this century, and has been deemed comparable only to Milton's Comus. It is still unapproached by any other fairy poem of the century in the almost human interest which its characters possess, and in the delicacy of its description. Washington Irving found in the folk-lore of colonial days in the Catskills the materials for his Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle-prose idyls, which are written in a style singularly well adapted to the delineation of the legendary and the picturesque. Interesting accounts of the religions of the Aztecs and the ancient Peruvians are to be found in William H. Prescott's Conquest of Mexico and Conquest of Peru. A novel entitled The Fair God, by General Lew Wallace, relates the overthrow of Montezuma, the Aztec emperor, by the Spanish invader Cortes, and presents a graphic picture of the days of Mexican idolatry. The Story of Mexico, a recent work by Susan Hale, is a valuable contribution to Spanish-American history. AN INDIAN STORY. (The Legend of Maquon.) BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. "I KNOW where the timid fawn abides Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, From the eye of the hunter well. "I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook, On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws Far over the silent brook. "And that timid fawn starts not with fear And that young May violet to me is dear, To look on the lovely flower." Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks To the hunting-ground on the hills; 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills. He goes to the chase-but evil eyes Are at watch in the thicker shades; For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, With the early carol of many a bird, And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, A good red deer from the forest shade, That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, The hollow woods, in the setting sun, And Maquon's sylvan labors are done, And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He stops near his bower-his eye perceives. At once to the earth his burden he heaves, And breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, And gains its door with a bound. But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, But where is she who at this calm hour She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower. It is not a time for idle grief, The horror that freezes his limbs is brief- grasps And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast that hurries the On the wild November day. vapor and sleet 'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door; But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin side- But far in a pine-grove, dark and cold, Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, And the Indian girls that pass that way Point out the ravisher's grave; "And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, "Returned the maid that was borne away From Maquon, the fond and the brave." THE DEATH LAMENT OF THE NADOWESSIE CHIEFTAIN. BY JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER. (TRANSLATED BY EDGAR ALFRED BOWRING.) SEE, he sitteth on his mat, Sitteth there upright, With the grace with which he sat Where is now the sturdy gripe, Where the bright and falcon eye, Where the limbs that used to dart Where the arm that sturdily Farewell gifts, then, hither bring, Sound the death-note sad! Bury him with everything That can make him glad. 'Neath his head the hatchet hide, And the bear's-fat haunch beside, And the knife, well sharpened, That, with slashes three, Scalp and skin from foeman's head And, to paint his body, place COMANCHE BOY. BY FANNIE A. D. DARDEN. SWEET child of the forest and prairie, Have they folded their tents 'neath the greenwood- Where the buffalo roameth at pleasure, And the fleet-footed dun deer is found? Or on the red trail of the war-path Do thy stern chieftains seek for the foe? They are gone to the land of the West Wind; As the lingering rays of the sunset As the soft, hazy Indian summer Is a dream of the summer that's gone: |