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when you see, at once, that these races were of a very different character from the present generation, you begin to inquire if any tradition, if any, the faintest, records can throw any light upon these habitations of men of another age.

Is there no scope, beside these mounds, for imagination, and for contemplation of the past? The men, their joys, their sorrows, their bones, are all buried together. But the grand features of nature remain. There is the beautiful prairie, over which they “strutted through life's poor play." The forests, the hills, the mounds, lift their heads in unalterable repose, and furnish the same sources of contemplation to us, that they did to those generations that have passed away.

It is true, we have little reason to suppose, that they were the guilty dens of petty tyrants, who let loose their half savage vassals to burn, plunder, enslave, and despoil an adjoining den. There are no remains of the vast and useless monasteries, where ignorant and lazy monks dreamed

their lusts, or meditated their vile plans of acquisition and imposture.

Here must have been a race of men, on these charming plains, that had every call from the scenes that surrounded them, to contented existence and tranquil meditation. Un fortunate, as men view the thing, they inust have been. Innocent and peaceful they probably were ; for, had they been reared amidst wars and quarrels, like the present Indians, they would, doubtless, have maintained their ground, and their posterity would have remained to this day. Beside them moulder the huge bones of their contemporary beasts, which must have been of thrice the size of the elephant.

I cannot judge of the recollections excited by castles and towers that I have not seen. But I have seen all of grandeur, which our cities can display. I have seen, too, these lonely tombs of the desert, --seen them rise from these boundless and unpeopled plains. My imagination and my heart have been full of the past. The nothingness of the brief dream of human life has forced itself upon my mind. The unknown race, to which these bones belonged, had, I doubt not, as many projects of ambition, and hoped, as sanguinely, to have their names survive, as the great ones of the present day.


On the Barrows, or Monumental Mounds, in the prairies of

the Western Rivers.-M. FLINT.

The sun's last rays were fading from the west,

The deepening shade stole slowly o'er the plain, The evening breeze had lulled itself to rest,

And all was silence,--save the mournful strain

With which the widowed turtle wooed, in vain,
Her absent lover to her lonely nest.
Now, one by one, emerging to the sight,

The brighter stars assumed their seats on high,
The moon's pale crescent glowed serenely bright,

As the last twilight fled along the sky,

And all her train, in cloudless majesty,
Were glittering on the dark blue vault of night.
I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound,

And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene;
From the dark summit of an Indian mound

I saw the plain, outspread in living green;

Its fringe of cliffs was, in the distance, seen, And the dark line of forests sweeping round.

I saw the lesser mounds which round me rose;

Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay ; There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes,

There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay;

And mighty tribes, swept from the face of day,
Forgot their wars, and found a long repose.
Ye mouldering relics of departed years,

Your names have perished; not a trace remains,
Save where the grass-grown mound its summit rears

From the green bosom of your native plains. Say, do your spirits wear oblivion's chains ? Did death forever quench your hopes and fears ?

Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss,

Which simple nature to your bosoms gave,

Find other worlds with fairer skies, than this,

Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave,

In whose bright climes the virtuous* and the brave Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ?

Where the great hunter still pursues the chase,

And, o'er the sunny mountains, tracks the đeer; Or where he finds each long-extinguished race,

And sees, once more, the mighty mammoth rear

The giant form which lies imbedded here, Of other years the sole remaining trace.

Or, it may be, that still ye linger near

The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride; And, could your forms to mortal eye appear,

Or the dark veil of death be thrown aside, Then might I see your restless shadows glide, With watchful care, around these relics dear.

If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet

Which trod so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. I would not thus profane their lone retreat,

Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head

Lay pillowed on his everlasting bed,
Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet.
Farewell! and may you still, in peace, repose;

Still o'er you may the flowers, untrodden, blooni,
And softly wave to every breeze that blows,

Casting their fragrance on each lonely tomb,

In which your tribes sleep in earth's common womb, And mingle with the clay from which they rose.


The American Indian, as he was, and as he is.-C. SPRAGUE,

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole

* Pron, ver-tshu-ous.

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unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer: gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate.

Here the wigwam blaze beaned on the tender and helpless, the council-fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe* along your rocky shores. Here they warred; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying death-song, all were here; and, when the tiger strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace.

Here, too, they worshipped; and from many a dark bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of the universe he acknowledged in every thing around.

He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind his lonely dwelling; in the sacred orb that flamed on him froni his mid-day throne; in the flower that snapped in the morn. ing breeze; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirlwinds; in the timid warbler, that never left its native grove; in the fearless eagle, whose untired pinion was wet in clouds; in the worm that crawled at his foot; and in his own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious Source he bent, in humble, though blind adoration.

And all this has passed away; Across the ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The former were sown for you; the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the character of a great continent, and blotted, forever, from its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of nature, and the anointed children of education have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant.

Here and there, a stricken few renain; but how unlike their bold, untamed, untameable progenitors! The Indian of falcont glance, and lion bearing, the theme of the touch ing ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone! and his degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us how miserable is man, when the foot of the conqueror is on his neck,

* Pron, ca-noo'.

+ Pron, fawn.

As a race, they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them forever.

Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person they belonged. They will live only in the songs and chro. nicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people.


The Grare a place of rest.—MACKENZIE.

THE grave


a place where the weary are at rest. How soothing is this sentiment, “The weary are at rest!" There is something in the expression which affects the heart with uncommon sensations, and produces a species of delight, where tranquillity is the principal ingredient. The sentiment itself is extensive, and implies many particulars : it implies, not only that we are delivered from the troubling of the wicked, as in the former clause, but from every trouble and every pain, to which life is subjected.

Those, only, who have themselves been tried in affliction, can feel the full force of this expression. Others may be pleased with the sentiment, and affected by sympathy. The distressed are, at once, pleased and comforted. To be delivered from trouble-to be relieved from power—to see oppression humbled*—to be freed from care and pain, from sickness and distress—to lie down as in a bed of security, in a long oblivion of our woes to sleep, in peace, without the fear of interruption--how pleasing is the prospect! how full of consolation !

• Pron, um'-bl'd.

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