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Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all
That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.
Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall,
And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore,
Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's
Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies.
The happy shepherd swains had nought to do,
But feed their flocks on green declivities,
Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,
From morn, till evening's sweeter pastime grew,
With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown,
Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew;
And aye those sunny mountains half-way down
Would echo flagelet from some romantic town.
Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes
His leave, how might you the flamingo see
Disporting like a meteor on the lakes
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree :
And ev'ry sound of life was full of glee,
From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men ;
While heark’ning, fearing nought their revelry,
The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and
Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.
And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime
Heard, but in transatlantic story rung,
For here the exile met from ev'ry clime,
And spoke in friendship ev'ry distant tongue :
Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,
Were but divided by the running brook ;
And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,
On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook,
The blue-eyed German changed his sword to
DEATH OF GERTRUDE. AND tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd ; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound, These drops ?-Oh God! the life-blood is her
own; And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown6 Weep not, O Love !”-she cries, " to see me
bleedThee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed These wounds ;—yet thee to leave is death, is
66 Clasp me a little longer, on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress ; And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh!
think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs—when I am laid in
6 Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace,-imagining her lot was cast
In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last ?
No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is
6 Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this
earth, And thee, more loved, than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge ;-but shall there then be none, In future times—no gentle little one, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee !"
Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their
bland And beautiful expression seem'd to melt With love that could not die ! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. Ah heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,Of them that stood encircling his despair, He heard some friendly words :-but knew not
what they were.
SONG OF OUTALISSI. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth : Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth ;-him watch'd in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide : but words had none to sooth The grief that knew not consolation's name : Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shudderingframe!
66 And I could weep ;"_th' Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun ;
“ But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son !
Or bow this head in wo;
For by my wrongs, and by my wrath !
To-morrow Areouski's breath,
(That fires yon heav'n with storms of death),
Shall light us to the foe :
And we shall share, my Christian boy !
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy !
“ But thee, my flower, whose breath was giv'n
By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heav'n
Forbid not thee to weep :-
Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most :
" To-morrow let us do or die !
But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world ?
Seek we thy once-loved home ?-
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers :
Unheard their clock repeats its hours !
Cold is the hearth within their bowers !
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead !
" Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd ;
And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Ah ! there in desolation cold,
The desert serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o'ergrows each mould'ring bone,
And stones themselves to ruin grown,
Like me, are death-like old.
Then seek we not their camp—for there
The silence dwells of my despair !"
66 But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears :
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll ;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last—the first-