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More fresh, more bright, than princes wear;
For what one moment flung aside,
Another could repair:
What good or evil have they seen
Since I their pastime witnessed here,
Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer?
I ask, — but all is dark between!

They met me in a genial hour, When universal nature breathed As with the breath of one sweet flower, — A time to overrule the power Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, The most familiar bane of life Since parting Innocence bequeathed Mortality to Earth! Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky; the brooks ran clear; The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; With songs the budded groves resounding; And to my heart are still endeared The thoughts with which it then was cheered; The faith which saw that gladsome pair Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. Or, if such faith must needs deceive, Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, Associates in that eager chase, — Ye who within the blameless mind Your favorite seat of empire find,

Kind Spirits ! may we not believe
That they, so happy and so fair
Through your sweet influence, and the care
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free
From touch of deadly injury?
Destined, whate'er their earthly doom,
For mercy and immortal bloom ?

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Yet are they here, the same unbroken knot
Of human beings, in the selfsame spot!

Men, women, children, yea, the frame

Of the whole spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the coloring of night,

That on their Gypsy faces falls,

Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone,

while I Have been a traveller under open sky,

Much witnessing of change and cheer,

Yet as I left I find them here !
The weary Sun betook himself to rest ; -
Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,

Outshining like a visible God

The glorious path in which he trod. And now, ascending, after one dark hour And one night's diminution of her power,

Behold the mighty Moon! this way

She looks as if at them, — but they Regard not her.–O better wrong and strife (By nature transient) than this torpid life,

Lite which the very stars reprove,

As on their silent tasks they move!
Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
In scorn I speak not; - they are what their birth

And breeding suffer them to be ;
Wild outcasts of society !

1807.

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WHEN Ruth was left half desolate,
Her Father took another Mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom, bold.

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And she had made a pipe of straw,
And music from that pipe could draw
Like sounds of winds and floods ;
Had built a bower upon the green,
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her father's roof, alone
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight;
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ;
And, passing thus the livelong day,
She grew to woman's height.

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore,
A military casque he wore,
With splendid feathers drest ;
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
But no! he spake the English tongue,
And bore a soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,
He 'cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek,
In finest tones the Youth could speak :
- While he was yet a boy,

The moon, the glory of the sun,
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely Youth ! I guess
The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he ;
And when he chose to sport and play,
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought,
And with him many tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear;
Such tales as told to any maid
By such a Youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.

He told of girls — a happy rout!-
Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song
When daylight is gone down.

He spake of plants that hourly change
Their blossoms, through a boundless range
Of intermingling hues;
With budding, fading, faded flowers,
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews.

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