And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
Thro' storied windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love—a secret love and lowly,
And the rose image all things fleet and fair,
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
To blush thro' every season?-Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still,
For years, those gorgeous coronals renewed,

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, Even thro' mid-winter, filled the solitude

With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm. Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring In lone devotedness!

One spring-morn rose,

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laidOh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose

From the fierce noon-a dark-hair'd peasant maid : Who could reveal her story?—That still face

Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow, And the curv'd lip, there lingered yet such grace

As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eyeFor death was on its lids-fell mournfully.

But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight? Her kindred's

place

Was not amidst the high De Couci race;

Yet there her shrine had been !-She grasp'd a

The tomb's last garland!—This was love in death!

F

An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's Expedition to the source of St Peter's River.

INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG.

Non, je ne puis vivre avec un coeur brisé.

Il faut que je retrouve

la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de l'air.

Bride of Messina,

Translated by MADAME DE STAEL.

Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman.

The Prairie.

Down a broad river of the western wilds,

Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe
Swept with the current; fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing

Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray
Rose with the cataract's thunder.-Yet within,
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone,
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,
A woman stood: upon her Indian brow

Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair wav'd
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child,
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile
Above the sound of waters, high and clear,
Wafting a wild proud strain, her song of death.

Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream
and free!

Father of ancient waters,5 roll! and bear our lives

with thee!

The weary bird that storms have toss'd, would

seek the sunshine's calm,

And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a

moonbeam's trace;

E 2

non illa feris incognita Cxprès ramina, Come tergo volueres hasere sagir Mug: Au: Lin : 413.