TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. THOU blossom, bright with autumn dew, And coloured with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night. Thou comest not when violets lean, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near its end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye I would that thus, when I shall see AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS. It is the spot I came to seek,— My fathers' ancient burial-place, Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted race. It is the spot-I know it well- For here the upland bank sends out I know the shaggy hills about, The meadows smooth and wide; A white man, gazing on the scene, I like it not I would the plain The sheep are on the slopes around, And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way. Methinks it were a nobler sight To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light, Their trunks in grateful shade; And then to mark the lord of all, 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 Worshipped the God of thunders here. But now the wheat is green and high On clods that hid the warrior's breast, And scattered in the furrows lie The weapons of his rest; And there, in the loose sand is thrown Of his large arm the mouldering bone. 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,-ay, like April snow In the warm noon we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go 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 Save ruins o'er the region spread, And the white stones above the dead. Before these fields were shorn and tilled, The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood: And torrents dashed, and rivulets played, And fountains spouted in the shade. Those grateful sounds are heard no more: With lessening current run; The realm our tribes are crushed to get GREEN RIVER. WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, Yet pure its waters-its shallows are bright With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light— And clear the depths where its eddies play, And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. Oh! loveliest there the spring days come, With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum; The flowers of summer are fairest there. And freshest the breath of the summer air; And sweetest the golden autumn day |