YE

Indian Names.

E say they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave,

That their light canoes have vanished

From off the crested wave,

That 'mid the forests where they roamed
There rings no hunter's shout;

But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.

'T is where Ontario's billow
Like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,

Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the west,

And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps

On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins,
That clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the autumn gale;

But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,

Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,

And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it

Where her quiet foliage waves,

And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse Through all her ancient caves.

THE RHINE.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust;

Your mountains build their monument
Though ye destroy their dust.

Ye call these red-browed brethren
The insects of an hour,

Crushed like the noteless worm amid
The regions of their power;

Ye drive them from their fathers' lands,
Ye break of faith the seal,

But can ye from the court of Heaven
Exclude their last appeal?

Ye see their unresisting tribes,
With toilsome step and slow,

On through the trackless desert pass,

A caravan of

Think

woe;

ye the Eternal Ear is deaf,

His sleepless vision dim?

Think ye the soul's blood may not cry

From that far land to him?

313

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

The Rhine.

THE castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,

And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me.

And peasant girls with deep-blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,

Walk smiling o'er this paradise ;

gray,

Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine, Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me:

Though long before thy hand they touch
I know that they must withered be,
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine,
And offered from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,

And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round:
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here ;
Nor could on earth a spot be found

To nature and to me so dear,

Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine.

LORD BYRON.

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

315

The Skylark.

BIRD of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be !
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

JAMES HOGG.

O

Dirge for the Year.

RPHAN Hours, the Year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!

Merry Hours, smile instead,

For the Year is but asleep;
See, it smiles, as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,

So white Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day;
Solemn Hours! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.

As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild,
Trembling Hours! she will arise
With new love within her eyes.

January gray is here,

Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier;

March with grief doth howl and rave,

And April weeps — but, O ye Hours !
Follow with May's fairest flowers.

PERCY BYsshe Shelley.

A

Sun and Shadow.

S I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green,
To the billows of foam-crested blue,

Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen,
Half dreaming my eyes will pursue;
Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray
As the chaff in the stroke of the flail;
Now white as the sea-gull she flies on her way,
The sun gleaming bright on her sail.

Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,-
Of breakers that whiten and roar :