For, thou wilt be safe in my keeping. But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, "And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be "I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep, "Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies! A pencil of sunbeams is blending! But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, 66 "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, To the regions above returning. And, if true to thy word, and just thou art, For, I would be placed in the beautiful bow, 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 No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, The time is long past, and the scene is afar; That blazed on the breast of the billow. |