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author found a tribe of fierce-looking but quiet barbarians, who were far from being intelligent, yet had a sense of religion and a regard for social order." Both sexes had their faces and various parts of their bodies stained with red and purple dyes; which, added to their figures not being good, their dark complexions, and the long black hair of the men as well as women, gave them a barbarous appearance; but they were peaceable in their manners, and most of them saluted us as we passed. Sunday being kept here as a day of suspension from duty, the Indians were all painted in their best style, dressed in clean white or blue frocks and trowsers, and their hair ornamented with a few red and yellow feathers tied to tails behind. They collected at an early hour, and went quietly to the church, where they remained about half an hour, although there was no clergyman to officiate. Having returned in a similar manner, the day's amusements commenced, the most favorite of which appeared to be dancing to the music of drums and fifes made of bones, whilst they occasionally partook freely of chewed yucachicha. The dyes with which they stained themselves were evidently considered first-rate ornaments: some had red stripes or diamonds on their foreheads; others a red stripe downwards under each eye, and several were rouged; a purple dye was applied as a substitute for whiskers, beards, and mustachios, whilst some of the females had supplied themselves with boots of the same material."

The manners and customs of the people of Tabitinga forcibly struck him. They have imbibed, from Spanish missionaries, some superstitious notions and practices, which they mingle with those of their own race. They are not particularly ingenious in any mechanic arts; even in the preparation of their clothing they are unskilful; but some are good herbalists, and find antidotes to poison as easily as others prepare it. They are not remarkable for industry, sobriety, or good morals; but they are friendly to

each other, and civil to strangers. They are highly pleased at the recurrence of periodical festivals, in which dancing is the chief amusement." The dances are performed in masks, and there is much acting in the performance. The dancers whom we saw were dressed in shirts made of bark, stripped off the trees whole, therefore having no seam, and marked with rude figures of different colors, principally red and yellow. The shirt was continued over the head, with holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth, and above the shirt was a head-dress made from the stems of Indian corn; sleeves were made of the bark of smaller trees or branches, also without seam, except where they joined the body of the shirt; and ears were attached according to the objects intended to be represented, some resembling monkeys. On the legs, particularly on the right ancle, were tied strings of rattles, made from the shells of some small hard nut, the sound of which was loud, but not disagreeable. The dancers were usually linked three together, one principal character supported by two others, one on each side; and there were generally two sets dancing at the same time, each set being followed by women and children dancing or jumping in a similar manner. The step was a kind of run, one, two, three, then the same number of beats with the heel, jerking the rattles, and then on again, passing continually round and across the apartment. After the parties who were dancing when we entered had gone on for some time, a fresh arrival was announced by a noise; room was then made; the first performers retired, and the new-comers entered, dressed so as to represent various characters, and armed with false spears or javelins, which they darted into the thatch of the roof inside the house, and then proceeded to dance. The conclusion of the festival was, that the women as well as the men were all intoxicated; and, the day after the rites terminated, few Indians were seen out of their hammocks."

STANZAS,

written at West-Mill, Forearth, Essex, near the close of the last August.

THE sunny hours are fled away,

That blest the farmer's early pray'r;
Deep gloom has dimm'd the vivid ray,
And hurl'd his hopes to dark despair:
The god of harvests then implore,

To bless the gath'ring of our store.

The breeze that came, like scented balm,
O'er smiling hills and flow'ry vales,
Has lost its renovating calm,

And like a wint'ry tempest rails,
Howling, with desolating breath,

A requiem for the summer's death.

And with the blast come sweeping rains,
That swell the lately-gentle rill,
Which, sea-like, spreads across the plains,
And threatens ruin to the mill,
That like another ark appears,

Enthron'd amid a world of tears.

For 'gainst our house the waters beat;
E'en at our very door they lie;
And this too when we us'd to meet,
To hear the meadows' minstrelsy,
From birds, who now about our dome
Fly, as 'twould seem, to claim a home.

Oh! 'tis most fearful thus to see

Winter usurp the summer hours;

To mark, instead of jocund glee,

And harvest's last load deck'd with flow'rs,
The care-worn face, the heart-felt sigh,
Of want, despair, and misery.
Heav'n only knows its deep decrees,
And what for man may be in store;
But we, as mortal judgement sees,
Deem it but righteous to implore,
That vengeful wrath may not be hurl'd
In ruin on a wicked world!

J. M. LACEY.

THE DEATH OF ANGELO DUCA,

by Mr. Leigh Cliffe.

[ANGELO DUCA, who lived about twenty years ago, was the prince of Italian brigands. The cause of his joining the banditti, whose chief he shortly became, was his killing by accident a horse belonging to a Neapolitan nobleman, who refused to give him time to make restitution. He was, at this time, a poor shepherd boy, and, to avoid the punishment which even a mere accident was likely to bring upon him, he fled into a forest, and joined the banditti. His name is remembered and respected in Italy, as a brave and kind-hearted man; and the following stanzas record his death.]

On a lone convent's lofty wall

The brigand stood-his followers fled :
His stern pursuers loudly call

For vengeance on his guilty head.

VOL. X.

The flow'r of Naples' youth are there,
And Angel' Duca's time is near,
While at his feet a form more fair

Than seraph, and than life more dear
To him, is weeping, trembling, sad,

And pouring forth her pray'rs to Heaven ;
And surely purer prayers ne'er had

Been breath'd, that he might be forgiven!
The evening sun's reflected light,

O'er Angel' Duca's high-flush'd brow,
Whom wrongs had urg'd to swerve from right,
Play'd in swift eddying circles now;
And thus in scornful tone he cried-

"Need hundreds seek an unarm'd man?
Say, ye who stand in martial pride,

And breathe your tyrant monarch's ban!
Once ye did tremble at my name,

For Angel' Duca was your dread;
Like a bright meteor's glance he came,
And like the light'ning flash he fled.
like
Say, did he e'er oppress, ye,
The peasant in his humble shed?
No:-nobles bent to him the knee,

And rulers bow'd the lordly head.
He made your feudal tyrants quail,
The juage be just;-go, ask the poor,
If in the peasant's village-tale

They do not tell thee this, and more
Of Angel' Duca, though he stands

A proscribed, hunted, brigand chief,
Supported but by those fair hands,

And that kind heart which soothes his grief.
Your nobles drove me to the woods;

And from that hour I curs'd the great;
Aye, curs'd them--and the winds and floods
Have hoarsely echoed back my hate.
I led a band as brave as free,

And conquer'd e'en your bravest men ;
But mine have trait'rous prov'd to me:
I lov'd them once-I curs'd them then :-
For I have prov'd them false as air:

One heart alone is fond and true
To me-and can that form so fair

Be doom'd, ye tyrants, and by you?
No: see the convent smokes and flames!
Fire-fire-ye tyrants, shall destroy
Those whom the world's injustice shames,
And who, to shun injustice, die.
Go, tell how Angel' Duca died;
Tell that his ashes mingle here
With those o' th' fondest fairest bride
That e'er for brigand dropp'd a tear.
Tell-tell-" With laugh of scornful pride
He grasp'd the fair one, and the stream
Of red light parted, and its beam
Brighten'd as Angel' Duca died!

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Where o'er the slumbering lake
Droops the fond willow,
While the breeze cannot make
Even a billow;

When there is silence in each leafy bower,
There be our meeting-alone-in that hour!

Oh! let no cold eye

Of others be o'er us!
Stillness be spread on high,
Beauty before us!-
Then-down thy lovely check
Silently stealing-
Should a warm tear speak
The fullness of feeling,
Fondly I'll chide, sweet!
That symbol of sadness;
Surely, when lovers meet,
All should be gladness!

Stay till along the sky day-light is darting;

Then will we weep-'tis our moment of parting!

ADDRESS FROM A MAN OF THE NORTH TO THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTH.

I KNOW that you have brighter skies
And softer airs and sweeter flowers-
I know that you have darker eyes

In orange groves and jasmine bowers,
And fruits of richer hue than ours:
Yet all their charms are little worth,
Match'd with the nature of the North!

For me!-I love the clouds-the winds-
The wild flow'rs-the pure eyes of light-
The lasses "wi' the locks lint-white"-
The warm hearts and emphatic minds,
That grace the clime from which my heart
Errs not, howe'er my steps depart.

Oh yes! my filial spirit clings

Warmly to that more chilling clime,
Where the cerulean harebell springs,
And the glad eagle spreads his wings,
And rides upon the storm sublime!

LITTLE FLORA'S SONG,

from the New-Year's Gift for 1830, edited by Mrs. Alaric Watts.

WILL you not buy my flowers ?—

I have been on the primrose-hill;

I have been where the lily builds silver bowers

On the edge of the singing rill:

I follow'd the bee where the sallow grows,
By the amaranth dim and pale,

And I track'd the butterfly's wing to the rose,
In her palace of the vale.

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