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When it comes at the hour of still repose,
O THINK it not strange that my soul is shaken
By every note of thy simple song ;
The shades of feelings that slumber'd long :
A meadow green and a river clear,
And a form unforgotten,--they all are here.
They are here, with dark recollections laden,
From a sylvan scene o'er the weary sea ; They speak of the time when I left that maiden
By the spreading boughs of the hawthorn tree. We parted in wrath ;- to her low-roof'd dwelling
She turn'd with a step which betray'd her pain ; She knew not the love that was fast dispelling
The gloom of his pride who was hers in vain.
We met no more ;-and her faith was plighted
To one who could not her value know;
Tinctured her life-cup with deepest woe.
The shades of feelings which slumber'd long; Then think it not strange that my soul is shaken
By every note of thy simple song.
AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE
OF HIS FATHERS.
It is the spot I came to seek,
My fathers ancient burying-place,
Withdrew our wasted race.
For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river side ;
The meadows smooth and wide ; .
The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
Or drop the yellow seed,
Methinks it were a nobler sight
To see these vales in woods array'd, 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, train'd to wars, Quiver'd and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seam'd with glorious scars, Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare The wolf, and grapple with the bear.
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 gray chief and gifted seer Worship'd the God of thunders here.
But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
The weapons of his rest;
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 earth, That the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough.
They waste us—aye-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
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,
Before these fields were shorn and tillid,
Full to the brim our rivers flow'd ;
The fresh and boundless wood;
Those grateful sounds are heard no more ;
The springs are silent in the sun,
With lessening current run;
HER mighty sails the breezes swell,
And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell
Is waved by many a snowy hand; .