ON RHODE ISLAND COAL.

Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth,

Thou in those island mines didst slumber long But now thou art come forth to move the earth,

And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, And warm the shins of all that under-rate thee.

Yea, they did wrong thee foully-they who mocked
Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn;
Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked,

And grew profane-and swore, in bitter scorn,
That men might to thy inner caves retire,
And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire.

Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state,
That I too have seen greatness-even I--
Shook hands with Adams-stared at La Fayette,
When, barehead, in the hot noon of July,
He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him,
For which three cheers burst from the mob before him.

And I have seen--not many months ago—

An eastern Governor in chapeau bras

And military coat, a glorious show!

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah!

How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan !

How many hands were shook and votes were won!

'Twas a great Governor--thou too shalt be

Great in thy turn--and wide shall spread thy fame,

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ON RHODE ISLAND COAL.

And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee,

And cold New-Brunswick gladden at thy name, And, faintly through its sleets. the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile.

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat
The hissing rivers into steam, and drive
Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet,
Walking their steady way, as if alive,
Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee,
And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee.

Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea,
Like its own monsters-boats that for a guinea
Will take a man to Havre-and shalt be

The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny,
And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear
As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor.

Then we will laugh at winter when we hear

The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year,"

Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE

OF HIS FATHERS.

It is the spot I came to seek,--
My fathers' ancient burial-place

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot,-I know it well-
Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river side ;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide,

The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,

Between the hills so sheer.

I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

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AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade,
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the god of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,

OF HIS FATHERS.

And scattered in the furrows lie

The weapons of his rest,

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave,
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth;
Or the young wife, that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth,

That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the plough

They waste us-ay-like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go
Towards the setting day,—

Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind,

Save ruins o'er the region spread,

And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed ;

The melody of waters filled

The fresh and boundless wood;

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