She poured her griefs. "Thou know'st, and thou

alone,"

She said, "for I have told thee, all my love,
And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life.
All night I weep in darkness, and the morn
Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed,
That has no business on the earth.

I hate
The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once
I loved; the cheerful voices of my friends
Have an unnatural horror in my ear.
In dreams my mother, from the land of souls,
Calls me and chides me. All that look on me
Do seem to know my shame; I cannot bear
Their eyes; I cannot from my heart root out
The love that wrings it so, and I must die."

It was a summer morning, and they went
To this old precipice. About the cliffs
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins
Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe
Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed,
Like worshippers of the elder time, that God
Doth walk on the high places and affect
The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on
The ornaments with which her father loved
To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl,
And bade her wear when stranger warriors came
To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down,
And sang, all day, old songs of love and death,
And decked the poor wan victim's hair with
flowers,

And prayed that safe and swift might be her way
To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief
Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red.
Beautiful lay the region of her tribe
Below her-waters resting in the embrace
Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades
Opening amid the leafy wilderness,

AFTER A TEMPEST.

61

She gazed upon it long, and at the sight
Of her own village peeping through the trees,
And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof
Of him she loved with an unlawful love,
And came to die for, a warm gush of tears
Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low
And the hill shadows long, she threw herself
From the steep rock and perished. There was

scooped

Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave;
And there they laid her, in the very garb

With which the maiden decked herself for death,
With the same withering wild flowers in her hair.
And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe
Built up a simple monument, a cone

Of small loose stones. Thenceforward all who passed,

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone
In silence on the pile. It stands there yet.
And Indians from the distant West, who come
To visit where their fathers' bones are laid,
Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day
The mountain where the hapless maiden died
Is called the Mountain of the Monument.

AFTER A TEMPEST.

THE day had been a day of wind and storm;The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,And stooping from the zenith bright and warm Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. I stood upon the upland slope, and cast

My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast,

And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green,

With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between.

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred,

Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, Was shaken by the flight of startled bird; For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard

About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward;

To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, And chirping from the ground the grasshopper

ups prung.

And from beneath the leaves that kept them
dry
Flew many a glittering insect here and there,
And darted up and down the butterfly,

That seemed a living blossom of the air.
The flocks came scattering from the thicket,
where

The violent rain had pent them; in the way Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair;

The farmer swung the scythe or turned the

hay,

And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at

play.

It was a scene of peace-and, like a spell,
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell,
And precipice upspring like a wall,
And glassy river and white waterfall,
And happy living things that trod the bright
And beauteous scene; while far beyond them
all,

AFTER A TEMPEST.

63

On many a lovely valley, out of sight, Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,
When o'er earth's continents, and isles be-
tween,

The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,
And married nations dwell in harmony;

When millions, crouching in the dust to one, No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'erlaboured captive toil, and wish his life were done.

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers

And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past.

Lo, the clouds roll away--they break-they fly,

And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky,

On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.

AUTUMN WOODS.

ERE, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold,

In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,

Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play,

Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are

strown

Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright?

Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,
Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters

run,

Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,