Break on thine ear-drum thick and fast, From ghosts that shiver in the blast; Then shalt thou know, and bend the knee Before the angry deity.

But now attend, while I unfold

The lore my brave forefathers taught :
As yet the storm, the heat, the cold,
The changing seasons had not brought,
Famine was not; each tree and grot
Grew greener for the rain;

The wanton doe, the buffalo,
Blithe bounded on the plain.

In mirth did man the hours employ
Of that eternal spring;

With song and dance, and shouts of joy,
Did hill and valley ring.

No death-shot peal'd upon the ear,
No painted warrior poised the spear,
No stake-doom'd captive shook for fear;
No arrow left the string,

Save when the wolf to earth was borne;
From foeman's head no scalp was torn ;
Nor did the pangs of hate and scorn
The red man's bosom wring.
Then waving fields of yellow corn
Did our bless'd villages adorn.

Alas! that man will never learn
His good from evil to discern.
At length, by furious passions driven,
The Indian left his babes and wife,
And every blessing God has given,
To mingle in the deadly strife.
Fierce Wrath and haggard Envy soon
Achieved the work that War begun ;
He left, unsought, the beast of chase,
And prey'd upon his kindred race.
But He who rules the earth and skies,
Who watches every bolt that flies ;

From whom all gifts, all blessings flow,
With grief beheld the scene below.
He wept; and, as the balmy shower
Refreshing to the ground descended,
Each drop gave being to a flower,

And all the hills in homage bended.
"Alas!" the good Great Spirit said,
"Man merits not the climes I gave;
Where'er a hillock rears its head,

He digs his brother's timeless grave: To every crystal rill of water, He gives the crimson stain of slaughter. No more for him my brow shall wear A constant, glad, approving smile ; Ah, no! my eyes must withering glare On bloody hands and deeds of guile. Henceforth shall my lost children know The piercing wind, the blinding snow; The storm shall drench, the sun shall burn, The winter freeze them, each in turn. Henceforth their feeble frames shall feel A climate like their hearts of steel."

The moon that night withheld her light.
By fits, instead, a lurid glare
Illumed the skies; while mortal eyes
Were closed, and voices rose in prayer.
While the revolving sun

Three times his course might run,
The dreadful darkness lasted.

And all that time the red man's eye
A sleeping spirit might espy,
Upon a tree-top cradled high,

Whose trunk his breath had blasted.
So long he slept, he grew so fast,
Beneath his weight the gnarled oak
Snapp'd, as the tempest snaps the mast.
It fell, and Thunder woke!

The world to its foundation shook,
The grisly bear his prey forsook,
The scowling heaven an aspect bore
That man had never seen before;
The wolf in terror fled away,
And shone at last the light of day.

"Twas here he stood; these lakes attest Where first Waw-kee-an's footsteps press'd. About his burning brow a cloud,

Black as the raven's wing, he wore; Thick tempests wrapp'd him like a shroud, Red lightnings in his hand he bore; Like two bright suns his eyeballs shone, His voice was like the cannon's tone; And, where he breathed, the land became, Prairie and wood, one sheet of flame, Not long upon this mountain height The first and worst of storms abode, For, moving in his fearful might,

Abroad the God-begotten strode, Afar, on yonder faint blue mound, In the horizon's utmost bound, At the first stride his foot he set ; The jarring world confess'd the shock. Stranger! the track of Thunder yet Remains upon the living rock. The second step, he gain'd the sand On far Superior's storm-beat strand : Then with his shout the concave rung,' As up to heaven the giant sprung On high, beside his sire to dwell; But still, of all the spots on earth, He loves the woods that gave him birth.— Such is the tale our fathers tell.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

THE BURIAL-PLACE AT LAUREL HILL.

HERE the lamented dead in dust shall lie,

Life's lingering languors o'er, its labours done; Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky, Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.

Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,
With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in;
To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,
No more to suffer, and no more to sin.

And in this hallow'd spot, where Nature showers
Her summer smiles from fair and stainless skies,
Affection's hand may strew her dewy flowers,

Whose fragrant incense from the grave shall rise. And here the impressive stone, engraved with words Which grief sententious gives to marble pale, Shall teach the heart; while waters, leaves, and birds Make cheerful music in the passing gale.

Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour On scented airs the unavailing sigh

While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,
And landscapes blooming—that the loved must die?

There is an emblem in this peaceful scene:
Soon rainbow colours on the woods will fall;
And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green,
As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.

Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,

Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand; While the chain'd streams are silent as the ground, As Death had numb'd them with his icy hand.

Yet when the warm, soft winds shall rise in spring,
Like struggling daybeams o'er a blasted heath,
The bird return'd shall poise her golden wing,
And liberal Nature break the spell of Death.

So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,
The blessed dead to endless youth shall rise;
And hear th' archangel's thrilling summons blend
Its tone with anthems from the upper skies.
There shall the good of earth be found at last,
Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;
Where Love her crown attains-her trials past-
And, fill'd with rapture, hails the "better land!"

THE EARLY DEAD.

"Why mourn for the young? Better that the light cloud should fade away in the morning's breath, than travel through the weary day, to gather in darkness, and end in storm."-BUL

WER.

If it be sad to mark the bow'd with age

Sink in the halls of the remorseless tomb, Closing the changes of life's pilgrimage

In the still darkness of its mouldering gloom; Oh! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung, When peals the requiem of the loved and young! They to whose bosoms, like the dawn of spring To the unfolding bud and scented rose, Comes the pure freshness age can never bring, And fills the spirit with a rich repose, How shall we lay them in their final rest? How pile the clods upon their wasting breast? Life openeth brightly to their ardent gaze;

A glorious pomp sits on the gorgeous sky;
O'er the broad world Hope's smile incessant plays,
And scenes of beauty win the enchanted eye:
How sad to break the vision, and to fold
Each lifeless form in earth's embracing mould!

Yet this is life! To mark from day to day,
Youth, in the freshness of its morning prime,
Pass, like the anthem of a breeze away,

Sinking in waves of Death ere chill'd by Time!