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How reverend was the look, serenely aged,
He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire,
Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged,
Undimm'd by weakness' shade, or turbid ire!
And though, amidst the calm of thought entire,
Some high and haughty features might betray
A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire
That fled composure's intellectual ray,
As Ætna's fires grow dim before the rising day.


I boast no song in magic wonders rife,

But yet, oh Nature! is there nought to prize,
Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?

And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies
No form with which the soul may sympathize?—
Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild
The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,
An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,
Or bless'd his noonday walk-she was his only child.


The rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek— What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire

A Briton's independence taught to seek

Far western worlds; and there his household fire The light of social love did long inspire,

And many a halcyon day he lived to see
Unbroken but by one misfortune dire,
When fate had reft his mutual heart-but she
Was gone-and Gertrude climb'd a widow'd
father's knee.


A loved bequest, and I may half impart―
To them that feel the strong paternal tie,
How like a new existence to his heart
That living flower uprose beneath his eye,
Dear as she was from cherub infancy,
From hours when she would round his garden

To time when, as the ripening years went by,
Her lovely mind could culture well repay,
And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to




may not paint those thousand infant charms: (Unconscious fascination, undesign'd!) The orison repeated in his arms,

For God to bless her sire and all mankind; The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind :) All uncompanion'd else her heart had gone Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.


And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, An Indian from his bark approach their bower, Of buskin❜d limb, and swarthy lineament;

The red wild feathers on his brow were blent,
And bracelets bound the arm that help'd to light
A boy, who seem'd, as he beside him went,
Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright,
Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by


Yet pensive seem'd the boy for one so young-
The dimple from his polish'd cheek had fled;
When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung,
Th' Oneyda warrior to the planter said,
And laid his hand upon the stripling's head,
"Peace be to thee! my words this belt approve ;
The paths of peace my steps have hither led:
This little nursling, take him to thy love,
And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the
parent dove.


Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe;

Our wampum league thy brethren did embracc: Upon the Michigan, three moons ago,

We launch'd our pirogues for the bison chase,
And with the Hurons planted for a space,

With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk ;
But snakes are in the bosoms of their race,
And though they held with us a friendly talk,
The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their toma-


It was encamping on the lake's far port,
A cry of Areouski1 broke our sleep,
Where storm'd an ambush'd foe thy nation's fort,
And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep;
But long thy country's war-sign on the steep
Appear'd through ghastly intervals of light,
And deathfully their thunders seem'd to sweep,
Till utter darkness swallow'd up the sight,
As if a shower of blood had quench'd the fiery


It slept-it rose again-on high their tower
Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies,
Then down again it rain'd an ember shower,
And louder lamentations heard we rise:
As when the evil Manitou that dries

Th' Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire,
In vain the desolated panther flies,

And howls amidst his wilderness of fire:

Alas! too late, we reach'd and smote those Hurons dire!

1 The Indian God of War.

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But as the fox beneath the nobler hound,

So died their warriors by our battle-brand;


And from the tree we, with her child, unbound
A lonely mother of the Christian land:-
Her lord—the captain of the British band-
Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay.
Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand;
Upon her child she sobb'd, and swoon'd away,
Or shriek'd unto the God to whom the Christians



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Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls
Of fever-balm and sweet sagamité :

But she was journeying to the land of souls,
And lifted up her dying head to pray
That we should bid an ancient friend convey
Her orphan to his home of England's shore;
And take, she said, this token far away,
To one that will remember us of yore,

When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia



And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rush'd
With this lorn dove."—A sage's self-command
Had quell'd the tears from Albert's heart that

But yet his cheek—his agitated hand—

That shower'd upon the stranger of the land

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