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THE MOHAWK AND THE INDIAN CAPTIVE.

BY WILLIAM L. STONE.

In yonder sylvan dale, the hills and woods among, Bright as the sweetest vale the poets e'er have sung, Where Mohawk's silver tide adorns the fairy scene, Rejoicing in his pride, mid groves forever green :There, dark as clouds of night, the lurking savage came, With hatchet burnished bright, and torch of lurid flame, To wake with horrid yell the hamlet's sweet repose, By deeds no tongue can tell—the deeds of savage foes.

The warwhoop, shrill and wild, through darkest gloom

was heard ;The mother clasped her child, the father grasped his

sword: But e'er the morning's dawn the cruel work was o'er; The dusky foe was gone, the vale was steeped in gore. The dying and the dead were strewed along the plain, And fewer those who fled than those among the slain : And loud the plaintive cry broke on the saddened ear; And deep the heaving sigh, and scalding was the tear.

With throbbing bosoms there, amid the field of blood, In anguish and in prayer, full many a mourner stood ;With swimming eyes, distressed-transfixed as by a

spell, The maiden smote her breast, with grief she could not

tell.

A mother there was one—a widow—and she wept
Her darling infant son that in the cradle slept :-
The babe, the eve before, had sweetly sunk to rest,
Alas ! to smile no more upon a mother's breast.

But see! what form is there, thus bounding from the

wood, Like panther from his lair, back on the trail of blood ? A chieftain by his mien, of noble form is he,A prouder ne'er was seen in chase across the lea. Swift as the arrow's flight, he speeds his course along, With eye of burning light, to reach the weeping

throng ; And o'er his eagle-crest, a banner white he waves, As though to make request, of good intent he craves.

Wrapped in his blanket warm, loose o'er his shoulder

flungYet guarded safe from harm, a lovely infant hung. On, on with breathless stride the warrior held his

way; Quick by the mother's side, her own lost infant lay! The babe looked up, and smiled,--and sweet the thrill

of joy,

As now with transports wild she clasped her darling

boy_ While rapid as the light, the warrior leaped the flood, Sprang swiftly from the sight, and vanished in the wood.

THE WATER.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

How beautiful the water is !

Didst ever think of it,
When down it tumbles from the skies

As in a merry fit?
It jostles, ringing as it falls.

On all that's in its way-
I hear it dancing on the roof,

Like some wild thing at play.

'Tis rushing now adown the spout

And gushing out below; A happy thing the water is,

While sporting thus, I know.
The earth is dry, and parched with heat,

And it hath longed to be
Released from out the selfish cloud,

To cool the thirsty tree.

It washes, rather rudely too,

The flowret's simple grace,
As if to chide the pretty thing

For dust upon its face.
It scours the tree, till every leaf

Is freed from dust or stain,
Then waits till leaf and branch are stilled,

And showers them o'er again.

Drop after drop, is tinkling down

To kiss the stirring brook,
The water dimples from beneath

With its own joyous look-
And then the kindred drops embrace,

And singing, on they go,
To dance beneath the willow tree,

And glad the vale below.

How beautiful the water is !

It loves to come at night,
To make you wonder in the morn

To see the earth so bright:
To find a youthful gloss is spread

On every shrub and tree,
And flowrets breathing on the air

Their odours pure and free.

A dainty thing the water is,

It loves the flowret's cup,
To nestle mid the odour there,

And fill its petals up-
It hangs its gems on every leaf,

Like diamonds in the sun;
And then the water wins the smile

The flowret should have won.

How beautiful the water is !

To me 'tis wondrous fair--No spot can ever lonely be,

If water sparkles there

It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,

Of grandeur, or delight;
And every heart is gladder made,

When water greets the sight.

INDIAN CHANT.

BY H. R. SCHOOLCRAFT.

FIRST VOICE.

THE eagles scream on high,

They whet their forked beaks: Raise-raise the battle cry,

'Tis fame our leader seeks.

SECOND VOICE.

'Tis fame my soul desires,

By deeds of martial strife : Give-give me warlike fires,

Or take-ah take my life.

THIRD VOICE.

The deer a while may go

Unhunted o'er the heath, For now I seek a nobler foe,

And prize a nobler death.

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