A price thy nation never gave

Shall yet be paid for thee;
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave,

In lands beyond the sea."
Then wept the warrior chief, and bade

To shred his locks away ;
And, one by one, each heavy braid

Before the victor lay.
Thick were the plaited locks, and long,

And deftly hidden there
Shone many a wedge of gold among

The dark and crisped hair. “ Look ! feast thy greedy eye with gold,

Long kept for sorest need;
Take it—thou askest sums untold-

And say that I am freed.
Take it ; my wife, the long, long day,

Weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play

And ask in vain for me."
“I take thy gold; but I have made

Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa-shade

Thy wife will wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook

The captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look

Was changed to mortal fear.
His heart was broken-crazed his brain ;

At once his eye grew wild-
He struggled fiercely with his chain,

Whisper'd, and wept, and smiled.

Yet wore not long those fatal bands;

And once, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands-

The foul hyena's prey !

THE LAST OF THE RED MEN.

TAE sun's last ray was glowing fair, on crag, and tree, and

flood, And fell in mellow softness where the lonely Indian stood. Beneath his eye, in living gold, the broad Pacific lay; Unruffled there, a skiff might hold its bright and fearless

way. Far, far behind him, mountains blue in shadowy distance

melt;

And far beyond, the dark woods grew, where his fore

fathers dwelt! No breathing sound was in the air, as, leaning on his

bow, A lone and weary pilgrim there, he murmur'd stern and

low:“Far by Ohio's mighty river, bright star, I've worshipp'd

thee! My native stream—its bosom never the red man more

may see!

The pale-face rears his wigwam where our Indian hunters

roved ; His hatchet fells the forest fair our Indian maidens loved. A thousand warriors bore in war the token of my sires; On all the hills were seen afar their blazing council-fires !

D

The foeman heard their war-whoop shrill, and held his

breath in fear; And in the wood, and on the hill, their arrows pierced the

deer. Where are they now £—the stranger's tread is on their

silent place! Yon fading light on me is shed —the last of all my race ! Where are they now ?in summer's light, go seek the

winter's snow! Forgotten is our name and might, and broken is our bow! The white man came; his bayonets gleam where sachems

held their sway; And, like the shadow of a dream, our tribe has pass'd

away!”

THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR.

GATHER him to his grave again,

And solemnly and softly lay
Beneath the verdure of the plain

The warrior's scatter'd bones away.
Pay the deep reverence taught of old,

The homage of man's heart to death :
Nor dare to trifle with the mould

Once hallow'd by the Almighty's breath.

The soul has quicken'd every part

That remnant of a martial brow,
Those ribs that held the mighty heart,

That strong arm—strong no longer now.

Spare them, each mouldering relic spare,

Of God's own image; let them rest, Till not a trace shall speak of where

The awful likeness was impress'd.

For he was fresher from the hand

That form'd of earth the human face, And to the elements did stand

In nearer kindred than our race. In many a flood to madness tossid,

In many a storm has been his path; He hid him not from heat or frost,

But met them and defied their wrath

Then they were kind—the forests here,

Rivers and stiller waters paid A tribute to the net and spear

Of the red ruler of the shade.
Fruits on the woodland branches lay,

Roots in the shaded soil below,
The stars look'd forth to teach his way,

The still earth warn'd him of his foe.

A noble race ! but they are gone,

With their old forests wide and deep, And we have built our homes upon

Fields where their generations sleep. Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,

Upon their fields our harvest waves, Our lovers woo beneath their moon

Then let us spare, at least, their graves.

MRS HEMANS.

THE INVOCATION.

ANSWER me, burning stars of night,

Where is the spirit gone,
That pass'd the reach of human sight,

Even as a breeze hath flown?
And the stars answer'd me,“ We roll

In light and power on high-
But of the never-dying soul,

Ask things that cannot die !"
O many-toned and chainless wind,

Thou art a wanderer free ;-
Tell me, if thou its place can find

Far over mount and sea ?
And the wind murmur'd in reply,

“ The blue deep have I cross'd, And met its barks and billows high, —

But not what thou hast lost!" Ye clouds ! that gorgeously repose

Around the setting sun,Answer,—be ye a home for those

Whose earthly race has run ?
The bright clouds answer'd, “ We depart,

We vanish in the sky:
Ask what is deathless in thy heart,

For that which cannot die !"
Speak then! thou voice of God within,-

Thou of the deep low tone !
Answer me,-through life's restless din

Where is the spirit flown ?