Page images
PDF
EPUB

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

An Indian girl, and the last of the Red Indians, or Boothicks, recently died at St. John's, Newfoundland. Her tribe, the abori gines 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 ruin of my Hunter-race may only ask a tear: 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 dra

peries 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

fameThe 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 stran

ger-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 froin 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!

A broken reed - a blighted flower -- that lingereth still

behind, 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, or the sunny

eye is dim, The Father of my People is calling me to him!

Haverhill, Massachusetts, Nov. 1829.

STANZAS.

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,
Like the beam of the west on a green summer hill!

II.

I gazed on thy features, still mournful, yet dear,
And thy voice sounded tranquil and low in my ear:
Oh! what must Heaven's rod to the guilty one be,
Thou purest of hearts — since it falls upon thee!

THE GLEN OF GLANGOOLE.

BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART.

The hills are all around ine-in a dell
Worn by a stream, a deep and winding glen,
On a bare rock, beneath a waterfall,
I sit; and musing, lean upon my hand.
The song of birds, and the low piping wind,
The distant voice of cattle, and the hum
Of labouring men, as the breeze dies away,
Make music with the stream's deep under-song:-
A mountain music; that revives old thoughts,
And fills the eye of memory with tears.

These shadowy steeps that lift on either hand
Their brows into the sun, naked of trees,
Yet wear a gorgeous mantle! the green grass,
The yellow gorse, the heath of purple bloom
With its brown foliage, group amid the rocks
In tufts or spreading banks; the lady-fern
Spreads out her delicate fingers; 'neath the stone,
Close by the torrent's side, on marshy spots,
The bright green flag shoots up; a thousand weeds

« PreviousContinue »