Then sing aloud the gushing rills In joy that they again are free, And, brightly leaping down the hills, Renew their journey to the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours.

CONSUMPTION.

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes--but not for thine-- Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.

The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.

Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.

Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in G.o.d to see thee yet again.

AN INDIAN STORY.

"I know where the timid fawn abides In the depths of the shaded dell, Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, With its many stems and its tangled sides, From the eye of the hunter well.

"I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook, On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Its broad dark bough, in solemn repose, Far over the silent brook.

"And that timid fawn starts not with fear When I steal to her secret bower; And that young May violet to me is dear, And I visit the silent streamlet near, To look on the lovely flower."

Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks To the hunting-ground on the hills; 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills.

He goes to the chase--but evil eyes Are at watch in the thicker shades; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, The flower of the forest maids.

The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, And the woods their song renew, With the early carol of many a bird, And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard Where the hazels trickle with dew.

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, Ere eve shall redden the sky, A good red deer from the forest shade, That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin-door shall lie.

The hollow woods, in the setting sun, Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay; And Maquon's sylvan labors are done, And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He bears on his homeward way.

He stops near his bower--his eye perceives Strange traces along the ground-- At once to the earth his burden he heaves; He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves; And gains its door with a bound.

But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, And all from the young shrubs there By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, And there hangs on the sa.s.safras, broken and bent, One tress of the well-known hair.

But where is she who, at this calm hour, Ever watched his coming to see?

She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; He calls--but he only hears on the flower The hum of the laden bee.

It is not a time for idle grief, Nor a time for tears to flow; The horror that freezes his limbs is brief-- He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf Of darts made sharp for the foe.

And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet Where he bore the maiden away; And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast hurries the vapor and sleet O'er the wild November day.

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door; But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin-side-- And she smiles at his hearth once more.

But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, Where the yellow leaf falls not, Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, In the deepest gloom of the spot.

And the Indian girls, that pa.s.s that way, Point out the ravisher's grave; "And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, "Returned the maid that was borne away From Maquon, the fond and the brave."

SUMMER WIND.

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning gra.s.s; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven-- Their bases on the mountains--their white tops Shining in the far ether--fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays his coming. Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes; Lo, where the gra.s.sy meadow runs in waves!

The deep distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion. He is come, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, And sound of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook, Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet, and silver waters break Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS.

It is the spot I came to seek-- My father's ancient burial-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 s.h.a.ggy hills about, The meadows smooth and wide, The plains, that, toward the southern sky, Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene, Would say a lovely spot was here, And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, Between the hills so sheer.

I like it not--I would the plain Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around, The cattle in the meadows feed, And laborers turn the crumbling ground, Or drop the yellow seed, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a n.o.bler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light, Their trunks in grateful shade, And herds of deer that bounding go O'er hills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all, The forest hero, trained to wars, Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, And seamed 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 silent Indian maid Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the gray chief and gifted seer Worshipped the G.o.d of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high On clods that hid the warrior's breast, And scattered 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--ay--like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go Toward 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 tilled, Full to the brim our rivers flowed; The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dashed and rivulets played, And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more, The springs are silent in the sun; The rivers, by the blackened sh.o.r.e, With lessening current run; The realm our tribes are crushed to get May be a barren desert yet.