Their love, that like the unloosing hug
Of forest bear, is death. Humility!

Ay, such as tigers show, who lowly crouch
To rise the mightier on their destined prey.
Respect for right! They know no right but power.
The sapling to the blast may bow, and rise
Again; but, worse than storms, they lay the axe
At the forest's root, and hunt ourselves for
game.
It needs no prophet to foretel your doom,
Unless ye now unite, and strike as one ;—
For, sure as yon bright orb, that gilds the east,
Shall travel west, and set in glory there,
Will our invaders sweep with mighty force
Across the land, and whelm us in the flood.
If ye have ancient feuds, forget them now.
ye
have children, partners, homes, and would
Not see them fettered, ravished, desolate,
Strike now! but if ye move not at the call
Of country, faith, revenge and holy right,
Philip shall strike alone; assured that though
Your fate his single arm may not avert,
He and his tribe shall in a glorious death
Escape your doom.

If

Come on then! let the star

That guides be Philip! and your war-cry now
And evermore, EXTERMINATION and REVENGE!

LESSON CXXV..

THE LAST WORDS OF PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE.

In 1676, Philip, who had become the terror of the New England settlements, was driven into a swamp by Capt. Church, who led the colonists, and shot by an Indian, who fought with the white men, and who, it is said, had been wronged by Philip.

The Oak of the hills has been felled by the white man, but the tree has not fallen until the sun of my

country's glory had gone down. When the stranger came, the red man welcomed him. It was the embrace of death. He had no land, and we made room for him. He had no corn, and we shared our scanty hoard with him. He told us that he had been driven from home, and we called him brother. He was small and we encouraged him; he was weak and we spared him,―he talked to us of the Great Spirit, and we trusted him.

When our eyes were opened at last, our hands were bound. The serpent had twined around us, and the spear of the red man was broken. But the oak is not uprooted without a struggle. Philip has shaken the earth in his fall. When his sun has set forever, his enemies shall say he was true. He will lie down with his fathers without shame, and the dead whom he has slain shall throng him to the spirit land.

When the white man has shorn your hills of their forest crowns, and fenced off the free fields of your birth right; when his ploughshare has turned up the graves and scattered the bones of your fathers, ve shall say that Philip saw the arm that was uplifted, but the fear of the white man, and his poison, sealed your eyes and palsied your arms. When one by one your tribes disappear before the white man, ye shall say Philip would have united us, and made all our arms as one. When ye have raised the tomahawk over each other, and the foot of the white man is on your neck, ye shall say Philip would have made our hearts as one. When ye are shrinking before the eastern blast, ye shall own that Philip would have withstood it at the sea shore. But the oak is on the ground, felled by the arm it sheltered. The red-man himself has struck down the hope of his people. May the traitor live to record the fate of his race, to be the scorn of his accursed ally; never more to stand erect in the image of the Great Spirit, but doomed to crawl, like the serpent, at the feet of his destroyer.

Philip has done! the mists of death shroud the hills of our fathers. They disappear, and the fields of the Great Spirit open to my view. Philip sees no white man there; the forests have never bled under their axe, and the pleasant hunting grounds have never been turned by their plough. Farewell to scenes which are no longer to smile in freedom! Farewell to the sun and moon which shall no longer behold the glory of the red man! Farewell to my tribe, I have loved them, I have died for them-in vain. Pale-face! would you smite the cougar at your feet? Do you fear the tongue when you have palzied the arm. O that your accursed race were as one man, and the grasp of Philip upon your throat. Farewell! I come! I come!- -I come!

What!

LESSON CXXVI.

INDIAN NAMES.

The following piece by MRS. SIGOURNEY, is a just tribute to the Indian languages, of which so many delightfully expressive names have been preserved, although few or none of the unfortunate tribes remain. The only names about which there is any diversity of pronunciation are Niagara, the first a of which is pronounced by some as in fat, and by others as in fall; and Missouri, which some pronounce as if the ss were zz.

Grant that they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave;

That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave;

That, 'mid the forests where they roamed,
There rings no hunter's shout;
Still their name is on your waters,
Ye can not wash it out.

"Tis where Ontario's billow

Like ocean's surge is curled,

Where strong Niag'ara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,

Where red Missouri bringeth down
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their conelike cabins,
That clustered o'er the vale,
Have disappeared as withered leaves
Before the autumn gale;

But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,

And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown. Connecticut hath wreathed it

Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within its rocky heart,
And Alleghany, graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.

Monadnock, on his forehead hoar,
Doth seal the sacred trust;

Your mountains are their monuments,
Though ye destroy their dust.

LESSON CXXVII.

THE INDIAN'S VOW.

The following poem no doubt well expresses the feelings of hatred and revenge that make so large a part of an Indian's religion. It is to be lamented that the whites have not always acted up to the better principles of Christianity with equal fidelity. The lines were written during the Florida war by C. SPERRY.

Away! away! I will not hear

Of aught but death or vengeance now ;
By the eternal skies, I swear

My knee shall never learn to bow!
I will not hear a word of peace,

Nor grasp in friendly grasp a hand,
Linked to the pale-browed stranger race,
That work the ruin of our land.

Before their coming, we had ranged
Our forests and our uplands free;
Still let us keep unsold, unchanged,
The heritage of liberty.

As free as roll the chainless streams,
Still let us roam our ancient woods;
As free as break the morning beams,
That light our mountain solitudes.

Touch not the hand they stretch to you ;
The falsely proffered cup, put by;
Will you believe a coward true?

Or taste the poison draught to die?
Their friendship is a lurking snare,

Their honor but an idle breath;

Their smile-the smile that traitors wear.
Their love is hate, their life is death.

Plains which your infant feet have roved,
Broad streams you skimmed in light canoe,