With the light dallying of the west-wind play; As gladly to their goal they run, Mounds on the Western Rivers.-M. FLINT. 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; I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound, I saw the plain, outspread in living green; 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 forever 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 stills pursues the chase, Or, it may be, that still ye linger near The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride; If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet. Farewell! and may you still in peace repose; 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. Burial of the Minnisink.-LONGFELLOW. ON sunny slope and beechen swell Far upward, in the mellow light, Rose the blue hills-one cloud of white; In the warm blush of evening shone- By which the Indian soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard, They sung, that by his native bowers A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial dress, They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To the Eagle.—PERCIVAL. From the Atlantic Souvenir for 1827. BIRD of the broad and sweeping wing, Where wide the storms their banners fling, Thou sittest like a thing of light, The midway sun is clear and bright; Thy pinions, to the rushing blast, O'er the bursting billow, spread, Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, Like an angel of the dead. Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag, And the waves are white below, And on, with a haste that cannot lag, Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves, * Alluding to an Indian superstition. When the night storm gathers dim and dark, Quick as a passing dream. Lord of the boundless realm of air, The hearts of the bold and ardent dare Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs, For thee they fought, for thee they fell, Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, Till the gathered rage of a thousand years And then a deluge of wrath it came, And the nations shook with dread; And it swept the earth till its fields were flame, And where was then thy fearless flight? To the lands that caught the setting light, There, on the silent and lonely shore, For ages, I watched alone, And the world, in its darkness, asked no more Where the glorious bird had flown. But then came a bold and hardy few, I caught afar the wandering crew; |