They went, and raked up the coals of fire and brands, and covered them with ashes. When the morning came, they laid the body of the head-warrior on the ashes, built a great fire over it, and kept it burning two whole moons. But they were careful to burn no pine, nor the tree which bears poisonous flowers, nor the vine which yields no grapes, nor the shrub whose dew blisters the flesh. On the first day of the third moon, they let the fire go out, and, with the next sun, all the Shawanos, men, women, and children, even the aged whose knees trembled so much that they could not walk, came together at the embers. The priests and the head-chief brought the beautiful woman from the wigwam, and placed her beside the ashes. The Mequachake tribe, who were the priests of the nation, stood nearest; then the Kiskapocoke tribe, who were the greatest warriors. By and by there was a terrible puffing and blowing in the ashes, which flew towards the rising sun, and the great star, and the Mississippi, and the land of the Walkullas. At last, the priests and the warriors, who could see, began to clap their hands, and dance, crying out, Piqua, which, in the Shawanos language, means a man coming out of the ashes, or a man made of ashes. They told no lie. There he stood, a man tall and straight, looking like a Shawanos man, but he was handsomer than any of our warriors. The first thing he did, was to utter the war-whoop, and cry for paint, a club, a bow and arrow, and a hatchet. They were given him. But, looking around, he saw the white woman. He laid down all his weapons of war, walked up to her, and looked in her eyes. Then he came to the head-chief, and said, "I must have that woman to my wife."

be

"What are you?" asked the head-chief.

"A man made of ashes," he answered. “Who made you?”

"The Great Spirit. And now let me go, that I may take my bow and arrows, and kill my deer, and come back, and take the beautiful woman to be my wife."

The chiefs said to Chenos; "Shall he have her? Does the Great Spirit give her to him."

Chenos said; "Yes, for the woman loves him. The Great Spirit has willed that he shall have her, and from them shall arise a tribe, to be called, Piqua.”

Brothers! I am a Piqua, descended from the man made of ashes. If I have told you a lie, blame not me, for I tell it but as I have heard it. Brothers, I have done.

My brother is a king;

Undo this necklace from my neck,

And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands

With store of ivory from the plains,

And gold dust from the sands."

"Not for thy ivory nor thy gold
Will I unbind thy chain;
That bloody hand shall never hold
The battle spear again.

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 platted 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,
Whispered, 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.

B.

AN AGED MOURNER.

I SAW one, in the Western wilderness,

Weeping beside a rough and moss-clad stone;
His cheeks were pale, and spoke the keen distress
Of sorrows which his early years had known.
But he had seen bright days which now had flown,
And nights of tranquil calmness, when the star
Of midnight beamed not on himself alone,
When here, from "social guile" and fraud afar,
He lived supremely blest, with nought his bliss to mar.
"Here sleeps my wife," he said; "I raised this stone,
I placed this sod of summer on her breast;
The cypress makes a sad funereal moan
In the cool breeze above her humble rest.

Her days were many on the earth, and blest

In the wild forest only,-and with me.

Stern parents and false friends our youth oppressed,
And strove to wake the pangs of jealousy

In vain; she proved her love,—I mine, as you now see.

We dwelt in this lone forest sixty years;

Yon cell our mansion; watched by Heaven the while,
The tempests of the desert brought no fears,

Hurling into the lake the rocky pile,

Hoarest of peaks that catch the morning's smile.

We set the beech plant on our bridal day,

And saw it shade our river-fretted isle;

Together we beheld the tree decay,

Tremble beneath the blast, and blow in dust away.

We saw the stream another channel gain,
And nettles grow where chiefs had feasted high:
Yet did our hearts their early love retain,
We still the dearer seemed as death drew nigh;
Morn saw no tear, the evening heard no sigh,
Winter with all its storms seemed soft and mild
And cherishing as a warm Southern sky;

And we were happier in this lonely wild

Than he who owns the dome whereon starved vassals toiled.

She died at eighty years, two score and ten
Mine by a wedded love's endearing ties;
The sinless spirit of this peaceful glen,
Changed to celestial, years before its rise
From earth, and pre-admitted to the skies.
A brief month since, she sate at yonder door,
Affection beaming from her faded eyes;

Thou seest yon heap of earth,-my weak arms bore
Her corse, and laid it there,-thou wilt not ask me more.

J.

AUTUMN.

OH! there's a beauty in the dying year !
"T is sweet, at quiet eventide, to gaze
Upon the fading hills, when the dim haze
Hangs like a pall above old Autumn's bier.

These ancient woods! how beautiful in death!
For, see, the vivid green hath left the leaf,
And brighter hues are there; yet they are brief,—
Their pomp will vanish at the cold wind's breath.

There is a breeze amid the leaves! it swells,

Far in the solemn wood-paths, like the peals
Of music o'er the waters. Hark! it steals,
Sweet, as the distant sound of evening bells.
It is the voice of Autumn!—the low dirge
Sung mournfully within his ruined halls.
It stirs the fallen leaves, and sadly falls
On the hushed air, like whispers from the surge.

The summer-birds have sought a sunnier shore ;-
They lingered till the cold, cold wind went in
And withered their green homes, their merry din
Is mingling with the rivulet's song no more.