And fancy'd that there met thy watchful ear,
A sound, so low, so sad, so chill, and drear,
As if some long clos'd, clammy, fleshless grave
Had op'd its stubborn jaws, and groaning gave
Its mouldering bones awhile to roam at will,
Through midnight shades all damp and deadly
still,
Until Aurora, and her sprightly train,
Should chase them to their narrow cell again ;If such thy haunts and themes, I woo thee now, Come hover o'er thy lowly suppliant's brow, And with thy gloomy soul my verse inspire, While vent'rously I wake the untouch'd lyre."
A night scene on the beautiful banks of the Ohio is described in a strain of mingled elegance and force, at once soothing to the sense, and animating to the spirit. We seem to inbreathe the sweet freshness of the night-to behold the moon travelling through the cloudless empyreum, and pouring on the forests and waves of the west a splendour too pure and glorious for the eye of aught but innocence. There is something too in the unbroken and majestic silence of the mighty solitude irresistibly affecting, and this the author has finely improved by
the enumeration of all those circumstances by which it was not disturbed.
"The moon high wheel'd the distant hills above,
Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove,
That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell,
Whisper'd it lov'd the gentle visit well-
That fair-fac'd orb alone to move appear'd,
That zephyr was the only sound they heard.
No deep-mouth'd hound the hunter's haunt be-
tray'd,
No lights upon the shore, or waters play'd,
No loud laugh broke upon the silent air,
To tell the wand'rers man was nestling there,
While even the froward babe in mother's arms,
Lull'd by the scene suppress'd its loud alarms,
And yielding to that moment's tranquil sway,
Sunk on the breast, and slept its rage away.
All, all was still, on gliding barque and shore,
As if the Earth now slept to wake no more;
Life seem'd extinct, as when the World first
Ere Adam was a dupe, or Eve beguil'd."
They continue on their way, and
"gliding down the gentle river tide, Three days and nights, at length our party spied The lone asylum where their lot was cast, And reach'd the long expected home at last. A winding stream, that came from Heav'n knows where,
Far in the woods, join'd fair Ohio there,
And at their sileut meeting might be seen,
A little level land all fresh and green,
On which those strange mysterious works ap-
peared,
By unknown hands, in unknown ages rear'd;
Mounds, such as rise on Euxine's level shore,
The lasting tombs of nameless names of yore,
And forts, if we on trav'llers' lore rely,
With oaks of ages on their summits high.
These, gliding down Ohio's devious maze,
Now catch the passing stranger's wand'ring
gaze,
Puzzle the wise-heads of the learned schools,
And teach philosophers to talk like fools."
Their first establishment and occupations are thus related:
""Twas here they landed mid the desert fair, Broke up their boats, and form'd a shelter there, Till they could build them cabins snug and
To shield from Autumn's rains, and Winter's Then, for the first, the woodman's echoing stroke,
Now first was heard the crash of falling trees,
The holy silence of the forest broke;
Yielding to other power than howling breeze:
And now the first time did the furrow tear
The virgin Earth, and lay her bosom bare.
All now was bustle in that calm retreat,
The wants of Winter, and its rage to meet,
And soon, like magic, in the late lone wild,
A little rustic village rose and smil'd.
With keen-edg'd axe some warr'd against the
And girdled trees, that ages there had stood,
wood,
While trusty rifle close beside them lies,
Some urg'd the plough where'er the land was
To guard from wily Indian's dread surprise;
And some went forth to chase the half-tame deer,
That look'd them in the face with wistful ken,
As wond'ring what could be these stranger men.
Women and children, all were busy here,
To meet the pressure of the coming year,
A long, drear Winter now before them lay,
And short and shorter wax'd each passing day."
The representation of their winter avocations is a fine picture of moral virtue and simplicity, and is well chosen by the author for the introduction of the great names of America, the saviours of her soil, and the pillars of her renown.
"Calm were the wint'ry days our pilgrims knew,
And lightly o'er their heads the moments flew;
At eve they spent their little social hours,
As gay as though they bask'd in Eastern bowers;
Or in the racket of some noisy town,
Toil'd day and night to run light pleasure down.
Learn'd BASIL now his leisure time employs,
To teach his blooming girls, and growing boys,
Reading and writing, and each simple rule,
That he had learn'd, while young, at village
school;
But when that task was done, round evening blaze
The good man talk'd of things of other days-
Sometimes he told them how, in good time pat:
Our fathers fought for freedom to the last,
The march of tyranny sev'n years withstood,
And bravely won the price of toil and blood."
Then would he tell of souls now gone to rest,
By every native heart's best wishes blest,
Of virtuous GREENE, whose cherish'd name shall be
As everlasting as thy hill, Santee,
And borne on Fame's untir'd, carth-circling
wings,
Rise pure and lipid as his Eutaw springs :
Of MARION, by his country not half known,
Who kept a war alive, himself alone;
And when the prostrate South defenceless lay
To foreign bands, and homebred foes a prey,
Still nurs'd the fainting spirit of the state,
And bravely tripp'd the heels of adverse Fate;
Still watch'd the footsteps of the plund'ring foe,
Who thought him distant till he felt the blow,
And hung upon his flank, or straggling rear,
And made him buy each inch of land too dear:
OF FRANKLIN, who by mind alone sustain'd,
The palm of Science, and of Wisdom gain'd,
Whose name deep rooted in this grateful land,
Against the wiles of Envy long shall stand;
And while Oblivion's wave, urg'd on by Time,
Swallows the mighty million, stand sublime.
Thus the rough torrent sweeps the Earth away,
And pilfers something from her every day,
While the steep rock, firm seated on its sides,
Rests calmly there and all its force derides;
The more the waters sap its rooted base,
It rises still in stern majestic grace;
Higher its brow of adamant uprears,
And deeper rooted in the earth appears."
The eulogium of WASHINGTON is conceived with extraordinary vigour of thought, and energy of diction.
O! spotless, blameless, high heroic name, Heir of the World's best gift, unblemish'd Fame! What though no stately sculptures deck thy tomb,
Or blazon'd 'scutcheons its pale vault illume,
The freedom which thy steady virtues gave,
Is the best monument that thou canst have;
While grateful millions consecrate thy name,
Thou need'st no tomb to prop thy deathless
For me-I joy that he, who when alive,
'Gainst empty pageants did so nobly strive,
When dead, reposes by his parents' side,
Debas'd by no vile attributes of pride.
I love the simple grave unspoil'd by art,
Of him whose tomb is every virtuous heart!
Proud monuments in stately pomp that rise,
And cheat the world with flattery and lies,
May give distinction to the artist's name,
And consecrate e'en nothingness to fame;
But wheresoe'er a WASHINGTON may rest,
There Fame shall make her everlasting nest,
For that renown the one from tombs receives,
The other to the simplest hillock gives.
No mass of marble towering to the skies,
Where truth inflated, turns to nauseous lies,
No pen historic, nor the fabling lyre,
Altun'd to flattery, his deeds require:
Look in his Country's face, you'll see them
List to her voice, you'll hear them in the air! No need of pompous epitaphs to tell,
His high-wrought soul has bade this orb farewell,
For when from Earth retires the glorious Sun, The darken'd World proclaims his race is run."
The spirit of a noble and magnanimous
patriotism, is beautifully blended with the poetical genius displayed in the apostro phe to the youthful states of the West.
"O rare Kentucky! gallant Tennessee, And young Ohio, we are bound to thee! Though like the aged patriarch's fav'rite son, The younger born, a glorious race ye've ru Be this the legend on your crests engray'd, Like Joseph we our elder brethren sav'd. In some more happy, nor far distant day, When that detested poison ebbs away, That floats in our young Country's swelling veins,
And spots her face with party-colour'd stains, Chills the wild throbbing of the heart's high beat,
And cools the glowing pulse's gen'rous heat,
O! then some bard shall frame a loftier lay,
Which sung, perchance, in some far distant day,.
Along Ohio's tranquil, silvery tide,
Will many a bosom swell with honest pride,
And teach to myriad mortals yet unborn,
To turn on haughty Europe scorn for scorn,
That second Afric-robb'd of liberty,
By the same cheats that set the negro free:"
The Indian character is pourtrayed with great animation and spirit. Take the following sketch of a chief whom the gradual encroachments of the whites have bereft of his followers and sway.
"Far in a dismal glen whose deep recess, The sun's life-giving ray did never bless, Beside a lone and melancholy stream, That never sparkled in the spritely beam, Sever'd from all his copper-colour'd race, A moody Indian made his hiding place; Here mid green carpets of dew dripping moss, And solemn pines, that lock'd their arms across The foam-crown'd brook, and with their gloomy
An everlasting dusky twilight made,
With hurrying steps, like maniac oft he trod, And curs'd the white-man, and the white-man's
Once the proud painted chief of warriors brave,
Whose bones now bleaching lay without a grave,
A thousand red-men own'd his savage sway,
And follow'd on where'er he led the way,
Rang'd the wide forest many a countless mile,
And hail'd him kord of cruelty and wile--
Now, like a girdled tree, unleaf'd he stood,
The only relick of a stately wood;
The last of all his race-he liv'd alone,
His name,
his being, and his haunts unknown."
Indignantly he broods over the calamities of his race, till every other feeling is absorbed in the intense desire and determination of revenge.
"Thus long time brooding o'er one bloody
That fill'd his daily musings, and his dream,
His brain to moody madness was beguil'd,
And broke into a chaos dark and wild-
Forsaken haunts unknown to the clear Heav's,
Caves in the dripping rocks by torrents riv'n,
Hark! would he mutter, every thing is still, The screech-owl, wolf, and boding whip-poor
At eve he sought, and with half-smother'd breath, of his departed followers, as one of the Woo'd fell revenge, and hungry white-ribb'd finest passages in American poetry, nor is the manner in which are described the effects of his hortatory and indignant eloquence on the minds of his countrymen inferior in energy.
Now is your time come forth I prithee now-
Come my pale darlings, fan my burning brow.
If in the air ye hover-blessed things!-
Come like the raven with his coal-black wings;
If in the worthless, man-encumber'd earth,
Like forked adders, crawl ye hissing forth;
Come with an apple in your coiling train,
And blast these ague-cheeks yet once again;
Or if beneath the ocean's mad'ning foam,
Ye find your dark and melancholy home,
Rise, with its ugliest monsters in your train,
And give me vengeance for my people slain;
So shall the blue detested wave that bore
The book-learn'd fiend, the white-man to this
shore,
With tardy justice help me to repay,
The wrongs that eat my very heart away.'
The howling storm that drives the happy home,
But tempted him a wider range to roam,
And when loud thunder rattled in his ear,
That was the music he best lov'd to hear;
If it were midnight, he would wander forth,
The loneliest thing that crawl'd this peopled earth,
And while the half-starv'd wolf and well-cloth'd
bear,
Fled from the tempest to their secret lair,
"Restless the prophet rov'd, as one whose mind,
No biding place on earth, was doom'd to find,
And wheresoe'er he went, his words of flame,
Rous'd them to rage, or blanch'd their cheeks
with shame.
He told them, how in distant ages past,
The white-man on these shores his anchor cast,
Where countless tribes of red-men freely reign'd,
Not one of all whose myriads now remain'd.
In wonder first, and with soft pity then,
They gaz'd upon these strange, pale visag'd
Stretch'd out the ever ready helping hand,
Hunted them game, and gave away their land,
With fond credulity their tales believ'd,
And all their wants, and all their fears reliev'd:
How in a little while th' ungrateful crew,
Their toils about the simple Indians threw,
Cheated them of their lands with fraud and lies,
False, fair deceitful words, and falser eyes,
Till in the end, they learn'd the wretched trade,
And their own brothers, like the whites betray'd,
"Twas his delight through tangled groves to Drank, cheated, swore to that which was not
And mutter to himself unjointed talk,
Or climb some slippery cliff that tower'd on high,
To mouth the thunder rumbling in the sky,
Or at its very verge on tiptoe stand,
To catch the nimble lightning in his hand,
And as he grasp'd the unsubstantial air,
Would fancy that he held it quivering there,
Then with delirious laughter backward start,
And hurl it at the hated white-man's heart.
At last the lone enthusiast believ'd,
He had commission from his God receiv'd,
The remnant of his fallen race to save,
And drive the white-man o'er the boundless wave;
Yet often the wild discord of his brain,
To better tune awhile would come again,
And then his pride, or policy forbade,
The secret of his mind should be betray'd;
So half impostor, half enthusiast grown,
Sometimes the dupe of others, then his own,
Cunning and frenzy, sep'rate or combin'd,
Sway'd the wild chaos of his wav'ring mind.
Urg'd by the fiend that tenanted his brain,
He sought the haunts of savage man again,
Proclaim'd his mission wheresoe'er he came,
And challeng'd holy Prophet's hallow'd name.
His restless, bloodshot eye-thick tangled hair,
Quick hurrying step, and wild unearthly air,
The eloquence which Frenzy oft inspires,
That moves to tears, or lights consuming fires,
Gain'd proselytes where'er the maniac came,
And won their rev'rence, and a prophet's name;
All gaz'd with wonder at the wizard form,
That talk'd with spirits in the midnight storm."
In the above lines, though deformed by a few vulgarisms, there is much strength and originality of idea, conveyed in encrgetic and poetic language. We would select the chief's invocation to the spirits
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And chang'd with every changing wind that blew,
Renounc'd their ancient gods throughout the
land
For other creeds they could not understand,
And in the downhill path, at length, became
Worthy associates in the Christian name.
"Thus, would he rave, debas'd by Christian
Or skulk like foxes from our hunting land;
The moment's come-for bloody Discord throws
Her flames on every side among our foes,
For gold, or hate, or some of those curs'd rights,
That cloak the wrongs we suffer from these
whites,
The spirits tell me they will try ere long
Which has the right-that is, which is the strong;
Make one bold stand to save your native clime!
Awake, ye red-men! for the last, last time-
Bury the calumet, deep, deep in earth,
And swear by Vengeance ne'er to draw it forth,
Till not a soul of that pale visag'd race
Within this land shall show his frosty face,
Of snow or ice in some hard winter made,
And blanch'd in one eternal midnight shade;
Paint your red faces with a thousand stains,
Till not a lineament of man remains;
Look like the fiends, and be ye what you seem,
Nor canting mercy for a virtue deem;
Swear to revenge your wrongs then deeply
swear,
Not one of all the white-man's race to spare,
E'en though the worldless babe that knows no
guile,
Should look you in the face with that same smile,
The hypocrite, his ruthless father, wore,
When first he came to cheat in days of yore;
These are young wolves, who when their teeth
Will lap our blood, and gnaw us to the bone,
Vainly we kill the root, if still the seed,
Within the soil is left, more foes to breed.'
The tribes drink in with thirsty ear the fiery exhortations of the maniac;
"A youth with all the gravity of age,
And all the cunning of a thoughtful sage,
One, who through distant tribes rude sway
maintain❜d,
And o'er their loves and fears despotic reign'd.
In peace no passion seem'd to warm his soul,
In war his passions rag'd without control;
Yet oft, when in calm indolence he'd seem,
Twixt sleep and waking buried in some dream,
With vacant eye, and cold unconscious stare,
Unknowing what he thought, or how, or where,
His boiling brain was whirling all the while,
With desp'rate plans to ruin or beguile;
Schemes of deep mischief rankled in his mind,
And hate and policy were there combin'd
In one great plan to free his wand'ring race,
Or give them death, and rid them of disgrace;
Deep as old Ocean's caves, for ever dark,
Within his bosom lay one latent spark,
Till that was touch'd, he seem'd insensate clay,
When it was touch'd he burst like fiend away,
And scour'd the earth for victims to assuage
His fev'rish bosom's unrelenting rage.
That spark was waken'd in his bosom now,
And play'd in lightnings round his burning brow,
The prophet's words his soul with venom fill'd,
And his rous'd heart with keener vengeance
thrill'd;
With joy be hail'd the maniac's mad career,
And half beguil'd by Hope, half chill'd with
fear,
Sometimes believ'd the madman was inspir'd,
At others, fear'd some fiend his brain had fir'd;
Still, whether prophet, madman, knave or fool,
He was he thought a most convenient tool,
To work upon the dark benighted mind,
With rage half mad, and superstition blind,
And make it to his towering will submit,
By right divine, or Indian holy writ.
Tis thus, if right we read historic page,
Pronounc'd the wandering maniac's mission true,
And hotter firebrands mid the circle threw,
Till ev'n the torpid heart of wint'ry age,
Burst its thick ice, and fir'd with headlong rage,
Forgot its tutelary genius, Fear,
And roll'd away, in Folly's mad career."
A general assembly is convoked of the tribes, to debate on the coming warthey meet at early dawna pyre is prepared, in which each casts
"Some relic dearest to the givers heart,"
and as the sun rises above the woods, it is
ignited; a wild bymn is then chaunted by
the ministering priests, after which the
warriors perform the war-dance round
the expiring flame, breathing, in distem-
pered and ferocious strains, their curses
against the white intruders on their soil..
"O! bloody were the deeds each warrior sung,
While charm'd Attention on his accents hung;
If in his vagrant life, he e'er had done
A deed that sweet Humanity would shun,
Scalp'd a young babe, or tortur'd a poor white,
With knives and fires, and shouted with delight,
To see the drops fast down his forehead roll,
And hear the groans that left his very soul,
The ruthless crime of Heav'n and man accurs'd,
Was now in song triumphantly rehears'd;
Mute admiration held the list ning train,
Each long'd to act the bloody scene again,
And some poor trembling, half-starv'd captive
wretch,
Upon the rack of lingering torture stretch,
From murder with ingenious art refrain,
And nurse his life to lengthen out his pain.
Thus through the livelong day they danc'd and
And with their music distant woodlands rung,
The very wolves with this loud rant were scar'd,
Nor from their haunts that day to venture dar'd;
But when the Sun low waning tow'rd the West,
Proclaim'd the coming hour of balmy rest,
The weary, wild, tumultuous, madden'd throng,
Howl'd to their God, the warriors' hairbrain'd
song.
Take heart-he hears us in yon ruddy skies,
And through the Sun looks with approving eyes!
Behold, how bright his golden circle shines,
The willing Spirit to our wish inclines!
"Tis He that sends this fair and sprightly day,
'Tis his sweet smiles that on the waters play;
He makes the springs to rise, the rivers flow,
The thunders rattle, and the whirlwinds blow,
Wings forth the nimble lightning with his arm,
Scourges the earth, or shelters it from harm-
Through the long records of each cheating age, The high, the powerful, the unknown Great,
We find, the art to govern mainly lies
In throwing dust in man's deluded eyes;
The less they see, the better rulers speed,
For babes, the docile blind may freely lead;
Not by superior wit the statesman rules,
So much as making all his fellows fools:
This our young Shawanoe gather'd from
sire,
And well he fann'd the newly lighted fire,
Still hears our pray'rs, still watches o'er our fate; He loves our tribe, he sees, he feels our woes, And gives us vengeance on our ruthless foes; Cheer up my brothers! we shall pay them yet, And in revenge, our wrongs and shames forget. But see! he leaves us-his bright warming Sun, his Is gone away-tis done, ayc it is doneFreedom is ours, the Spirit tells us so,
Wo to the white-man-to his children wo!'"
Not only against the spirit of aborigiginal hatred was it that the settlers had to contend-To inflame the rage of the simple Indian, there was a wretch who, banished for a long list of crimes from his native land, fled to the States-here also violating the laws, he became a double traitor, and joined the tribes in their hostilities against the country that protected him.
We would gladly give our readers a taste of the miscreant's character, but the length to which this article has already extended will not allow us to indulge our wishes.
The secret visit of the prophet to the settlement of the whites, gives occasion to a simple but sweet description of their flourishing establishment.
"Alone be hied him-for his gloomy soul,
Sicken'd at fellowship, and scorn'd control;
His humour was to roam, no one knew where,
Mutt'ring and murmuring to the lonely air.
With cautious step, the wily Indian went
Like prowling thief on villanous intent,
Lay on his face, and listened to the breeze,
Whose whisper'd greetings woo'd the waving
trees,
And if an acorn fell, he quail'd with fear,
For now the white-man's dangerous haunts were
Nearer and nearer, still the Prophet hied,
And now the curling smoke far off descry'd,
Above the woods in waving volumes rise,
Mingling its lighter tints with pale blue skies.
A little nearer, and the village spire,
Rose every moment higher yet and higher,
Until, at last, the peaceful hamlet scene,
Burst on his view, along the level green;
The Sun's last rays upon the spire-top gleam'd,
The ev'ning purple on the still wave beam'd,
The lazy herds tinkled their evening bell,
The measur'd oar upon the river fell,
As swift the light canoe, from side to side,
Flitting like Indian barque was seen to glide,
The boatman ty'd his boat to root of tree,
And sung, or whistled there, right merrily-
And every sound upon the ear that broke,
The hour of rural relaxation spoke;
Nothing was seen, but comfort every where,
And nothing heard, that seem'd the voice of
Care."
A thousand conflicting emotions rush upon the distracted mind of the moonstruck chief. Fear and tenderness agitate him by turns-On this spot he once reigned, the king of a brave and affectionate people, and the scene he now beholds of happiness and beauty only reminds him of his vanished power and
glory-After a fierce and sanguinary denunciation of revenge,
"he turn'd him to the glowing West, Where day's last tints upon the light clouds rest, And turning, saw an aged pilgrim stand Beneath an oak, with rustic staff in hand, Who seem'd e'en like that day's departing sun, As if his race on earth were almost run. Sudden the murd'rous tomahawk he drew, And, wing'd by vengeance, on his victim flew, But as he look'd upon the old man's face, There was a mild, and melancholy graceA fearless resignation so divine, An eye that so forgivingly did shine, As stopt awhile the Prophet's mad career, And made him pause 'twixt reverence and fear, He seem'd like patriarch of some distant age, Return'd awhile to linger on this stage; Bald was his brow-so very deadly fair, As if no drop of blood now mantled there; A few white hairs, like flaky snow unstain'd, The reliques of a century remain'd, And his calm eye, as in a mirror, show'd The mild reflection of a mind subdu'd; No boiling passion foam'd and eddied there, Av'rice, or gluttony, or selfish care, But all was like the twilight's peaceful hue, When gentle skies in silence shed their dew.
The Prophet gaz'd upon the bloodless sage, And reverenc'd the divinity of age; Were be an infant still his blood should flow, For helpless babes to sturdy warriors grow; But time can ne'er the old man's strength restore, Or wake the sleeping vigour of four score."
A dialogue ensues between the reverend stranger and the prophet, in which we cannot but think the native sagacity of the last appears to considerable advantage. The invitation of the "pilgrim" to become a Christian, he scornfully rejects, and listens disdainfully to all the assurances of protection and assistance among the whites.
The following speech is a fine and striking example of the force of savage eloquence, and its convertibility to the poet's purposes.
"Look!-if the waning lamp of thine old eye
Gives light enough far objects to descry-
Look, what a peaceful scene; how mild, how fair,
Bares its sweet bosom to the cooling air!
Canst see the noiseless wave unruffled glide
Round yonder isle that parts its gentle tide,
Whose fringed shore reflected in the stream,
Like shadowy land of souls, far off does seem?
Dost see yon moon, like sky-hung Indian bow,
Across the wave a line of radiance throw,
The wand'ring soul across the rippling tide,
That seems a silver bridge, perchance to guide
To that fair isle, whose soften'd landscapes show
So green and pleasant in the wave below?
Think-hadst thou dwelt in such a smiling
land,
Cherish'd and cherishing a brother band,
Not one of whom from foe did ever flee,
Not one of whom but would have died for thee-
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