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The scattered beams of day again,

To burn along its sunset-track ! And broad and beautiful it shone;

As quickened by some spiritual breath, Its very waves seemed dancing on

To music whispered underneath. And there she leaned,—that minstrel girl!

The breeze's kiss was soft and meek, Where coral melted into pearl

On parted lip and glowing cheek; Her dark and lifted eye had caught

Its lustre from the spirit's gem; And round her brow the light of thought

Was like an angel's diadem; For genius, as a living coal,

Had touched her lip and heart with flame, And on the altar of her soul

The fire of inspiration came: And early she had learned to love

Each holy charm to Nature given, The changing earth, the skies above,

Were prompters to her dreams of heaven! She loved the earth—the streams that wind,

Like music, from its hills of green,The stirring boughs above them twined,

The shifting light and shade between ;The fall of waves—the fountain-gush

The sigh of winds—the music heard At even-tide from air and bush

The minstrelsy of leaf and bird, But chief she loved the sunset-sky

Its golden clouds, like curtains drawn To form the gorgeous canopy

Of monarchs to their slumbers gone! The sun went down,--and broad and red,

One moment, on the burning wave, Rested his front of fire, to shed

A glory round his ocean-grave: And sunset-far and gorgeous hung

A banner from the wall of heavenA wave of living glory, flung

Along the shadowy verge of even.


TAE war-god did not wake to strife

The strong men of our forest-land; No red hand grasped the battle-knife

At Areouske's high command:We held no war-dance by the dim

And red light of the creeping flame; Nor warrior-yell, nor battle-hymn,

Upon the midnight breezes came. There was no portent in the sky,

No shadow on the round bright sun; With light, and mirth, and melody,

The long fair summer-days came on. We were a happy people then,

Rejoicing in our hunter-mood;
No foot-prints of the pale-faced men

Had marred our forest-solitude.
The land was ours—this glorious land-

With all its wealth of wood and streamsOur warriors strong of heart and hand

Our daughters beautiful as dreams. When wearied, at the thirsty noon,

We knelt us where the spring gushed up, To taste our Father's blessed boon

Unlike the white man's poison-cup, There came unto my father's hut

A wan, weak creature of distress; The red man's door is never shut

Against the lone and shelterless; And when he knelt before his feet,

My father led the stranger in;
He gave him of his hunter-meat

Alas! it was a deadly sin!
The stranger's voice was not like ours-

His face at first was sadly pale,
Anon 'twas like the yellow flowers,

Which tremble in the meadow-gale. And when he laid him down to die,

And murmured of his father-land, My mother wiped his tearful eye,

My father held his burning hand!

He died at last-the funeral yell

Rang upward from his burial sod, And the old Powwah knelt to tell

The tidings of the white man's God! The next day came—my father's brow

Grew heavy with a fearful pain;
He did not take his hunting-bow-

He never saw the woods again!
He died even as the white man died -

My mother, she was smitten too-
My sisters vanished from my side,

Like diamonds from the sun-lit dew. And then we heard the Powwahs say,

That God hath sent his angel forth, To sweep our ancient tribes away,

And poison and unpeople earth. And it was so—from day to day

The spirit of the plague went on,
And those at morning blithe and gay,

Were dying at the set of sun-
They died-our free, bold hunters died-

The living might not give them gravesSave when, along the water-side,

They cast them to the hurrying waves. The carrion-crow, the ravenous beast,

Turned loathing from the ghastly dead ;Well might they shun the funeral feast

By that destroying angel spread! One after one the red-men fell:

Our gallant war-tribe passed awayAnd I alone am left to tell

The story of its swift decay. Alone-alone-a withered leaf

Yet clinging to its naked bough; The pale race scorn the aged chief,

And I will join my fathers now. The spirits of my people bend

At midnight from the solemn west, To me their kindly arms extend

They call me to their home of rest !

WILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY WRITES principally in periodicals. His poems display more taste than talent; but they are far above mediocrity.

BEHOLD the western evening-light!

It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,

Descending to the tomb.
The winds breathe low; the withering leaf

Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,

When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed!
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives

To mourner's round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud

The sunset beam is cast!
'Tis like the memory left behind,

When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,

The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those

Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light

Its glory shall restore,
And eyelids that are sealed in death,

Shall wake, to close no more.


God of the earth's extended plains!

The dark-green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky:
The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,

With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep !

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam,

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, “Depart in peace.” God of the forest's solemn shade!

The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green,

And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer-breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry

Breathe forth the language of thy power. God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,

Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,

Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives

The beauty of its praise to thee. God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,

Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne. God of the world! the hour must come,

And nature's self to dust return, Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense-fires shall cease to burn;

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