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The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white -
A footstep was heard in the rustling brake,
Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake,
And a mourning voice, and a plunge from shore, –
And the hunter was seen on the hills


When years had passed on, by that still lakeside
The fisher looked down through the silver tide,
And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed,
A skeleton wasted and white was laid,
And 't was seen, as the waters moved deep and slow,
That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.


And printed in the Gazette of Maine, May 24, 1825.

Air-Bruce's Address.


Many a day and wasted year
Bright has left its footsteps here,
Since was broken the warrior's spear,

And our fathers bled.
Still the tall trees, arching, shake
Where the fleet deer by the lake,
As he dash'd through birch and brake,

From the hunter fled.


In these ancient woods so bright,
That are full of life and light,
Many a dark, mysterious rite

The stern warriors kept.
But their altars are bereft,
Fall'n to earth, and strewn and cleft,
And a holier faith is left

Where their fathers slept.


From their ancient sepulchres,
Where amid the giant firs,
Moaning loud, the high wind stirs,

Have the red men gone.
Tow'rd the setting sun that makes
Bright our western hills and lakes,
Faint and few, the remnant takes

Its sad journey on.


Where the Indian hamlet stood,
In the interminable wood,
Battle broke the solitude,

And the war-cry rose ;
Sudden came the straggling shot
Where the sun looked on the spot
That the trace of war would blot

Ere the day's faint close.


Low the smoke of battle hung ;
Heavy down the lake it swung,
Till the death wail loud was sung

When the night shades fell ;
And the green pine, waving dark,
Held within its shattered bark
Many a lasting scathe and mark,

That a tale could tell.


And the story of that day
Shall not pass from earth away,
Nor the blighting of decay

Waste our liberty;
But within the river's sweep
Long in peace our vale shall sleep
And free hearts the record keep

Of this jubilee.


The Indian chief, Jeckoyva, as tradition says, perished alone on the mountain which now bears his name. Night overtook him whilst hunting among the cliffs, and he was not heard of till after a long time, when his half-decayed corpse was found at the foot of a high rock, over which he must have fallen. Mount Jeckoyva is near the White Hills.

H. W. L.

The United States Literary Gazette, August 11, 1815.

They made the warrior's grave beside
The dashing of his native tide :
And there was mourning in the glen –
The strong wail of a thousand men -

O'er him thus fallen in his pride,
Ere mist of age --- or blight or blast
Had o'er his mighty spirit past.

They made the warrior's grave beneath
The bending of the wild elm's wreath,

When the dark hunter's piercing eye
Had found that mountain rest on high,

Where, scattered by the sharp wind's breath,
Beneath the rugged cliff were thrown
The strong belt and the mouldering bone.

Where was the warrior's foot, when first
The red sun on the mountain burst ?
Where — when the sultry noon-time came
On the green vales with scorching flame,

And made the woodlands faint with thirst ?
'T was where the wind is keen and loud,
And the gray eagle breasts the cloud.

Where was the warrior's foot when night
Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height?
None heard the loud and sudden crash —
None saw the fallen warrior dash

Down the bare rock so high and white !
But he that drooped not in the chase
Made on the hills his burial-place.

They found him there, when the long day
Of cold desertion passed away,
And traces on that barren cleft
Of struggling hard with death were left-

Deep marks and footprints in the clay!
And they have laid this feathery helm
By the dark river and





The same, August 15, 1825. This with thirteen other poems was included in a volume published in 1826, entitled Miscellaneous Poems selected from The United States Literary Gazette.

My way is on the bright blue sea,

My sleep upon its rocking tide ;
And many an eye has followed me

Where billows clasp the worn seaside.

My plumage bears the crimson blush,

When ocean by the sun is kissed !
When fades the evening's purple flush,

My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.

Full many a fathom down beneath

The bright arch of the splendid deep
My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe

O'er living myriads in their sleep.

They rested by the coral throne,

And by the pearly diadem;
Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown

The glorious dwellings made for them.

At night upon my storm-drench'd wing,

I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shattered thing

Had passed away and left no mark.

And when the wind and storm were done,

A ship, that had rode out the gale,
Sunk down, without a signal-gun,

And none was left to tell the tale.

I saw the pomp of day depart —

The cloud resign its golden crown,
When to the ocean's beating heart

The sailor's wasted corse went down.

Peace be to those whose graves are made

Beneath the bright and silver sea !
Peace - that their relics there were laid

With no vain pride and pageantry.


The same, November 15, 1825.

I sat by my window one night,

And watched how the stars grew high; And the earth and skies were a splendid sight

To a sober and musing eye.

From heaven the silver moon shone down

With gentle and mellow ray,
And beneath the crowded roofs of the town

In broad light and shadow lay.

A glory was on the silent sea,

And mainland and island too,
Till a haze came over the lowland lea,

And shrouded that beautiful blue.

Bright in the moon the autumn wood

Its crimson scarf unrolled,
And the trees like a splendid army stood

In a panoply of gold !

I saw them waving their banners high,

As their crests to the night wind bowed,
And a distant sound on the air went by,

Like the whispering of a crowd.

Then I watched from my window how fast

The lights all around me fled,
As the wearied man to his slumber passed

And the sick one to his bed.

All faded save one, that burned

With distant and steady light;
But that, too, went out — and I turned

Where my own lamp within shone bright!

Thus, thought I, our joys must die,

Yes - the brightest from earth we win:
Till each turns away, with a sigh,

To the lamp that burns brightly within.


The same, April 1, 1826.

Where, from the eye of day,

The dark and silent river
Pursues through tangled woods a way

O'er which the tall trees quiver;

The silver mist, that breaks

From out that woodland cover,
Betrays the hidden path it takes,

And hangs the current over!

So oft the thoughts that burst

From hidden springs of feeling,
Like silent streams, unseen at first,

From our cold hearts are stealing:

But soon the clouds that veil

The eye of Love, when glowing,
Betray the long unwhispered tale

Of thoughts in darkness flowing !


Published in The Atlantic Souvenir, 1827.

With what a hollow dirge, its voice did fill
The vast and empty hollow of the night !-
It had perched itself upon a tall old tree,
That hung its tufted and thick clustering leaves
Midway across the brook; and sung most sweetly,
In all the merry and heart-broken sadness
Of those that love hath crazed. Clearly it ran
Through all the delicate compass of its voice : -
And then again, as from a distant hollow,

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