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Mrs. Hemans thus gracefully enshrines in verse a beautiful Indian legend from Chateaubriand's Souvenirs d'Amerique :


We saw thee, O Stranger, and wept !
We looked for the youth of the sunny glance,
Whose step was the feetest in chase or dance !
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee !
But there came a voice from a distant shore:
He was call’d-he is found midst his tribe no more !
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
We look for him still—he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him—we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step—but the step was thine.

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept !
We looked for the maid of the mournful song-
Mournful, though sweet—she hath left us long!
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him—she passed alone :
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is Aed,
The winter is white on his lonely head,
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track
He hath none when we rest—yet she comes not back!
We looked for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step-but the step was thine !

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-
O 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 !

Another exquisite poem, The Messenger-Bird, by the same gifted poetess, is founded upon a tradition among the Brazilian tribes, to the effect, that this bird is a messenger sent by their deceased relatives with news from the other world.

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SOUTHEY, one of the most voluminous of writers (exceeding Scott in this respect), is said to have destroyed more verses between his twentieth and thirtieth year than he published during his whole life. His books were his most cherished and constant companions : as he, indeed, tells us in one of his poems :

My days among the dead are passed ; around me I behold Where'er these casual eyes are cast, the mighty minds of old :

My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I converse night and day.
With them I take delight in weal, and seek relief in woe ;
And, while I understand and feel how much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

It is a mournful fact to add, also, that for nearly three years preceding his death, he sat amongst these silent “companions” in hopeless vacuity of mind, unable to hold further “converse" with them: yet it is stated by Wordsworth, that even then he found him patting his books with both hands, affectionately, like a child.

He died, thus in eclipse, at Keswick, and his body now sleeps “amid the stillness and grandeur of his old Cumberland hills.”

The following refrain seems tinged with his own sorrow :

The days of infancy are all a dream;
How fair, but, oh! how short they seem-

'Tis life's sweet opening Spring!
The days of youth advance ;
The bounding limb, the ardent glance,

The kindling soul they bring-
It is life’s burning Summer-time.
Manhood, matured with wisdom’s fruit,
Reward of learning's deep pursuit,
Succeeds, as Autumn follows Summer's prime.
And that, and that, alas ! goes by ;
And what ensues ?—the languid eye,
The failing frame, the soul o'ercast ;
'Tis Winter's sickening, withering blast,
Life's blessed season—for it is the last.

It is thus he moralizes on the Holly-tree :

O reader ! hast thou ever stood to see the holly-tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives its glossy leaves,

Ordered by an Intelligence so wise
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence its leaves are seen, wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round, can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes, and moralize ;
And in this wisdom of the holly-tree can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear harsh and austere,
To those who on my leisure would intrude, reserved and rude ;

Gentle at home, amid my friends, I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen so bright and green,
The holly leaves their fadeless hues display less bright than they ;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly-tree?

So serious should my youth appear among the thoughtless throng,
So would I seem amid the young and gay, more grave than they,

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly-tree.

His sweet lyric, on the immortality of Love, is universally admired :

They sin, who tell us love can die :
With life all other passions Ay,

All others are but vanity :
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ;--
Earthly these passions as of earth,
They perish where they have their birth :

But love is indestructible,–
Its holy Aame forever burneth—
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth :

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Moore's Lake of the Dismal Swamp, written at Norfolk, in Virginia, is founded on the following legend :-“ A young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses :”—

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