sorrow's own, Then, deep'ning to an organ tone, In all their solemn cadence sweep, X |