III.

The winds of autumn came over the woods
As the sun stole out from their solitudes,
The moss was white on the maple's trunk,
And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk,
And ripen'd the mellow fruit hung, and red
Were the tree's wither'd leaves round it shed.

IV.

The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
And the sickle cut down the yellow corn-

The mower sung loud by the meadow side,
Where the mists of evening were spreading wide,
And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.

V.

Then the hunter turn'd away from that scene,
Where the home of his fathers once had been,
And heard by the distant and measured stroke
That the woodman hew'd down the giant oak,
And burning thoughts flash'd o'er his mind
Of the white man's faith and love unkind.

VI.

The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, As her golden horn pierced the cloud of whiteA footstep was heard in the rustling brake, Where the beach o'ershadowed the misty lake, And a mourning voice and a plunge from shore And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.

VII.

When years had pass'd on, by that still lake-side The fisher look'd down through the silver tide, And there, on the smooth yellow sand display'd, A skeleton wasted and white was laid,

And 'twas seen as the waters moved deep and slow,
That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.

LONGFELLOW.

72. RIGHTS OF THE INDIANS DEFENDED

THINK of the country for which the Indians fought! Who can blame them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope, that glorious eminence, that

-throne of royal state, which far

Outshone the wealth of Ormus or of Ind,

Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand,
Showers on her kings barbaric pomp and gold,”-

as he looked down and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath at a summer sunset,-the distant hill-tops blazing with gold, the slanting beams streaming along the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forest,-could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he heheld it all passing, by no tardy process, from beneath his control into the hands of the stranger?

2. As the river chieftains-the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains-ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at, if they beheld with bitterness the rest disappearing beneath the settler's axe-the fishing-place disturbed by his saw-mills?

3. Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strongminded savage, in company with a friendly settler, contemplating the progress already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness, would fold his arms and say, "White man, there is eternal war between me and thee! I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my life.

4. "In those woods, where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide un

restrained in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn.

5. "Stranger, the land is mine. I understand not these paper rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou sayest, these broad regions were purchased for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew not what they did.

6. "The stranger came, a timid suppliant, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land, to raise corn for his women and children; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchment over the whole, and says, 'It is mine.'

7. "Stranger, there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west-the fierce Mohawk-the man-eater-is my foe. Shall I fly to the east?-the great water is before me.

8. " No, stranger; here I have lived, and here will I die ; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank thee; and now take heed to thy steps; the red man is thy foe.

9. "When thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle by thee; when thou liest down at night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalp

ing-knife; thou shalt build, and I will burn,-till the white man or the Indian shall cease from the land. Go thy way for this time in safety; but remember, stranger, there is eternal war between me and thee !"

EVERETT.

73. LINES TO A FALLEN LEAF

THO

HOU little, yellow, floating atom,
Thou waiting-maid on lovely autumn,
Thou harbinger of winter sprays,
Thou leave-taker of summer days-
How oft, in brooding o'er the past,
(For memory's dream must always last,)
I've gazed on thee, as on the storm
And howling blast you're by me borne,
And thought thee like the many gone―
The friends who leave us here alone,
This day-bright and free from sorrow,
Dead, cold, and buried on the morrow!

Thou little atom, I've thee seen
In all thy prime, in all thy green;
Ere severed from the parent stem,
Thou wert a lovely, blooming gem;
When the wild, roving honey-bee
Would rest its wing and light on thee.
Now thou art an outcast, driven

By every breath of wind from Heaven.

Oh, is it not too often thus,

Thou little fallen leaf, with us?

At first we're blooming, bright, and green,
Again-the shade of what we've been.

RICHARD TERNAN.

74. DRY BURGH ABBEY.

[In the following beautiful poem of Dryburgh Abbey, all the principal characters that figure in the wonderful creations of Scott are pertinently and appropriately introduced. Henry Giles, in his "Illustrations of Genius," also pays a glowing tribute to the great novelist's fame.]

E has left that which nothing can take from him except that which sweeps letters from the earth-a fame which lies in all that is lovable-a fame which gathers its applause from the grateful friendship of civilized generations.

The consolation that he has administered to desponding spirits; the cheerfulness with which he has banished care; the mirth with which he has banished sadness; the tragic grandeur by which he has drowned individual sorrow; the stirring events by which he has shaken the torpor of indolence; the gentle, the gay, the heroic, the humane emotions with which he has agitated so many souls,-these are things which are deathless and which are priceless.

There is no standard of exchange by which the gifts of genius can be balanced with the goods of earth; and though such goods should attend on genius in every variety that men desire, they could never be taken for its wages or its equivalent. No temporal station could have added to Scott's dignity; and all factitious contrivances for posthumous importance, if perfectly successful, would have been nullified by the compass of his true immortality.

His name is to us above the proudest of the Pharaohs; and we would not give the least of his romances for the greatest of the Pyramids.

WAS morn-but not the ray which falls

'TWAS

The summer boughs among,

When Beauty walks in gladness forth,

With all her light and song ;

'Twas morn-but mist and cloud hung deep

Upon the lonely vale,