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The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
When years had passed on, by that still lakeside
ODE WRITTEN FOR THE COMMEMORATION AT FRYEBURG,
MAINE, OF LOVEWELL'S FIGHT,
Many a day and wasted year
And our fathers bled.
From the hunter fled.
In these ancient woods so bright,
The stern warriors kept.
Where their fathers slept.
From their ancient sepulchres,
Have the red men gone.
Its sad journey on.
Where the Indian hamlet stood,
And the war-cry rose ;
Ere the day's faint close.
Low the smoke of battle hung ;
When the night shades fell ;
That a tale could tell.
And the story of that day
Waste our liberty;
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
O'er him thus fallen in his pride,
They made the warrior's grave beneath
When the dark hunter's piercing eye
Where, scattered by the sharp wind's breath,
Where was the warrior's foot, when first
And made the woodlands faint with thirst ?
Where was the warrior's foot when night
Down the bare rock so high and white !
They found him there, when the long day
Deep marks and footprints in the clay!
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 ;
Where billows clasp the worn seaside.
My plumage bears the crimson blush,
When ocean by the sun is kissed !
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.
Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep
O'er living myriads in their sleep.
They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem;
The glorious dwellings made for them.
At night upon my storm-drench'd wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
Had passed away and left no mark.
And when the wind and storm were done,
A ship, that had rode out the gale,
And none was left to tell the tale.
I saw the pomp of day depart —
The cloud resign its golden crown,
The sailor's wasted corse went down.
Peace be to those whose graves are made
Beneath the bright and silver sea !
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,
In broad light and shadow lay.
A glory was on the silent sea,
And mainland and island too,
And shrouded that beautiful blue.
Bright in the moon the autumn wood
Its crimson scarf unrolled,
In a panoply of gold !
I saw them waving their banners high,
As their crests to the night wind bowed,
Like the whispering of a crowd.
Then I watched from my window how fast
The lights all around me fled,
And the sick one to his bed.
All faded save one, that burned
With distant and steady light;
Where my own lamp within shone bright!
Thus, thought I, our joys must die,
Yes - the brightest from earth we win:
To the lamp that burns brightly within.
The same, April 1, 1826.
Where, from the eye of day,
The dark and silent river
O'er which the tall trees quiver;
The silver mist, that breaks
From out that woodland cover,
And hangs the current over!
So oft the thoughts that burst
From hidden springs of feeling,
From our cold hearts are stealing:
But soon the clouds that veil
The eye of Love, when glowing,
Of thoughts in darkness flowing !
SONG OF THE BIRDS.
Published in The Atlantic Souvenir, 1827.
With what a hollow dirge, its voice did fill