XXXV.

"And I could weep"-th' Oneida chief His descant wildly thus begun :

"But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son,

Or bow this head in wo!

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy!

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

XXXVI.

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given

By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,

To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun- thy heaven-of lost delight!

XXXVII.

"To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?

Seek we thy once-loved home?

The hand is gone that cropped its flowers!
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!

Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,

Would sound like voices from the dead!

XXXVIII.

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,

And stones themselyes to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp,- for there

The silence dwells of my despair!

XXXIX.

"But hárk, the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Ev'n from the land of shadows now

My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!

THEODRIC:

A DOMESTIC TALE

THEODRIC:

A DOMESTIC TALE.

"Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung,
And lights were o'er the Helvetian mountains flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form,
That high in Heaven's vermilion wheeled and soared,
Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared
From heights browned by the bounding bouquetin;
Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between,
And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green.
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across

The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss.
Earth's features so harmoneously were linked,
She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.

A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb.