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 'rt seeking some distant coast-
Oh, 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 accumu lation 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 conquest of, so charming a country; but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, never having been able again to find that enchanting spot."-Bartram's Trav els through North and South Carolina, &c. The additional circumstances in the Isle of Founts are merely imaginary.

SON of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake

Along whose banks the west winds play?

-Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain-Isle !

Lull but the mighty serpent king,*

'Midst the gray rocks, his old domain : Ward but the cougar's deadly spring,

-Thy step that lake's green shore may gain
And the bright Isle, when all is passed,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!

Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear as within thine arrow's flight,
The Isle of Founts, the Isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!

And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers

Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed's hollow cell.

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise

From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies

To which the ancient rocks gave birth ? †
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves.
The emerald waves!-they take their hue

And image from that sunbright shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,
Before thee hadst thou morning's speed,
The dreamy land shouldst still recede !

* The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy 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 form

er note.

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever should the sound be near

Of founts that ripple through its glades:
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray
Of joyous waters in their play!

But wo for him who sees them borst

With their bright spray-showers to the lake;
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst

That semblance in his soul shall wake,
For ever pouring through his dreams,
The gush of those untasted streams!

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,

The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lip shall burn,
Parched with the fever's agony!
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.

F'en thus our hunters came of yore

Back from their long and weary quest ;
-Had they not seen th' untrodden shore,

And could they 'midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt among us as the dead!

They lay beside our glittering rills,

With visions in their darkened eye,
Their joy was not amidst the hills,

Where elk and deer before us fly;
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung:

They bent no more the forest bow,

They arm'd not with the warrior-band, The moons waned o'er them dim and slow-They left us for the spirits' land! Beneath our pines yon greensward heap Shows where the restless found their sleep.

Son of the stranger! if at eve

Silence be 'midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave

The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain-isle !
VOL. II.

3

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 an nounced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight.

See the Cambrian Antiquities.

THERE was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended Bow,
And a voice was poured on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sound of war.

"Heard ye not the battle-horn?
-Reaper! leave thy golden corn!
Leave it for the birds of heaven,
Swords must flash, and spears be riven !
Leave it for the winds to shed-
Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!"

And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son,
And the bended Bow and the voice passed on.

"Hunter! leave the mountain chase!
Take the falchion from its place!
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey!
Let the deer ungalled sweep by,-
Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh."

And the hunter armed ere the chase was done,
And the bended Bow and the voice passed on.

"Chieftain! quit the joyous feast!
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth and leave the hall-
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall."

And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown,
And the bended Bow and tho voice passed on.

"Prince! thy father's deeds are told,
In the bower and in the hold!
Where the goatherd's lay is sung,
Where the minstrel's harp is strung!
-Foes are on thy native sea-
Give our bards a tale of thee!"

And the prince came armed, like a leader's son,
And the bended Bow and the voice passed on.

"Mother! stay thou not thy boy!
He must learn the battle's joy,
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer!
Maiden! bid thy lover part,
Britain calls the strong in heart!"
And the bended Bow and the voice passed on,
And the bards made song for a battle won,

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;
And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain ;-

Why comes not death to those who mourn?
-He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave,
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?

*Originally published in the Literary Gazette,