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We saw thee, O stranger, and wept! We looked for the chief who hath left the spear And the bow of his battles forgotten here! We looked for the hunter, whose bride's lament On the wind of the forest at eve is sent: We looked for the first born, whose mother's cry Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky! -Where are they?—thou’ri seeking some distant coastOh, ask of them, stranger !-send back the lost! Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams, Tell them our lives but of them are dreams! Tell how we sat in the gloom to pine, And to watch for a step- but the step was thine!
THE ISLE OF FOUNTS.
AN INDIAN TRADITION.
« The River St. Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich highland ; one of which the present generation of the Creek Indians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth; they say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians whose women are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in pursuit of game: but that in their endeavors to approach it, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly, before them alternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved at length to leave the delusive pursuit, and to return, which after a number of difficulties they effected. When they reported their adventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed with an irresistible desire to invade, and make a conquest of, so charining a country; but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, never having been able again to find that enchanting spot.”- Bartram's Travels through North and South Carolina, 6c. The additional circumstances in the Isle of Founts are merely imaginary.
Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O'er yon blue hills tlıy lonely way,
Along whose banks the west winds play?
-Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
'Midst the gray rocks, his old domain :
-Thy step that lake's green shore may gain ;
Clear as within thine arrow's flight,
Floats on the wave in golden light;
Which are not of the things that dic,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
From the deep chambers of the earth ?
To which the ancient rocks gave birth ? ?
And image from that sunbright shore;
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,
* The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains,. overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mos sy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of the rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the bright old inhabitants.” They represent them as snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of drawing to them every living creature that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle of dazzling brightness.-See Notes to Leyden's “ Scenes of Infancy."
† The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American missionaries Laxas de Musica, and alluded to in a forma er note.
Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,
Of founts that ripple through its glades :
With their bright spray-showers to the lake;
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
The waters of our deserts lie,
Parched with the fever's agony !
Back from their long and weary quest ;
And could they 'midst our wilds find rest ?
With visions in their darkened eye,
Where elk and deer before us fly;
They arm’d not with the warrior-band,
- They left us for the spirits' land !
Silence be 'midst us in thy place,
The strength of battle and of chase!
THE BENDED BOW.
It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messengers in different directions through the land, each bearing a bended bow ; and that peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight.
See the Cambrian Antiquities:
THERE was heard the sound of a coming foe,
“ Heard ye not the battle-horn ?
Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!"
Hunter! leave the mountain chase!
Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh.”
" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast !
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall."
" Prince ! thy father's deeds are told,
Give our bards a tale of thee!"
“ Mother! stay thou not thy boy!
Britain calls the strong in heart!"
HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.*
It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.
The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves rolled on;
To him that wept a son ?
Ere sorrow break its chain ;
-He never smiled again!
The stately and the brave,
That one beneath the wave ?
* Originally published in the Literary Gazette,