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182

AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE

For here the upland bank sends out

A ridge toward the river side;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide;
The plains, that toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,

Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns so fresh and green,

Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,

The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,

Or drop the yellow seed;
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,

Their trunks in grateful shade;
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,

And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

OF HIS FATHERS.

183

THE SAME CONTINUED.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,

Was sacred when its soil was ours; Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the chief and gifted seer Worshipped the God of thunders here.

grey

But now the wheat is

green

and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie

The weapons of his rest;
And there, in the loose sand is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah! little thought the strong and brave,

Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth, Or the young wife, that weeping gave

Her first-born to the earthThat the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us—ay, like April snow,

In the warm noon we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go

Towards the setting day-
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind;
Their race may

vanish hence, like mine,
And leave no trace behind
Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

184

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled,

Full to the brim our rivers flowed;
The melody of waters filled

The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.
Those grateful sounds are heard no more:

The springs are silent in the sun,
The rivers, by the blackened shore,

With lessening current run;
The realm our tribes are crushed to get,
May be a barren desert yet.

Bryant.

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.

Ou thou vast Ocean! ever-sounding sea !
Thou symbol of a drear immensity !
Thou thing that windest round the solid world
Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone,
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone.
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is like a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily-laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife.
The earth hath nought of this; nor chance nor change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare
Give answer to the tempest-waken air;
But o'er its wastes the weekly tenants range
At will, and wound his bosom as they go.
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow;
But in their stated round the seasons come
And
pass

like visions to their viewless home,

L'ALLEGRO; OR, THE MERRY MAN.

185

And come again and vanish : the young Spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,
And Winter always winds his sullen horn,
And the wild Autumn with a look forlorn
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Weep, and flowers sicken when the Summer flies.
-Thou only, terrible Ocean, hast a power,
A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour,
When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds,
A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds
Thy broad green forehead. If thy waves be driven
Backwards and forwards by the shifting wind,
How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind,
And stretch thine arms, and war at once with heaven!

Thou trackless and immeasurable main !
On thee no record ever lived again,
To meet the hand that writ it; line nor lead
Hath ever fathomed thy profoundest deeps,
Where haply the huge monster swells and sleeps,
King of his watery limit, who, 'tis said,
Can move the mighty ocean into storm.-
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element;
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent.
And lovely in repose: thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach,
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach-
“ Eternity, Eternity, and Power.”

Barry Cornwall.

L'ALLEGRO; OR, THE MERRY MAN. HENCE, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! 186 L'ALLEGRO; OR, THE MERRY MAN.

Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night raven sings;
There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As rugged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne !
And, by men, heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides;
And Laughter, holding both his sides,
Come! and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And, in thy right hand, lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew;
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free.
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And, at my window, bid good-morrow,
Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,

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