teresting point,-if it induce him to consult for himself the pleasant matters contained in Southey's Metrical Ballads.

We are aware that the preceding sketch is chargeable with many important omissions. The subject is too extensive for the compass of a brief essay; we have therefore been compelled to overlook much that should be detailed in any complete notice of Southey's poetical works. The features deemed most worthy of description have also been touched upon more lightly than we could have wished. Something we fain had said of his later productions, of his Laureate lays, and of the attempt to introduce hexameters into English verse; and some remarks should have been devoted to those prose poems, the Amadis and the Cid, the latter of which deserves an especial regard; but we are compelled, most unwillingly, to leave these fruitful materials unemployed. To the writer who deems a full and honest exposition of his theme a duty of no little moment, such a confession is mortifying: but it cannot be obviated here. All that can be hoped is, that an outline, so inevitably imperfect as the present, has preserved the general character of the subject; and that the view afforded, if partial, has at least displayed some of its most essential features.

to the uncommon or antique subjects which he loves to illustrate. Except in the delineation of nature, Southey's conceptions are marked by a remoteness, a predominance of reflection over feeling, and a rarity of fervid inspiration, which must always, we think, be unfavourable to their general effect. His verse, ever mellow and vigorous, rarely enchants the ear with that ineffable music which is the subtlest charm of poetry. He can unlock the treasures of imagery, and furnish abundant food for high or pensive contemplation; he can awaken wonder and curiosity, and a certain thoughtful interest; but he rarely, if ever arouses the warmest emotions of his reader.

But Southey's poems will always be a source of enjoyment to such as can appreciate the elevated tone of his genius, and accompany the excursions of a mind, not passionate or rapid, indeed, but powerful, stately, and pregnant with noble and varied imaginations. While we meet with so much that is excellent in his productions, we will not too fastidiously complain of the absence of excellencies that may be found elsewhere. As a mine of rich materials, enchased in language picturesque, forcible, and pure, almost beyond example, the master-pieces of Southey's muse will ever be precious to the lover of genuine English poetry. And in the negligent and hasty temper whereby genius is now almost universally desecrated, we can discern little promise of a successor to the eminence our author has attained, by the varied endowments, the practised skill, the ripe harvest of learning, and the careful devotion which he has dedicated to the honour of his art. V.

SCENE I.-Inside of a Cavern, near the banks of the Connecticut. DIXWELL sleeping. Enter MARY.

Mary. Troubled in sleep, my father? and because I came not as I promised? Poor old man!

Dixwell. Forgiveness! oh, forgiveness, and a grave!
Mary. God knows thy heart, my father! and I shudder
To think what thou perchance hast acted.
Dixwell. Oh!!

Mary. No common load of wo is thine, my father.
He weeps. Flow on, ye soothers of the soul!
What dreadful gestures! Is he dying? Help!

Is set upon thy head.

traitor, and a price

Would I had never

Known thee to be my father, but still lived

A happy orphan! for I can no longer

Conceal thee here. I visit thee by stealth,

And not unwatch'd. My husband, too, suspects me.
Oh, how I long to laugh, and tell him all,
And kiss suspicion from his sorrowing face,
And lead thee home with me! But loyalty

In him is passion! He would hate even me,
If deemed the daughter of a regicide;

And he the executioner of Charles!

Thou must away, my father, instantly!

Lo! I have brought thee arms-a sword, and pistols ;
My husband will not miss them; and this garb,
Such as the Maspataquas wear, will screen thee
From all eyes but Suspicion's. Put it on,
And quit this cave; and hide thee in the woods-
The summer woods,-where, in their glory now,
The hiccory, the sumach, the red maple,
The fringe-tree, and th' acacia triple-thorned,
Temper the ardour of the burning sun,
And on the locust's violet-breathing flowers,
Cast the pale yellow of his meekened fire.

The Indian war, that girds us round with perils,
Will be to thee protection, hope, and safety.
So, put these garments on, and be not slow.
Nay, not a word, my father-not a word!
Haste!

We shall meet again in better times.
[Exit MARY.

SCENE II.-The Wilderness. KERHONAH busiea
in making a grave. NIDANISS bending over the
bodies of NAMBISSA and MASKATE.
Kerhonah. (Comes forward.) Art thou, too, leagued
with these detested Whites,

Yehoway! Dost thou, too, like feeble man,
Smile only on the strong and fortunate?
Dost thou contemn Kerhonah in distress,
And scorn to cast one glance of thy bright eye
On this poor grave of my slain wife and son ?
All gloom! no brightness yet! My child he turns
His face away, but not perchance in rage;
He will not look upon Kerhonah's shame.

Nidaniss. See! lovely as on loveliest living flower,
The dew, that weepeth on thy son's stark cheek,
Impearleth mournfully his mother's hair,
And damps the lip, half-closed, as if to speak!
Or, touch'd to see our kindred uninterr'd,
Ferchance, the Spirits of the Night have come,
With sadly pleasing tears, and watched the dead.
Kerhonah. I thank you, Spirits! ye respect us still,-
But mournfully-not proudly, as of old,

When fear'd, we dwelt with you, and talk'd with you,
And in your dreadless majesty partook,

Your grave

Kerhonah. Rest thou here, my son !
Here, mother of my children, rest!
Was made in haste and terror; 'tis the best
That we can give you.

Nid. Oh, that I had died,

A suckled baby at thy breast, my mother!

I had not been thus guilty, not thus wretched,
Not thus abhorr'd!

Ker. Sleep with thy warrior son,
Nambissa, undisturb'd. Ye have a grave.
No foe shall laugh at your insulted bones;

Nor shall your spirits scare the night with shrieks; Nor with mute sadness, when we meet above, Upbraid my arm, although I fought in vain.

Nid. My guilty passion for the white priest, Elliot, Brought ruin down upon the Maspataquas.

I, therefore, hated, live bereft of thee,
Thou dearest brother of my soul! Oh, thou,
Thou gentle as a child, wast brave as fire!
And when Toronto spurn'd me to the earth,
And harshly bade me to the White Men go,—
Because my love brought down upon the nation
The just ire of the ever-watchful gods,—
Thou still, my brother, didst, with sweetest words,
Speak to my heart, and rush to meet my tears,
That ever started at thy voice of kindness.
And, therefore, will I mourn thee evermore,
Until myself lie cold in earth, unwept.
Who will lament for poor Nidaniss?
For thou alone didst love me! What remains,
My brother! but to think of thee and weep,
And wish that I were cold in earth, with thee?

None;

Ker. Child, we can die, or talk of death, to-morrow. Enough of tears; but not enough of blood:

Come Vengeance first-then Death come when he will! Nid. Talk'st thou of vengeance yet?

Ker. Do I not live?

Nid. Thy question is a tale told well and briefly :We live for what?-to envy those who died. Life, wretched life, is all.

Ker. It is not all.

What though I call no more around their chief
Thousands, expert to hurl the assagay,

Or wing the hungry hatchet on the Whites,
As when the midnight angel scaled their walls,
And fiends of fire held dances in their chambers;
Think not Yehoway will forsake his cause;

I cherish still the thirst which blood must slake.

Nid. Whose blood?-Thy own? None else is left to shed.

Thy warrior sons are stiff and cold.

Ker. Toronto,

Our eldest, lives.

Nid. Lives?-father! oh, where-where?

Ker. Last night I sent him to our friends, the Mohawks.

Nid. And hath calamity so humbled thee,

That thou canst call our direst foes thy friends?
Ker. They are Red Men.

Nid. And, therefore, are they friends?

Ker. Thou smitest me on the breaking heart, with words!

Oh! had we fought like brethren, side by side,

And as one man united met the foe,

The treacherous Whites had long since ceased to breathe!
But they shall join us now, and well avenge
My people's blood. To-morrow will we enter
Their country. Thou, Nidaniss, there wilt find
A husband; there my bravest boy shall find
Wives worthy of him. Die, Kerhonah, then ;

But be't in battle, and not unavenged!
Soon from my blood shall thousand warriors rise,
Avengers of thy country and thy sire;
And like their evil demon, still will I

In my seed haunt them, torture, scalp, and slay,
Till not a White Man's foot profane this land,
Till race and name be found on earth no more,
Till sire and squaw be cold, nor babe remain
To give his silken tresses to the knife.

Nid. But not if they take aim while we are raving. Hark! hark!-a White Man's step!

SCENE III.-Another part of the Wilderness, Enter DIXWELL, disguised as an Indian. Dix. How savagely those pallid fiends pursue Their dusky brother, for his life and land! But, oh, what tenfold peril hangs o'er him Whom ev'n this Indian garb endangers not! To me this garb of danger is protection: For I am chased and hunted, as men chase Wolves; and a price is set upon my blood.

Yes; Cromwell's death, and Monk's success, are known.
What awful fate awaits me? I will seek

The end I fear. Be this my journey's close!
The rapid wave rolls black in depth below.
Would all were o'er! Ne'er shall I be at peace
Till in the grave: ah! shall I find it there?
Hark! footsteps? my pursuers? Let them come,
And death be found unsought. But who are these?
Enter NIDANISS, pursued by WARD.

Ward. (Seizing Nidaniss.) Stop! pretty squaw !

What haste ?

Dix. (Seizing Ward.) Hold! Ward. What art thou?

Dia. A villain.

Ward. I respect the family.

Dir. Hence while thou may'st.

Ward. Gladly. Good day to you, Blackbeard.

[Exit WARD.

Dir. Tremble not, maiden. Fear not me. Nid. Stern White Man,

Kill me not!

Dix. Rather would I slay myself.

Nid. Stern White Man, pierce not through this breast, my sire's,

And I will be thy slave; my hands shall dress
Thy game, thy maize, and spread thy bed of leaves;
And I will watch thy couch, to scare away
The serpent and the wolf. Oh, I will love thee,
If thou wilt spare my father in his child!
Dix. To rescue thee, and smite thy father's foes,
Me the Great Spirit over seas hath sent
On wings of winds.

Nid. How! hath the White Man's God
Sent thee, a White Man, to destroy the Whites?
Dix. They have offended him in wronging you;

And therefore hath he sent me.

Nid. Thou say'st well.

Dia. Now lead me to thy father.
Nid. Where is thine ?

But mine is old like him. Hast thou a daughter?
Dix. I have a daughter.

Nid. And thou lov'st her well.

But would she bring thy foe, to slay thee sleeping?
I love my father. Think not that his child
Will bring the serpent to her father's couch.

Love the White daughters so? Smite here and kill!
But he is safe.

Dix. He is, my child, he is.

Suspect me not.

Soon shalt thou know me better, My dear adopted daughter. Hark! who com es?

SCENE IV. The rocky banks of a river. Enter KERHONAH wounded.

Ker. What is this dreaminess? this shuddering?
Ha! is it death ?-My child! my child!-who comes ?
I care not who.
Are ye, too, vanquish'd, Spirits ?

Ye guardian angels of Red Men, where are ye?
Assist me, Spirits, if ye hover near;
And if, indeed, ye have not left our side,
And joined the strongest! Terrible Yehoway!
Thus shall Kerhonah die? and unavenged?
Lo, Ancient One! that lived'st ere canoe
Clave the blue waters; ere the white fiends came,
Sons of the ocean's shark, on wings of tempests;
Lo! these grey locks have grown in battle grey-
Not that my soul hath lusted after blood:
No; I lov'd peace; thou know'st how well I lov'd it,
How fervently I sought it! But these Whites!
Have they not yearn'd to root us from the land?
Theirs are our homes, our fields, our arms, our lives ;-
Wilt thou give all things to these pallid shadows?
Theirs are our homes, our fields, our arms, our lives,
But not our freedom, if the dead are free!
Then let us die like men,-like men, Yehoway!
The Maspataquas are no more a people.
No blood of mine shall henceforth circulate
In warrior veins. But, thus, unmann'd, to die—
Thus starting at the flower-bird's wing, or fly
That hums my death-song-even as the Whites
Close, in affrighted prayer, their womanish eyes;-
Oh, let me not die thus not thus! but hot

In battle, compass'd round with crimson wolves,
Making the White Men's wives bring forth dead children--
Full satisfied with blood, and calling up

With shouts our fathers from their graves, to shout
Kerhonah!-Twill not be. Fast ebbs my life.
Where is my child, my child? Oh, does she live?
If yet she live, God of my Sires, look forth!
So, dying, shall I know that yet she lives.
Bare thy bright arm, and fling this gloom aside!

Smile on thy clouds, and fringe their skirts with beauty!
And let the beams, which spirits fair delight

To wreath their hair with, 'mid thy forests green,
Illume the trembling leaf-drop, ere it falls,-

To indicate their presence, and to warm

My poor, old, dying heart.

[He faints.

Enter DIXWELL and NIDANISS.

Dir. But I heard voices.

Stop! who is here?

Nid. My father!-Not a word

To poor Nidaniss? Dead? dead ?—Thou hast slain him! Now, white fiend, kill me, too, and I will thank thee With dying curses. Strike! that I may join

The warrior spirit on his fiery clouds,

And pour, with him, on your detested homes,
The lightning of the storm! Wilt thou not strike,
Pale demon?

Dix. No, thy sire shall live.

[Exeunt.

But thou, my father, hast not seen his brow,
Where truth is throned. Sublime in age he stalks,
As when on earth a warrior's spirit moves
With loftier stride; and such he seemed to me,
Even as the White priest, Elliot, will appear,
When on his cheek the evening of his days
Shall fade into a milder majesty.

Ker. Let that detested name profane no more
My daughter's lips! For him didst thou disdain
Our bravest youth! Alas, I blamed thee not!
Therefore my people are no more a nation;
And terrible Yehoway, in my age,

Bids my sad steps forget the paths of fame.
What snake is this? My hatchet!

Ker. Why didst thou quit the land that holds their bones ?

Dix. I fought against my king, who fell and died; But when, at length, his son, in manhood's strength, Climb'd, armed and terrible, his father's throne, I fled from vengeance; and o'er ocean broad Came, on the tempest's wing, to fight thy battles.

Ker. False to thy chief, canst thou be true to me? Dix. Try me.

Ker. When we believe a foe, we trust him. Dix. But was I false to him, or he to all? Better a tyrant perish than our country.

Ker. How can another's fault exculpate thine?

A vile race are ye; senseless, too, as vile.
Ye cheat yourselves with your hypocrisy.
Boasting thy crimes, talk'st thou of truth to me?

Hence, snake of words! thy wiles cannot deceive me;
I was stung yesterday.

Nid. If he mean ill,

Weak as thou art, my father! what prevents him From acting his intention?

Ker. Know'st thou not,

That when the monarch of the forest falls,

His boughs bring down to earth the trees around him?
And would'st thou follow me? Have then thy will.
And stand thou powerless in my power, as now
I, powerless, stand in thine. Safe shalt thou be
As the winged cloud, that laughs all bonds to scorn.
But I will trust thee, stranger! when I know thee.
Dix.-I will not quit thee, thus exposed and wounded;
For thou hast raised my soul from deep despair,

But now I call'd on death, and sought in death That peace which Heaven denies not to the worms; And horror was to me what beauty was,

And is, to happier beings. I am changed:

I have a motive now to cherish life.

The past is hopeless gloom! Oh, but the future,—
My deeds that shall be !-they, though late, may yet
Snatch my redemption from relenting fate,

And win a smile severe from seraph Ips.
Perchance a sufferer's tear, where all is spotless,
Shed o'er the record of my many crimes,

May wash them out.

Ne'er may that injur'd

No, never, never, never!
one in Heaven forgive

Deeds black as mine. But I, alas, am raving!
Pardon me, kingly savage, if I crave

Thy own indulgence to thyself. Let food,
And rest, though brief, re-string thy languid frame;
Then let us travel on the wings of darkness.
Thy foes are watchful, and I, too, will watch.
Nay, dost thou fear to take thy tranquil rest?
Suspicious Sachem! I am all thy own;
And to thy weal I consecrate my blood.
Hail, and receive me, land of forests! Wave
Thy darkest tresses o'er my destined tomb!
Thou hast no desert wilder than my deeds,

Or gloomier than my thoughts: and hearts like mine
May love the valleys that seem made for sadness--
The sunless perpetuity of shade,

O'er which the midnight of the hemlock frowns.
Hail, and receive me, wilderness, whose forests
Toss o'er dark spirits, like a maniac's hair!
Give me two yards of earth-and take my bones!

SCENE V.-The banks of the Connecticut. In the background a Blockhouse, or Fortress. Enter WARD and GoFFE.

Ward. I cannot but remember that I might Have been most happy, but for this said Dixwell. Goffe. Was he the friend and too successful rival, Who robb'd thee of the wife that was not thine? Ward. He was. I lov'd her, though she was an

other's.

He knew I lov'd her, yet he woo'd and won her.

I hate him, both for his success and falsehood :

And strongly hope to pay him well for both.

Goffe. Still dost thou love the false one's memory? Ward. Cold thing of common clay! thou nothing know'st

Of fervent passion's power. It is eternal.
Ask if the sea is salt, if ice is chill,

But ask not if I love her memory

While, for her sake, I love this wilderness,

Because it holds her bones. But why stand here,
Awaiting sage instructions from yon wittol,
And wasting the dear moments due to vengeance ?
Goffe, in the eye of my revenge, my foe

Seems tried and sentenced, bound and led to death.
O! may he die a coward, and I see it!

SCENE VII.-Outside of the Fortress. WARD, GOFFE, and Soldiers, pass over the stage, followed by MORTON, and MARY in the disguise of a hunter.

Mor. So, my old friend, Miles Winthrop of Rehoboth, Hath sent his son to aid us in the chase? 'Tis well, and well-timed, too. But hath he never A taller son than thou, my little hero?

Mary. My brethren perish'd in the Pequod war. Mor. Well, thou shalt be my page. I like thy voice;

It tells one of old times; so beautiful,

That all the coming years seem dark and stained. "Tis like the throstle's in the trysting tree; "Tis like the whipperwill's above the bower Where love meets love, and talks the dim stars bright; 'Tis soothing as the music of a song, Sung to us by the lady of our love,

In the undoubting days of happy courtship.

SCENE VIII.-The Camp of the Mohawks. WABANG, ACHONDA, OKIMA, TORONTO, ELLIOT, and Warriors, seated.

Ach. (To Tor.) Stranger, we marked thy coming; we admired

Thy fearless step. With calm, unquivering lip
And eye of cool composure, thou hast rested
Thy travell'd weariness, amid the warriors
Famed for unequalled deeds of blood and valour,-
The Mohawks. Wretched is the mother's son
Whose foes they are. Now hast thou had thy fill
Of food and rest. Who art thou? Speak thine errand!
And may thy mother's son prove wise and bold.

Tor. (Rises.) Brave Mohawks! tell not me that you are brave;

I know it well. Ah! would that white men only
Had cause to wish you dastardly and base!

Okima. Warrior, well said.

Wab. Thy words are good.

Okima. Proceed.

Tor. Amid the children of one family

There should be peace. Are not all Red Men brethren?
Are not the Whites victorious? Think not ye
That when the Maspataquas are no more,

The Mohawks will be safe. O'er rock and wave
The fire-arm'd foe will hunt ye, till ye fall :—
Be warn'd! and in our ruin see your own.
Warriors. Thy speech is wise.

Tor. Scalp-tearing Sagamores!
What, if in me, a suppliant here, ye saw
Your enemy, that brave and wrong'd Kerhonah,
On whose broad breast the battle-scars are close,

As on the danger-warning rattlesnake

His dusky spots? How would ye greet him, warriors? Wab. As brethren, their sick brother.

Tor. Lo! my sire

Hath sent his eldest son to smoke with you

The pipe of amity.

[He presents the Calumet to Wabang, who smokes, and passes it to the other warriors.

Lo! here stand I,

Toronto! and Kerhonah is my sire.

Ach. Thy mother's son talks well.

Wab. Proceed, proceed.

Tor. In battle with the Whites, our warriors died:

Few are the Mastapaquas who survive:

Will you join hands with us in our distress?

Wab. Lo! am not I the fear'd-afar Wabang?—
Who twangs a deadlier arrow to the mark?
What wealthy chief can boast an ampler store?
Who treads the wild with surer foot than I?
Is not Niponket mine, with all its people?
Is not Pexata mine, with all its people?
Orono's maize? and Cohos black with thunder?
And green Pivonet, neighbour of the morning?
And wild Recassum, with its cavern'd rocks,
Glades of the moose, and waters of the swan,
And swamps for ambush ?

Warriors. Sachem, thou say'st well.
Wab. Will you have brandy?

Warriors. Brandy! the strong water!

Wab. Will you have linen? will you have red cloth ? Will you have iron scalp-knives?

Warriors. Thou say'st well.

Wab. Will you dig up the hatchet?-with the scalps Of white men deck your dwellings ?—and bring home Their captured wives?

Warriors. Cloth! brandy! and their wives!
Ell. (Rises.) Oft have ye heard me, warriors,-hear

Peace, do ye love? Peace!-Peace? It is a lie.
White Liar!-Oh, my soul detests thee, liar!
Did we not love you, Liar?-We dwelt with you
In peace: we call'd you brethren-such ye seemed,-
Oh, Liar! thou hast fill'd my heart with flame!
And, would to wroth Yehoway, that my hand
Might lay thee hush'd this moment at my feet!-
We lov'd you, murderous Whites! till all would say,
Where'er we came, "Behold the White Man's friends
We gave you all, but all would not suffice.
Bloodhounds! ye hunted, and your prey was man-
A nobler race than yours, and therefore wrong'd!
With envious fang, ye worry whom ye hate.
Listen not, Mohawks, to that talking serpent!—
Still wilt thou prate ?-Behold in him the cause
Of our defeats! behold the secret-learner!
The husband of your wives!-Yet, talker? Down!
Or my good hatchet-there, where thou wilt lie
Mute, without bidding-shall this moment lay thee.

Enter NIDANISS.

Nid. (Embracing Tor.) My brother! oh, Toronto! Warriors. (Clapping their hands.) Maid, well done Tor. (Sternly repulsing her.) Begone from me! See'st thou thy white love there?

That trembling talker, with the lip of chalk,
Now pleading against thee, and for thy foes?
Go! or my knife this instant weds you here;-
Go!

[Enter, dressed as an Indian, Dixwell, who
steps between them.

Dix. Harm her not, boy! Indian blood is scarce.
Tor. Another white!

Nid. Hold! wilt thou kill our friends?

Tor. Another white friend! have we, then, no foes?