THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. BY J. G. WHITTIER. An Indian girl, and the last of the Red Indians, or Brothicks, recently died at St. John's, Newfoundland. Her tribe, the aborigines of Newfoundland, never held intercourse with any other tribe, or with the Europeans around them. THE moons of Autumn wax and wane ;-the hollow sound of floods Is borne upon the mournful wind; and broadly on the woods The changes of the changeful leaves-those painted flowers of frost Before the round and yellow sun, how beautiful, are tossed! The morning breaketh with the same broad pencilling of sky, And blushes through its golden clouds, as the great sun goes by; And evening lingers in the west, more beautiful than dreams That whisper of the Spirit Land-its wilderness and streams! A little time-another moon- the forests will be sad; The streams will mourn the pleasant light that made their journey glad; The moon will fanitly lighten up, the sunlight glisten cold, And wane into the western sky, without its autumn gold: And yet I weep not for the sign of Desolation near, The wailing streams will laugh again,—the naked trees put on The beauty of their summer-green, beneath the summer sun; The morning clouds will yet again their crimson draperies fold, The star of sunset smile once more, a diamond set in gold! But never for the forest path, or for the mountain's breath, The mighty of our race shall leave the Hunting-ground of Death. I know the tale my fathers told-the legend of our fame The glory of our spotless race, before the "Pale ones" came; When, asking fellowship with none, by turns the foe of all, With Ocean rearing up around its dark eternal wall, Companionless and terrible, our warriors stood alone, And from the Big Lake to the sea, the green earth was their own. Where are they now?-Around the changed and stranger-peopled isle A thousand graves are strewn beneath the mournful autumn's smile; The bow of strength is buried with the calumet and spear, And the spent arrow slumbereth, forgetful of the deer; The last canoe is rotting by the lake it glided o'er, When dark-eyed maidens sweetly sang its welcome from the shore: The foot-prints of the Hunter-race from all the hills are gone, Their offering to the Spirit Land hath left the altar stone; The ashes of the Council-fire have no abiding token, The song of War hath died away-the Pow-wah's charm is broken ; The startling war-whoop cometh not upon the loud, clear air, The ancient woods are vanishing-the Pale ones gather there! And who is left to mourn for this?-A solitary one, Whose life is waning into death, like yonder sinking sun! To mourn its faded sisterhood, and wrestle with the wind. Lo! from the Spirit Land I hear the music of the blest; The holy faces of the loved are beaming from the west; A Voice is on the' autumnal wind-it calleth me away! Ere the cheek hath lost its freshness, and the raven tress is gray : Ere the weight of years hath bowed me, eye is dim, or the sunny The Father of my People is calling me to him! Haverhill, Massachusetts, Nov. 1829. STANZAS. I. I saw thee declining-but sickness and woe Could not quench thy soft cheek's never-withering glow; And the spirit of gentleness slept on thee still, II. I gazed on thy features, still mournful, yet dear, THE GLEN OF GLANGOOLE. BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART. THE hills are all around me-in a dell I sit; and musing, lean upon my hand. These shadowy steeps that lift on either hand |