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human relations, and if in that relation we find him to have been selfish, cruel, and deceitful, we shall take the liberty to call him a bad man, in spite of all his temperance at table, and all his regularity at chapel.





NHEY come! they come! the pale-face come!"

The chieftain shouted where he stood
Sharp watching at the margin wood,
And gave the war-whoop's treble yell,
That like a knell on fair hearts fell
Far watching from their rocky home.


No nodding plumes or banners fair
Unfurled or fretted in the air;
No screaming fife or rolling drum
Did challenge brave of soul to come:
But, silent, sinew-bows were strung,
And, sudden, heavy quivers hung,
And, swiftly, to the battle sprung
Tall painted braves with tufted hair,
Like death-black banners in the air.


And long they fought, and firm and well,
And silent fought, and silent fell,
Save when they gave the fearful yell
Of death, defiance, or of hate.
But what were feathered flints to fate?
And what were yells to seething lead ?
And what the few and feeble feet
To troops that came with martial tread,
And stood by wood and bill and stiealu
As thick as people in a street,
As strange as spirits in a dream ?


From pine and poplar, here and there,
A cloud, a flash, a crash, a thud,
A warrior's garments rolled in blood,
A yell that rent the mountain air
Of fierce defiance and despair,
Did tell who fell, and when and where.
Then tighter drew the coils around,
And closer grew the battle-ground,
And fewer feathered arrows fell,
And fainter grew the battle yell,
Until upon the hill was heard
The short, sharp whistle of the bird.


The calm, that cometh after all,
Looked sweetly down at shut of day,
Where friend and foe commingled lay
Like leaves of forest as they fall.
Afar the somber mountains frowned,
Here tall pines wheeled their shadows round
Like long, slim fingers of a hand
That sadly pointed out the dead.
Like some broad shield high overhead
The great white moon led on and on,
As leading to the Better Land.
You might have heard the cricket's trill,
Or night-birds calling from the hill,
The place was so profoundly still.


The mighty chief at last was down,
The broken breast of brass and pride!
The hair all dust, the brow a-frown,
And proud mute lips compressed in hate
To foes, yet all content with fate;
While, circled round him thick, the foe
Had folded hands in dust, and died.
His tomahawk lay at his side,
All blood, beside his broken bow.

One arm stretched out as over-bold,
One hand half-doubled hid in dust,
And clutched the earth, as if to hold
His hunting-grounds still in his trust.


Here tall grass bowed its tasseled head
In dewy tears above the dead,
And there they lay in crooked fern,
That waved and wept above by turn;
And farther on, by somber trees,
They lay, wild heroes of wildest deeds,
In shrouds alone of weeping weeds,
Bound in a never-to-be-broken peace.



HAVE taken a pleasant ride of sixty miles down the

I in 1.2


settlement in Virginia. The site is a very handsome one. The river is three miles broad, and on the opposite shore the country presents a fine range of bold and beautiful hills. But I find no vestiges of the ancient town, except the ruins of a church-steeple and a disordered group of old tombstones.

2. The ruin of the steeple is about thirty feet high, and mantled to its very summit with ivy. It is difficult to look at this venerable object, surrounded as it is with these awful proofs of the mortality of man, without exclaiming, in the pathetic solemnity of our Shakspeare, —

“The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind.” 3. Whence arise the irrepressible reverence and tender affection with which I look at this broken steeple? Is it that my soul, by a secret, subtile process, invests the mouldering ruin with her own powers —imagines it a fellowbeing-a venerable old man, a Nestor, or an Ossian, who has witnessed and survived the ravages of successive generations, the companions of his youth and of his maturity, and now mourns his own solitary and desolate condition, and hails their spirits in every passing cloud ? Whatever may be the cause, as I look at it I feel my soul drawn forward, as by the cords of gentlest sympathy, and involuntarily open my lips to offer consolation to the drooping pile.

4. Where is the busy, bustling crowd which landed here two hundred years ago? Where is Smith, that pink of gallantry, that flower of chivalry? I fancy that I can see their first slow and cautious approach to the shore; their keen and vigilant eyes, piercing the forest in every direction, to detect the lurking Indian, with his tomahawk, bow, and arrow.

5. What an enterprise! how full of the most fearful perils ! and yet how entirely profitless to the daring men who personally undertook and achieved it! Through what a series of the most spirit-chilling hardships had they to toil! how often did they cast their eyes to England in vain!, and with what delusive hopes, day after day, did the little famished crew strain their sight to catch the white sail of comfort and relief! But, day after day, the sun set, and darkness covered the earth; yet no sail of comfort or relief came.

6. How often, in the pangs of hunger, sickness, solitude, and disconsolation, did they think of London; her shops, her markets groaning under the weight of plenty; her streets swarming with gilded coaches, bustling hacks, with crowds of lords, dukes, and commons, with healthy, busy, contented faces of every description; and among them none more healthy or more contented than those of their ungrateful and improvident directors !

7. But now—where are they all ? the little famished colony which landed here, and the many-colored crowd of London—where are they? Gone where there is no distinction-consigned to the common earth. Another generation succeeded them; which, just as busy and as bustling as that which fell before it, has sunk down into the same nothingness. Another and yet another billow has rolled on, each emulating its predecessor in height; towering for its moment, and curling its foaming honors to the clouds; then roaring, breaking, and perishing on the same shore.



GILES COREY, a Quaker accused of witchcraft, sentenced, with his wife, to be crushed to death by means of heavy weights; RICHARD GARDNER, a sea-captain; Jailer; Sheriff.

Scene-Salem Jail, 1692.
Corey. Now I have done with earth and all its cares;
I give my worldly goods to my dear children;
My body I bequeath to my tormentors,
And my immortal soul to Him who made it.
O God! who in thy wisdom dost afflict me
With an affliction greater than most men
Have ever yet endured or shall endure,
Suffer me not in this last bitter hour
For any pains of death to fall from thee!

Enter the Jailer, followed by Richard Gardner.
Jailer. Here's a seafaring man, one Richard Gardner,
A friend of yours, who asks to speak with you.

Corey. I'm glad to see you, ay, right glad to see you.
Gardner. And I most sorely grieved to see you thus.

Corey. Of all the friends I had in happier days,
You are the first, ay, and the only one,
That comes to seek me out in my disgrace!
And you but come in time to say farewell.
They ’ve dug my grave already in the field.
I thank you.

There is something in your presence,
I know not what it is, that gives me strength.
Perhaps it is the bearing of a man
Familiar with all the dangers of the deep,

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