Regardless of his wisdom, or perchance
Doth hear the hammer of harsh criticism,
Grinding his ore to powder, finer far
Than the light sand of Congo's yellow stream.
-Yea, 'mid earth's passing pilgrims, many a one
Of its new gained possessions, fondly proud,
Doth, like the Patriarch, find his seven years' toil
Paid with a poor deceit.
I thank thee for thy lesson. Thou hast warn'd
That the heart's treasures be not rashly risk'd
In earthen vessels, but in caskets stor'd,
Above the wrecking ministry of Time.
AMID those hills, with verdure spread,
The red-brow'd hunter's arrow sped,-
And o'er those waters, sheen and blue,
He boldly launched his bark canoe,
While through the forests glanc'd like light
The flying wild deer's antler bright.—
Ask ye for hamlet's peopled bound,
With cone-roofed cabins circled round?
For chieftain brave? for warrior proud,
In nature's majesty unbowed?
You've seen the fleeting shadow fly,
The foam upon the billows die,-
The floating vapour leave no trace,—
Such was their path-that fated race.
Say ye, that kings, with lofty port, Here held their stern and simple court?— That here, with gestures rudely bold Stern orators the throng controll'd?— Methinks, even now, on tempest wings, The thunder of their war-shout rings,
Methinks again with reddening spire
The groves reflect their council fire.-
No! No!-in darkness rest the throng,
Despair hath checked the tide of song,-
Dust dimm'd their glory's ray.
But can these staunch their bleeding wrong,
Or quell remembrance fierce and strong?
Recording angel, say!
I mark'd where once a fortress frown'd,
High o'er the blood-cemented ground,
And many a deed that savage tower
Might tell, to chill the midnight hour;-
But now, its ruins strangely bear
Fruits, that the gentlest hand might share;
For there, a hallowed dome* imparts
The lore of Heaven to listening hearts;
And forms like those which lingering staid,
Latest 'neath Calvary's awful shade,
And earliest pierced the gathered gloom
To watch a Saviour's lowly tomb,
Such forms have soothed the Indian's ire,
And bade for him, that dome aspire.
* On the ruins of a fort in the territory of the once powerful tribe of Mohegans, in the vicinity of Norwich, Connecticut, a small and neat church has been erected, and the services of a missionary engaged, principally through the influence of the benevolence of females.
Now, where tradition, ghostly pale,
With ancient horrors loads the vale,
And shuddering weaves, in crimson loom
Ambush, and snare, and torture-doom,
There shall the Saviour's ritual rise,
And peaceful hymns invoke the skies.-
Crushed race!-so long condemned to moan,
Scorned, rifled,-spiritless, and lone,
From pagan rites, from sorrow's maze,
Turn to these temple-gates with praise:
Yes, turn and bless the usurping band
That rent away your fathers' land;
Forgive the wrong-suppress the blame,
And view with Faith's fraternal claim,
Your God-your hope-your heaven the same.
"I'LL pay my rent in music," said a thrush
Who took his lodging 'neath my eaves in spring,
Where the thick foliage droop'd.—And well he kept
His simple contract.-Not for quarter-day
He coldly waited,-nor a draft requir'd
To stir his memory,-nor my patience tir'd
With changeful currencies,—but every morn
Brought me good notes at par, and broke my sleep
With the wild ringing of his tuneful coin.
Often, at summer morn, a burst of song
Melodious trilling thro' his dulcet pipes
Falling and caught again, and still prolong'd,
Betray'd in what green nook the warbler sat,
Each feather quivering from excess of joy,
While from his open beak and brightening eye
I seem'd to read the assurance," this was pour'd
For your especial benefit.”—The lay
With overpowering shrillness,-more than once
Did summon me to lay my book aside
And wait its close; nor was that pause a loss,
But seem'd to tune and shape the inward ear
To wisdom's key-tone.
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