And many a hanging crag. But, to the east,
Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs,-
Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear
Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark
With the thick moss of centuries, and there
Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt
Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing
To stand upon the beetling verge, and see
Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall,
Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base
Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear
Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound
Of winds, that struggle with the woods below,
Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene
Is lovely round; a beautiful river there
Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads,
The paradise he made unto himself,
Mining the soil for ages. On each side
The fields swell upward to the hills; beyond,
Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise

The mighty columns with which earth props heaven.

There is a tale about these gray old rocks,

A sad tradition of unhappy love

And sorrows borne and ended, long ago,
When over these fair vales the savage sought

His game in the thick woods. There was a maid,
The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed,
With wealth of raven tresses, a light form,
And a gay heart. About her cabin door

The wide old woods resounded with her song
And fairy laughter all the summer day.

She loved her cousin; such a love was deemed
By the morality of those stern tribes,

Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long
Against her love, and reasoned with her heart
As simple Indian maiden might. In vain.
Then her eye lost its lustre and her step
Its lightness, and the gray old men that passed
Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more
The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks
Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said,
Upon the Winter of their age. She went

To weep where no eye saw, and was not found
When all the merry girls were met to dance,
And all the hunters of the tribe were out;

Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk
The shining ear; nor when, by the river side,
They pulled the grape and startled the wild shades:
With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames:
Would whisper to each other, as they saw
Her wasting form, and say, The girl will die.
One day into the bosom of a friend,

A playmate of her young and innocent years,
She poured her griefs. Thou know'st, and thou alone,
She said, for I have told thee, all my love
And guilt and sorrow. I am sick of life.
All night I weep in darkness, and the morn
Glares on me, as upon a thing accurst,

That has no business on the earth. I hate

The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once
I loved; the cheerful voices of my friends
Have an unnatural horror in mine ear.

In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls,
Calls me and chides me. All that look on me
Do seem to know my shame; I cannot bear
Their eyes;
I cannot from my heart root out
The love that wrings it so, and I must die.

It was a Summer morning and they went To this old precipice. About the cliffs, Lay garlands, ears of maize, and skins of wolf And shaggy bear, the offerings of the tribe Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed, Like worshippers of the elder time, that God Doth walk on the high places and affect The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on The ornaments with which the father loved To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl, And bade her wear when stranger warriors came To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down, And sung, all day, old songs of love and death, And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers, And prayed that safe and swift might be her way To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. Beautiful lay the region of her tribe Below her-waters resting in the embrace Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades Opening amid the leafy wilderness.

She gazed upon it long, and at the sight

Of her own village peeping through the trees,
And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof
Of him she loved with an unlawful love,
And came to die for, a warm gush of tears
Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low
And the hill shadows long, she threw herself
From the steep rock and perished. There was scooped
Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave;
And there they laid her, in the very garb

With which the maiden decked herself for death,
With the same withering wild flowers in her hair.
And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe
Built up a simple monument, a cone

Of small loose stones. Thence forward, all who passed,
Hunter and dame and virgin, laid a stone

In silence on the pile. It stands there yet.
And Indians from the distant West, that come
To visit where their fathers' bones are laid,
Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day
The mountain where the hapless maiden died
Is called the Mountain of the Monument.

LINES FROM A TRAVELLER'S PORT FOLIO.

I stood upon the lofty Alleghany.

It was a summer morning—the bright sun
Shone o'er the mountain tops on the fair vales,
Which lay stretched out beneath his gladdening beam.
Calm, peaceful vales, such as the aged love
To rest their wearied limbs upon when life
Draws near its close-such as young lovers seek.
And there I stood upon that mountain's brow,
And looked upon the morning;--far away
On either hand, and where the Ohio glides
Serenely to the bed of other waters,
Lay fields of brightly shining summer grain,
Where lusty arms plied nimble reaping hooks,
And bright-eyed virgins, as of olden time,
Them followed, and the yellow sheaf upreared.
And there were pastures fair beneath mine eye,
And o'er them grazed innumerous herds and flocks,
The wealth of the strong man, who years ago
Built his rude cabin by the beetling brow
Of these eternal mountains, and sat down,
And lopt the sycamore, and felled the oak,
And had him sons and daughters born amidst
The shouts and battle-songs of savage tribes.

And still I stood upon that mountain's brow,
And still it was the morning. O'er me past
A breath from out the deep and fearful glen,
Which lay beside me, fringed with meagre pines-