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 dust! XXX. Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. XXXI. Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,— Of one dear pledge;-but shall there, then, be none, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!" XXXII. Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed 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, Of them that stood encircling his despair, He heard some friendly words;-but knew not what they were. For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives XXXIV. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth; His face on earth;-him watched in gloomy ruth, Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame! XXXV. "And I could weep ;"-the Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus began: "But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son! Or bow this head in woe; For by my wrongs, and by my wrath! (That fires yon heaven 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 !— XXXVI. "But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep: Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve XXXVII. "To-morrow let us do or die! But when the bolt of death is hurled, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead! XXXVIII. "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed; 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 mouldering 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! XXXIX. "But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou Because I may not stain with grief 'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss.37 A Gothic church was near; the spot around |