The horror that freezes his limbs is brief

He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf
Of darts made sharp for the foe.

And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, Where he bore the maiden away;

And he darts on the fatal path more fleet

Than the blast that hurries the vapor and sleet

O'er the wild November day.

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door;

But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin side,— And she smiles at his hearth once more.

But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold,
Where the yellow leaf falls not,

Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold,
There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould,

In the deepest gloom of the spot.

And the Indian girls, that pass that way,

Point out the ravisher's grave;

"And how soon to the bower she loved," they

say,

"Returned the maid that was borne away

From Maquon, the fond and the brave.”

SUMMER WIND.

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm

That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee,

Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops

Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.

But far, in the fierce sunshine, tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern;
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,——
Their bases on the mountains--their white tops
Shining in the far ether--fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eyes away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin with the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays his coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak

Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves !
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.