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For, thou wilt be safe in my keeping.
But then, I must give thee a lovelier form-
Thou wilt not be part of the wintry storm,

But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm,
And the flowers from my bosom are peeping!

"And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be
Restored in the lily that decks the lea,
In the jessamine-bloom, the anemone,
Or aught of thy spotless whiteness:-
To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead,
With the pearls, that the night scatters over the mead,
In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed,
Regaining thy dazzling brightness.

"I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep,
When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,
In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap
In a drop from the unlock'd fountain:
Or leaving the valley, the meadow and heath,
The streamlet, the flowers and all beneath
Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath
Encircling the brow of the mountain.

"Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies!
Go shine in the Iris; I'll let thee arise,
And appear in the many and glorious dyes

A pencil of sunbeams is blending!

But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth,
I'll give thee a new and vernal birth,
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth,
And never regret descending!"

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"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. For, things of thyself, they expire with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, They rise and will live, from thy dust set free,

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To the regions above returning.

And, if true to thy word, and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart
And return to my native heaven.

For, I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time, in thy sight to glow,
So thou may'st remember the Flake of Snow
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

things left in the wide world for him to love, and⚫ they were gone!

He looked abroad. The hunting land of his tribe was changed, like its chieftain. No light canoe now shot down the river, like a bird upon the wing. The laden boat of the white man alone broke its smooth surface. The Englishman's road wound like a serpent around the banks of the Mohawk; and iron hoofs had so beaten down the war path, that a hawk's eye could not discover an Indian track.

The last wigwam was destroyed; and the sun looked boldly down upon spots he had visited only by stealth, during hundreds and hundreds of moons. The few remaining trees, clothed in the fantastic mourning of autumn; the long line of heavy clouds, melting away before the coming sun; and the distant mountain, seen through the blue mist of departing twilight, alone remained as he had seen them in his boyhood.

All things spoke a sad language to the heart of the desolate Indian. "Yes," said he, "the young oak and the vine are like the Eagle and the Sunnyeye. They are cut down, torn, and trampled on. The leaves are falling, and the clouds are scattering, like my people. I wish I could once more see the trees standing thick, as they did when my mother held me to her bosom, and sung the warlike deeds of the Mohawks."

A mingled expression of grief and anger passed over his face, as he watched a loaded boat in its passage across the stream. The white man carries food to his wife and children, and he finds them in his home," said he. "Where is the squaw and the They are here!" As he

papoose of the red man? spoke he fixed his eye thoughtfully upon the grave.

After a gloomy silence, he again looked round upon the fair scene, with a wandering and troubled gaze. "The pale face may like it," murmured he; "but an Indian cannot die here in peace." So saying, he broke his bow-string, snapped his arrows, threw them on the burial-place of his fathers, and departed for ever.

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

THE Scene was more beautiful far to my eye
Than if day in its pride had arrayed it;
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arched sky
Looked pure as the Spirit that made it.
The murmur rose oft, as I silently gazed
On the shadowy waves' playful motion,
From the dim distant isle, till the lighthouse fire blazed
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.

No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast
Was heard in the wildly-breathed numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to his wave-girded nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers.

One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope,
(All hushed was the billows' commotion,)
And thought that the lighthouse look'd lovely as Hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocean.

The time is long past, and the scene is afar;
But, when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star

That blazed on the breast of the billow.
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And Death stills the heart's last emotion,
Oh! then may the Seraph of Mercy arise,
Like a star on Eternity's ocean!

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