« PreviousContinue »
The line that held his pretty kite,
His bow, his cup and ball,
His feather, cap, and all !
Just where they were before:
And shut the closet door.
The slightest thought expressed
Within a mother's breast!"
TO-MORROW, didst thou say?
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
For be assured they all are arrant tell-tales :
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio,
OSSIAN?St ADDRESS TO THE SUN. O Thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone: who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again;
* See Genesis, chap. xxxii. 24–30.
+ Ossian, an ancient Scotch, or Gælic poet, supposed to have flourished in the second century, and to have been the son of Fingal. His poems were translated by Mr. M'Pherson, in 1762
the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.
When the world is dark with tempests; when thunder rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest in thy beauty, from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian, thou lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps, like me, for a season, and thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning
Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon, when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills; the blast of the north is on the plain, the traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.
And there will my course be ended ?"
It seemed in mid air suspended.
"Oh! no,” said the Earth, “thou shalt not lie
For, thou wilt be safe in my keeping.
And the flowers from my bosom are peeping !
Or aught of thy spotless whiteness :-
Regaining thy dazzling brightness.
In a drop from the unlock'd fountain:
Encircling the brow of the mountain.
"Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies!
A pencil of sunbeams is blending!
And never regret descending !"
Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake; “But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make Is not in the flowers, nor the dew to wake;
Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning.
To the regions above returning
And return to my native heaven.
By the promise that God hath given !"
THE LONE INDIAN. For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen standing at the consecrated spot we have mentioned; but, just thirty years after the death of Soonseetah, he was noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed old, and way-worn. Age had not dimmed the fire of his eye, but an expression of deep melancholy had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was Pow. ontonamo-he who had once been the Eagle of the Mohawks!!
He came to lie down and die beneath the broad oak, which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye. Alas, the white man's axe had been there! The tree he had planted was dead; and the vine, which had leaped so vigorously from branch to branch, now yellow and withering, was falling to the ground. A deep groan burst from the soul of the savage. For thirty wearisome years, he had watched that oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the only