XXX.

“Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast

In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?

No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

XXXI.

"Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth

Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none,
In future times-no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me!
Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,

Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee !"

XXXII.

Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland
And beautiful expression seem'd to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair,
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,—

Of them that stood encircling his despair

He heard some friendly words; but knew not what

they were.

P

XXXIII.

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between,
'Twas sung how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been.

Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:-
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen
To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved shroud—
While woman's softer soul in wo dissolved aloud.

XXXIV.

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth;
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid
His face on earth;-him watch'd, in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide: but words had none to sooth
The grief that knew not consolation's name:
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that

came

Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!

XXXV.

"And I could weep ;"-the Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus begun:

"But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son,

Or bow this head in wo!

For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath!

To-morrow Areouski's breath,

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy !
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

XXXVI.

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight!

XXXVII.

"To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!

XXXVIII.

“Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd,

I

And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp,-for there—

The silence dwells of my despair!

XXXIX.

"But hark, the trump !-to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first—
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!"

3

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:

For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves

May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves.

Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succour advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our

own!

And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;