Where Silence, Death, and Horror reign, Unchecked, across the wide domain ;

There is a desert of the MIND

More hopeless, dreary, undefined!

There Sorrow, moody Discontent,
And gnawing Care, are wildly blent ;
There Horror hangs her darkest clouds,
And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds;
A sickly ray is cast around,

Where nought but dreariness is found;
A feeling that may not be told,
Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold.

The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom's strife;
The tempest, in its blackest form,
Is beauty to the bosom's storm;
The ocean, lashed to fury loud,
Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
Is peaceful, sweet serenity

To passion's dark and boundless sea.

There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest,

When storms are warring in the breast ;
There is no moment of repose

In bosoms lashed by hidden woes;
The scorpion sting the fury rears,
And every trembling fibre tears;
The vulture preys with bloody beak
Upon the heart that can but break!

M. FLINT.

MOUNDS ON THE WESTERN RIVERS.

THE sun's last rays were fading from the west,
The deepening shade stole slowly o'er the plain,
The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest,
And all was silence,-save the mournful strain
With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain,
Her absent lover to her lonely nest.

Now, one by one, emerging to the sight,

The brighter stars assumed their seats on high; The moon's pale crescent glowed serenely bright, As the last twilight fled along the sky, And all her train, in cloudless majesty, Were glittering on the dark blue vault of night.

I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound, And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene; From the dark summit of an Indian mound

I saw the plain, outspread in living green; Its fringe of cliffs was in the distance seen, And the dark line of forest sweeping round.

I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose ;
Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay;
There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes,
There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay;
And mighty tribes, swept from the face of day,
Forgot their wars, and found a long repose.

Ye mouldering relics of departed years,

Your names have perished; not a trace remains, Save where the grass-grown mound its summit rears From the green bosom of your native plains. Say, do your spirits wear Oblivion's chains? Did Death for ever quench your hopes and fears?

Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss,
Which simple Nature to your bosoms gave,
Find other worlds, with fairer skies than this,
Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave,

In whose bright climes the virtuous and the brate Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ?.

Where the great hunter still pursues the chase,
And, o'er the sunny mountains, tracks the deer;
Or where he finds each long-extinguished race,

And sees, once more, the mighty mammoth rear
The giant form which lies embedded here,
Of other years the sole remaining trace.

Or, it may be, that still ye linger near
The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride;
And, could your forms to mortal eye appear,
Or the dark veil of death be thrown aside,
Then might I see your restless shadows glide,
With watchful care, around these relics dear.

If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet

Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. I would not thus profane their lone retreat, Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head Lay pillowed on his everlasting bed,

Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet.

Farewell! and may you still in peace repose;
Still o'er you may the flowers, untrodden, bloom,
And softly wave to every breeze that blows,
Casting their fragrance on each lonely tomb,

In which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, And mingle with the clay from which they rose.

LINES ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER.

ON yonder shore, on yonder shore,

Now verdant with the depth of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.

Forgive this tear. A Brother weeps.
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan
Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmured at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.

In sounds that seem like Sorrow's own,
Their funeral dirges faintly creep;

Then, deep'ning to an organ tone,

In all their solemn cadence sweep,
And pour, unheard, along the wild,
Their desert anthem o'er a child.

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