My gold and silver ye shall fling

Back to the clods, that gave them birth; The captured crowns of many a king, The ransom of a conquered earth: For, e'en though dead, will I control The trophies of the capitol.

My course was like a river deep,

And from the northern hills I burst Across the world, in wrath to sweep;

And where I went the spot was cursed, Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been.

Not for myself did I ascend

In judgment my triumphal car;
"Twas God alone on high did send
The avenging Scythian to the war,
To shake abroad, with iron hand,
The appointed scourge of his command.
With iron hand that scourge I reared
O'er guilty king and guilty realm ;
Destruction was the ship I steered,

And vengeance sat upon the helm,
When, launched in fury on the flood,
I ploughed my way through seas of blood,
And, in the stream their hearts had spilt,
Washed out the long arrears of guilt.

Across the everlasting Alp

I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help,

In vain, within their seven-hilled towers:
I quenched in blood the brightest gem
That glittered in their diadem,
And struck a darker, deeper dye
In the purple of their majesty,
And bade my northern banners shine
Upon the conquered Palatine.

My course is run, my errand done;
I go to Him from whom I came;
But never yet shall set the sun

Of glory that adorns my name;

And Roman hearts shall long be sick,
When men shall think of Alaric.

My course is run, my errand done;
But darker ministers of fate,
Impatient, round the eternal throne,
And in the caves of vengeance, wait;
And soon mankind shall blench away
Before the name of Attila.

EDWARD EVERETT

53. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh, spare that agéd oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand-
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.

UPON the barren sand

A single captive stood,

Around him came, with bow and brand,

The red men of the wood.

Like him of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on ocean's rim;

The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.
Above his head in air,

The savage war-club swung,
The frantic girl, in wild despair,

Her arms about him flung.
Then shook the warriors of the shade,
Like leaves on aspen limb,

Subdued by that heroic maid

Who breathed a prayer for him.

"Unbind him!" gasped the chief, Obey your king's decree!"

66

He kissed away her tears of grief,
And set the captive free.
"Tis ever thus, when in life's storm,
Hope's star to man grows dim,
An angel kneels in woman's form,
And breathes a prayer for him.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

55. THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST.

THE mothers of our forest-land!
Stout-hearted dames were they;
With nerve to wield the battle-brand,
And join the border fray.

Our rough land had no braver,
In its days of blood and strife-
Aye ready for severest toil,
Aye free to peril life.

The mothers of our forest-land!

On old Kentucky's soil

How shared they, with each dauntless band,
War's tempest and life's toil!

They shrank not from the foeman-
They quailed not in the fight-

But cheered their husbands through the day,
And soothed them through the night.

The mothers of our forest-land!
Their bosoms pillowed men!
And proud were they by such to stand,
In hammock, fort, or glen,

To load the sure old rifle

To run the leaden ball

To watch a battling husband's place,
And fill it, should he fall!

The mothers of our forest-land!
Such were their daily deeds:

Their monument!-where does it stand?
Their epitaph!-who reads?
No braver dames had Sparta,
No nobler matrons Rome-
Yet who or lauds or honors them,
E'en in their own green home?

The mothers of our forest-land!
They sleep in unknown graves:
And had they borne and nursed a band
Of ingrates, or of slaves,

They had not been more neglected!
But their graves shall yet be found,
And their monuments dot here and there
"The Dark and Bloody Ground."

WILLIAM D. Gallagher.

56. THE INDIAN COUNCIL.

THE trunks of oaken monarchs, huge and tall,
Were the rough columns of the Council Hall;
Thick boughs were interwoven overhead,
And winds made music with their leafy pall:
Below, a tangled sea of brushwood spread,
Through which, to far-off wild, the beaten war-path led.

Few were the whites in number, and about
The council-fire were gathered dusky throngs
From whose dark bosoms time had not washed out
The bitter memory of recent wrongs.

Some longed to wake their ancient battle-songs,
And on the reeking spoils of conflict gaze-

Bind the pale captive to the stake with thongs,
And hellish yells of exultation raise,

While shrivelled up his form, and blackened in the blaze.

The compact for a cession of their land
Was nearly ended, when a far-famed chief
Rose with the lofty bearing of command,
Though lip and brow denoted inward grief:
Naught broke the silence save the rustling leaf
And the low murmur of the lulling wave;
He drew his blanket round him, and a brief
But proud description of his fathers gave,
Then spoke of perished tribes and glory in the grave.
"And who be ye?" he said in scornful tones,
And glance of kindling hate-" who offer gold
For hunting-grounds made holy by the bones
Of our great seers and sagamores of old?
Men who would have our hearths and altars cold-
Unstring the bow, and break the hunting-spear-
Our pleasant huts with sheeted flame enfold,
Then drive our starving, wailing race in fear
Beyond the western hills, like broken herds of deer!

Wake, On-gue-hon-we! strike the painted post,
And gather quickly for the conflict dire;

Yon Long-Knives are forerunners of a host
Thick as the sparks when prairies are on fire :
Let childhood grasp the weapon of his sire—