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In the silence of the midnight

I journey with my dead;
In the darkness of the forest-boughs,

A lonely path I tread.

But my heart is high and fearless,

As by mighty wings upborne;
The mountain eagle hath not plumes

So strong as Love and Scorn.

I have raised thee from the grave-sod,

By the white man's path defiled;
On to th' ancestral wilderness,

I bear thy dust, my child !

I have ask'd the ancient deserts

To give my dead a place,
Where the stately footsteps of the free

Alone should leave a trace.

* An Indian, who had established himself in a township of Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on the death of his only child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, dug up the body of his child, and carried it with him two hundred miles through the for. ests to join the Canadian Indians. See Tudor's Letters on the Eastern States of America.

And the tossing pines made answer

Go, bring us back thine own!” And the streams from all the hunters' hills,

Rush'd with an echoing tone.

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters

That yet untamed may roll; The voices of that chainless host

With joy shall fill thy soul.
In the silence of the midnight

I journey with the dead,
Where the arrows of my father's bow

Their falcon flight have sped.
I have left the spoilers' dwellings,

For evermore, behind;
Unmingled with their household sounds,

For me shall sweep the wind.

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires,

I watch'd my child's decay, Uncheer'd, I saw the spirit-light

From his young eyes fade away.

When his head sank on my bosom,

When the death-sleep o'er him fell, Was there one to say, “A friend is near ?"

There was none !-pale race, farewell!

To the forests, to the cedars,

To the warrior and his bow, Back, back!—I bore thee laughing thence

I bear thee slumbering now!



I bear thee unto burial

With the mighty hunters gone;
I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze,

Thou wilt speak of joy, my son !

In the silence of the midnight

I journey with the dead;
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet,

My father's path I tread.




“If I could see him, it were well with me!”

COLERIDGE'S Wallenstein.

THERE were lights and sounds of revelling in the

vanquish'd city's halls, As by night the feast of victory was held within its

walls; And the conquerors filld the wine-cup high, after

years of bright blood shed; But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the

triumph, wail'd the dead.

"The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss of his brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege of Naples, is affectingly described by the historian, Mariana. It is also the subject of one of the old Spanish ballads in Lockhart's beautiful collection.

He look'd down from the fortress won, on the tents

and towers below, The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets,- and a gloom

came o'er his brow: The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn

and cymbal's tone; But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more

utterly alone.

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city! thou city

of the sea ! But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in

thee? -I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad

waves past them roll, And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is

mournful to my soul.

• My brother! oh! my brother! thou art gone,

the true and brave, And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy

grave; There are many round my throne to stand, and to

march where I lead on; There was one to love me in the world,-my bro

ther! thou art gone!

“In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's

wrath, We stood together, side by side; one hope was ours

one path;



Thou hast wrapt me in the soldier's cloak, thou

hast fenced me with thy breast; Thou hast watch'd beside my couch of pain-oh!

bravest heart, and best !

“I see the festive lights around;-o'er a dull sad

world they shine; I hear the voice of victory—my Pedro! where is

thine? The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found

reply ! Oh brother! I have bought too dear this hollow


“I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my glory

and my sway, And chiefs to lead them fearlessly ;- my friend hath

pass'd away! For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart

may thirst in vain, And the face that was as light to mine-it cannot

come again!

“I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the

offering for a crown; With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have

purchased cold renown; How often will my weary heart 'midst the sounds

of triumph die, When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of


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