The scattered beams of day again,
To burn along its sunset-track!
And broad and beautiful it shone;
As quickened by some spiritual breath,
Its very waves seemed dancing on
To music whispered underneath.
And there she leaned,—that minstrel girl!
The breeze's kiss was soft and meek,
Where coral melted into pearl
On parted lip and glowing cheek;
Her dark and lifted eye had caught
Its lustre from the spirit's gem;
And round her brow the light of thought
Was like an angel's diadem;
For genius, as a living coal,
Had touched her lip and heart with flame,
And on the altar of her soul
The fire of inspiration came:
And early she had learned to love
Each holy charm to Nature given,—
The changing earth, the skies above,
Were prompters to her dreams of heaven! She loved the earth-the streams that wind, Like music, from its hills of green,The stirring boughs above them twined,The shifting light and shade between ;— The fall of waves-the fountain-gushThe sigh of winds-the music heard At even-tide from air and bushThe minstrelsy of leaf and bird, But chief she loved the sunset-skyIts golden clouds, like curtains drawn To form the gorgeous canopy
Of monarchs to their slumbers gone!
The sun went down,-and broad and red,
One moment, on the burning wave,
Rested his front of fire, to shed
A glory round his ocean-grave:
And sunset-far and gorgeous hung
A banner from the wall of heaven-
A wave of living glory, flung
Along the shadowy verge of even.
THE INDIAN'S TALE.
THE war-god did not wake to strife
The strong men of our forest-land;
No red hand grasped the battle-knife
At Areouske's high command:-
We held no war-dance by the dim
And red light of the creeping flame;
Nor warrior-yell, nor battle-hymn,
Upon the midnight breezes came.
There was no portent in the sky,
No shadow on the round bright sun;
With light, and mirth, and melody,
The long fair summer-days came on.
We were a happy people then,
Rejoicing in our hunter-mood;
No foot-prints of the pale-faced men
Had marred our forest-solitude.
The land was ours-this glorious land—
With all its wealth of wood and streams-
Our warriors strong of heart and hand-
Our daughters beautiful as dreams.
When wearied, at the thirsty noon,
We knelt us where the spring gushed up,
To taste our Father's blessed boon-
Unlike the white man's poison-cup,
There came unto my father's hut
A wan, weak creature of distress;
The red man's door is never shut
Against the lone and shelterless;
And when he knelt before his feet,
My father led the stranger in;
He gave him of his hunter-meat-
Alas! it was a deadly sin!
The stranger's voice was not like ours-
His face at first was sadly pale,
Anon 'twas like the yellow flowers,
Which tremble in the meadow-gale.
And when he laid him down to die,
And murmured of his father-land,
My mother wiped his tearful eye,
My father held his burning hand!
He died at last-the funeral yell
Rang upward from his burial sod,
And the old Powwah knelt to tell
The tidings of the white man's God!
The next day came-my father's brow
Grew heavy with a fearful pain;
He did not take his hunting-bow-
He never saw the woods again!
He died even as the white man died
My mother, she was smitten tooMy sisters vanished from my side,
Like diamonds from the sun-lit dew.
And then we heard the Powwahs say,
That God hath sent his angel forth,
To sweep our ancient tribes away,
And poison and unpeople earth.
And it was so-from day to day
The spirit of the plague went on,
And those at morning blithe and gay,
Were dying at the set of sun-
They died-our free, bold hunters died-
The living might not give them graves—
Save when, along the water-side,
They cast them to the hurrying waves.
The carrion-crow, the ravenous beast,
Turned loathing from the ghastly dead;-
Well might they shun the funeral feast
By that destroying angel spread!
One after one the red-men fell:
Our gallant war-tribe passed away-
And I alone am left to tell
The story of its swift decay.
Alone-alone-a withered leaf-
Yet clinging to its naked bough;
The pale race scorn the aged chief,
And I will join my fathers now.
The spirits of my people bend
At midnight from the solemn west,
To me their kindly arms extend-
They call me to their home of rest!
WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY
WRITES principally in periodicals. His poems display more taste than talent; but they are far above mediocrity.
THE AUTUMN EVENING.
BEHOLD the western evening-light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.
The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills
The crimson light is shed!
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!
'Tis like the memory left behind,
When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore,
And eyelids that are sealed in death,
Shall wake, to close no more.
GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark-green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky:
The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.
God of the dark and heavy deep!
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, "Depart in peace." God of the forest's solemn shade! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer-breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry-
Breathe forth the language of thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return,
Her crumbling altars must decay;
Her incense-fires shall cease to burn;
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