Bloodless her cheek and pale her brow,
And in her eye, the dewy light
Eclips'd and wavering with affright
He bears within the friendly door
And his old station gains once more.

XIII.

What fearful form with lightning speed,
Bursts from the forest coverings?
As, reeking from some horrid deed
His blood-stained arms aloft he flings,
And lifts his murderous battle cry
Like a fiend's hellish shout, on high?
One glimpse of the intruder's form
Nerv'd the brave Rover's heart, and warm
With manhood's living fire, it bounded,
As through the wild that cry resounded.

XIV.

With one mad leap the Indian gain'd
The middle plain and there remained
With form erect and glowing brow:
Where lingereth Young-Eagle now?
Was his the blood so ruthless shed
But now upon the forest-bed?
Distracted with the horrid doubt
The rover lifts his battle shout.
With steady arm, and eye as true
As though no doubt, no pain he knew.
His rifle rais'd—a start-a yell—
A strong deep gasp-the savage fell.

XV.

He fell as falls the forest oak
Down-crushed beneath a single stroke.
Once and once only stirred his frame
As writhed by wrath's expiring flame,
Then cold and rigid on the plain
In blood he lay, nor moved again;
Direst revenge-unconquered hate

And pride, that e'en in death, bows never, Despair that renders desolate.

The heart which hope deserts forever;-
These, darkly mingl'd, settled now
In horrid gloom upon his brow
And still the open, glassy eye
Upturned towards the summer sky,
Seem'd gleaming with the lust of blood
As if it sought revenge from God.

XVI.

For fiercer contest, deadlier strife,
The Forest Rover girds his heart;
That shot hath cast his pledge of life-
A fearful pledge 'gainst savage art!
Nor stood he long in doubt-a yell
With shrill, prolong'd and piercing swell
As peal'd by all the fiends of hell
Rose madly to the sky:

Instant, a hundred leaping forms
As shapes aroused by voice of storms
Came answering to the cry.

Swift thronging on from wood and glen
As cougars from a forest den

'Till swarm'd the open ground with men

And rose their shout on high.

XVII.

Stand firm, stand firm-brave mountaineer!
Child of the woods be strong!
The deadliest hour of strife is near,
Faint not, for ruthless are the foes,
That round thy lonely station close!
Can'st thou maintain it long?
Faint not, for dearer things than life
Hang on the issue of the strife!
Away vile fear-base doubt away,
That heart hath known a darker day.
Hark! o'er the din his battle cry
Swells loud and clear, as if were nigh
A thousand men as brave as he
To aid in this extremity.
Again-like trumpet-music flung
Before advancing hosts it rung!-
Then rose his rifle: sharp and loud
It spake the foremost savage bow'd;

He reeled-in headlong haste he fell,

While peal'd his comrades' murderous yell.
Then quicker-darker-on they came,
May God preserve thee Miriam !

XVIII.

No glittering arms environ him,
Th' uplifted tomahawks are dim!
No rifle answers to his own,

They bear the red man's arms alone!
They bear the red man's arms; and now
The very air seems charmed-so still
So mute-with raised and frowning brow
Each stands, as if against his will
A spell of might from earth or air
Had seiz'd his form and fixed it there:
Prepared for open strife or guile
The Rover stood attent the while,
His sleepless, flashing eye took in
The varied circle of the scene
In all save where the forest rose
Behind, a doubtful screen from foes.
Young Eagle comes not yet: no cry
Like his hath yet been raised on high,
The wild beyond, no answer gives
Wood-Rover knows not if he lives.

XIX.

A moment pass'd in silence deep-
But passion knows no lengthened sleep,
And savage craft hath many a while
The watchful hero to beguile.
Ere yet the threaten'd rush began
A piercing cry of terror ran,

With startling tremor through the wood
Then ceas'd as if by force subdued.
Alas! the spoilers' foot hath won

The cabin of the hunter's daughter:
And now the captor's work is done-
Bondage and pain-it may be slaughter.

As pierc'd that cry the Rover's ear

He felt a thrill of mortal fear,

Yet was his glittering rifle rais'd
Again the murderous iron blaz'd

Again a howling savage

fell

Then burst for aye the transient spell;—

He saw-he knew-he felt no more.
As falls the oak on forest floor
While rang again that fearful sound
He fell, o'erpowered, to the ground.

[CANTO III. IN OUR NEXT.]

CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE.

JOHN PASSERAT was a Frenchman; born at Troyes in Champagne, about A. D. 1534. He studied law at Bourges under the celebrated Cujacius; to whom, as is well known, France owed the ablest and most skilful lawyers and magistrates of those times. After the assassination, in the massacre of St. Bartholomew, of Ramus, Professor of Philosophy and Eloquence in the Royal College of Navarre, he was appointed successor; in which station he acquired very great and deserved popularity. His works are very numerous, and his poetry has been much admired. He published poems both in the French and the Latin tongues; besides commentaries on the Latin authors Tibullus, Propertius and Catullus, and several other interesting works. He died A. D. 1602. His poem on Nihil or Nothing has received a due share of commendation: which "barren topic" others since have chosen-Boileau and Rochester among them-" for the boast," as Johnson expresses it, "of their fertility." Nothing may be taken negatively and positively. It is employed in the former sense, when, as in current conversation, we say, "Oh! he is nothing, and has nothing to do with it." Positively, when made the subject of discourse: as, "nothing is a good protector from thieves." Others have judiciously discriminated the two senses. Passerat confounds them. We have made no particular attempt in the translation below to separate the two.

POEM

OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS JOHN PASSERAT, ROYAL PROFESSOR IN THE ACADEMY OF PARIS, TO THE MOST EMINENT ERRICUS MEMMIUS.

Comes Janus near, with inspiration bland:

Their own glad gifts the Kalends now demand!
A gift I need, the festive Kalends due-
Year-op'ning god, an offering for you!

Is then our old Castalian humour dry?
Our powers of mind, do they so droop and die,
Have we no gifts-shall he who guards the year,
And its return, behold no off'rings near?
I'll seek what never is; or rather, I

In paths untrodden yet my strength will try.
But now, behold! while my unquiet muse
To all sides turns for themes from which to choose,
It Nothing finds-do not the gift despise,
But bend thereon indulgent thoughts and eyes.
For nothing is than gold more precious found,
And nothing does than gems more rare abound.
A new thing I relate, of old unheard

In classic lay of Greek or Roman bard :

To other themes the lyre they oft have strung,
And nothing has by them been left unsung.

When smiles from heaven kind Rhea on her fields, Or Earth to Ocean's moist caresses yields;

Exhausted nothing is, or without life.

Dies nothing never. Nothing, in the strife
Below is happy seen in every part-
Time leaves in nothing no innocuous dart.
If hence we must infer a power divine;
If strength and majesty supreme here shine;
What honor to that Power shall we proclaim?
What altars shall we rear to His great Name?

More pleasant nothing is than purest light:
And in th' encircling year, the Seasons' flight,
More beautiful than Spring is nothing seen,
Or garden watered well, array'd in green.

More soft than zephyr's breath, than meads more gay Is nothing met and in the red array

And din of war, is nothing sacred deem'd.

In peace is nothing just. The league which seem'd
Secure shews nothing safe. Of treachery,

The man, who has no fears, shall prosp'rous be
In nothing found-(these were Tibullus' prayers)
Nor he who thinks are trivial things the snares
Of plund'ring thieves, and desolating flames:
Nor one who doubtful suits, and strifes, and games
At trickery, brings not before the bar,
Who calmly thinks with Zeno all things are
As fix'd, subdu'd to Fate invincible;
At nothing feels surprise, nor else would will.
In days of old Socratic wisdom taught
That nothing it did know. Now, overfraught
With knowledge is; and one with eager zeal
Hastes his large mind with ev'ry theme to fill !
Yet some defer to old Socratic rules

And these still reign the wisdom of some schools.
Youth siniles accord encircl'd with their light-
They lead to wealth and honor's Alpine height.
Acquaint thyself with nothing, and you'll know
All reasons why Pythag'ras did bestow
Negation on the bean, the bean denied,
Or taught that souls unpurged did these abide.
Intent with eager thought do many toil
And wealth expend, and soul, to cheat and foil