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

Lull but the mighty serpent king, *

'Midst the grey 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 pass'd
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!

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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 ;

* The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their moun. tains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old niossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of the rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the “ bright old inhabito ants.” 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."


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 should still recede!

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 woe for him who sees them burst

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

* The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South Americau missionaries Laras de Musica, and alluded to in a former notes

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,

Parch'd with the fever's agony !
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.

E’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 amongst us as the dead!

They lay beside our glittering rills,

With visions in their darken'd 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,

T'hey arm’d not with the warrior-band, The moons waned o’er them dim and slow

- They left us for the spirit's land !

Beneath our pines yon greensward beap 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 !



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, There was sent through Britain a bended Bow, And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sign 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 arm’d, like a freeman's son,
And the bended Bow and the voice pass’d on.

“ Hunter ! leave the mountain-chase !
Take the falchion from its place!

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