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When it comes at the hour of still repose,
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose;
And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow;
And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair,
But the hectic spot that flushes there,
When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling,
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too,
As the clouds, in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory met
To honour the sun at his golden set:
0! then, when the spirit is taking wing,
How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,
As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long imprinted kiss ;
So fondly the pant camel flies,
Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes,
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires
With a woman's love and a saint's desires,
And her last fond lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven,
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day,



O THINK it not strange that my soul is shaken

By every note of thy simple song;
These tones like a summoning spell awaken

The shades of feelings that slumber'd long : There's a hawthorn tree near a low-roof'd dwelling,

A meadow green and a river clear,
A bird that its summer-eve tale is telling,

And a form unforgotten,—they all are here.

They are here, with dark recollections laden,

From a sylvan scene o'er the weary sea ; They speak of the time when I left that maiden

By the spreading boughs of the hawthorn tree. We parted in wrath ;-to her low-roof'd dwelling

She turn’d with a step which betray'd her pain ; She knew not the love that was fast dispelling

The gloom of his pride who was hers in vain.

We met no more ;—and her faith was plighted

To one who could not her value know; The curse which still clings to affections blighted

Tinctured her life-cup with deepest woe. And these are the thoughts that thy tones awaken

The shades of feelings which slumber'd long; Then think it not strange that my soul is shaken

By every note of thy simple song.




It is the spot I came to seek,

My fathers ancient burying-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot, -I know it well-
Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out

A ridge toward the river side ;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide;
The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

The sheep are on the slopes around,

The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground

Or drop the yellow seed,
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot on its way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods array'd, Their summits in the golden light,

Their trunks in grateful shade, And herds of deer, that bounding go O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, train'd to wars, Quiver'd and plumed, and lithe and tall,

And seam'd with glorious scars, Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,

Was sacred when its soil was ours ; Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the gray chief and gifted seer Worship'd the God of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high

On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scatter'd in the furrows, lie

The weapons of his rest;
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave,

Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth, Or the young wife, that weeping gave

Her first-born to the earth, That the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us-aye-like April snow

In the warm noon, we shrink away ; And fast they follow, as we go

Towards the setting day,

Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine,

And leave no trace behind,
Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and tillid,

Full to the brim our rivers flow'd ;
The melody of waters fill'd

The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dash'd, and rivulets play'd,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more ;

The springs are silent in the sun,
The rivers, by the blackening shore,

With lessening current run;
The realms our tribes are crush'd to get
May be a barren desert yet.



HER mighty sails the breezes swell,

And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell

Is waved by many a snowy hand;

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