of

Three long and weary months- yet not a whisper
Of stern reproach for that cold parting! Then
She sat no longer by her favorite fountain:

She was at rest forever.

THE VENETIAN GONDOLIER.

The same, January 15, 1825.

Here rest the weary oar!-soft airs
Breathe out in the o'erarching sky;
And Night-sweet Night- serenely wears
A smile of peace: her noon is nigh.

Where the tall fir in quiet stands,

And waves, embracing the chaste shores,
Move over sea-shells and bright sands,
Is heard the sound of dipping oars.

Swift o'er the wave the light bark springs,

Love's midnight hour draws lingering near;

And list! his tuneful viol strings

The young Venetian Gondolier.

Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep,

On earth, and her embosomed lakes,

And where the silent rivers sweep,

From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks.

Soft music breathes around, and dies

On the calm bosom of the sea;
Whilst in her cell the novice sighs
Her vespers to her rosary.

At their dim altars bow fair forms,
In tender charity for those,
That, helpless left to life's rude storms,
Have never found this calm repose.

The bell swings to its midnight chime,
Relieved against the deep blue sky.
Haste!-dip the oar again—'t is time
To seek Genevra's balcony.

THE ANGLER'S SONG.

Inserted in a number of The Lay Monastery (a short series essays contributed by Mr. Longfellow to The United States Literary Gazette), March 15, 1825.

From the river's plashy bank,

Where the sedge grows green and rank,

And the twisted woodbine springs,

Published in the Portland Advertiser, June 10, 1825.

They showed us near the outlet of Sebago, the Lover's Rock, from which an Indian maid threw herself down into the lake, when the guests were coming together to the marriage festival of her false-hearted lover. - Leaf from a Traveller's Journal.

The United States Literary Gazette, March 15, 1825.

By yon still river, where the wave
Is winding slow at evening's close,
The beech, upon a nameless grave,
Its sadly-moving shadow throws.

O'er the fair woods the sun looks down
Upon the many-twinkling leaves,
And twilight's mellow shades are brown,
Where darkly the green turf upheaves.

The river glides in silence there,

And hardly waves the sapling tree :
Sweet flowers are springing, and the air
Is full of balm - but where is she!

Why comes he not? I call

In tears upon him yet;

'T were better ne'er to love at all,
Than love, and then forget!

Why comes he not? Alas! I should
Reclaim him still, if weeping could.

But see he leaves the glade,
And beckons me away:

He comes to seek his mountain maid!
I cannot chide his stay.

Glad sounds along the valley swell,
And voices hail the evening-bell.

THE INDIAN HUNTER.

The same, May 15, 1825.

When the summer harvest was gathered in,
And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin,
And the ploughshare was in its furrow left,
Where the stubble land had been lately cleft,

An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow,

Looked down where the valley lay stretched below.

He was a stranger there, and all that day

Had been out on the hills, a perilous way,

But the foot of the deer was far and fleet,

And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet.

And bitter feelings passed o'er him then,

As he stood by the populous haunts of men.

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 ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red
Were the tree's withered leaves round it shed.

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 herdsmen came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.

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