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and the crocodile; but Metamora again tells his brothers 'tis a lie! They are to drive the red man from his lands, shoot him down like the deer herd, and fire his wigwam with their thunder-guns. Then let the red man rouse and scream like the eagle when the snake seeks his nest,-join with his tribe, and dart upon his foe,-protect the lands of his fathers, the gift of the Great Spirit; let the keen axe of vengeance defend their wives and the doves of their wigwams from the fire-hail of the white skin. Bury not the hatchet, nor sling the rifle, while the track of the high moccasin insults the graves of our fathers!

White man, beware! The wrath of the wronged Indian shall come upon you like the roaring cataract that dashes the uprooted oak down into the mighty chasm; the war-whoop shall rouse you from your dreams at night, and the red tomahawk glare in the blaze of your burning dwellings! Tremble! from the east to the west, in the north and in the south, shall be heard the loud cry of vengeance, till the lands you have stolen groan under your feet no more.

Snakes of the pale-face, ye may slay the chief of the Wampanoags, but the soul of Metamora shall still live, and talk in the red sons of Manito. His blood shall be their war-paint of vengeance. They shall kill man for man and race for race. From the king of hills to the mighty vales and caverns, they shall betray you as you have the wronged red man, till your hot fire-water blood shall burn in millions of fires and light their dance of freedom.

DESPAIR

A MAN Overboard! What matters it! the ship does not stop. The wind is blowing, that dark ship must keep on her destined course. She passes away.

The man disappears, then reappears; he plunges and rises again to the surface, he calls, he stretches out his hands, they hear him not; the ship, staggering under the gale, is straining every rope; the sailors and the passengers see the drowning man no longer; his miserable head is but a point in the vastness of the billows. He hurls cries of despair into the depths. What a spectacle is that disappearing sail! He looks upon it, he looks upon it with frenzy. It moves away; it grows dim; it diminishes. He was there but just now; he was one of the crew, he went and came upon the deck with the rest, he had his share of the air and of the sunlight,

he was a living man. Now, what has become of him? He slipped, he fell-and it is finished.

He is in the monstrous deep. He has nothing under his feet but the yielding, fleeing element. The waves, torn and scattered by the wind, close round him hideously; the rolling of the abyss bears him along; shreds of water are flying about his head; a populace of waves spit upon him; confused openings half swallow him; when he sinks he catches glimpses of yawning precipices full of darkness; fearful unknown vegetations seize upon him, bind his feet, and draw him to themselves; he feels that he is becoming the great deep; he makes part of the foam; the billows toss him from one to the other; he tastes the bitterness; the greedy ocean is eager to devour him; the monster plays with his agony. It seems as if all this were liquid hate.

He tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he struggles, he swims. He-that poor strength that fails so soon-he combats the unfailing.

Where now is the ship? Far away yonder. Hardly visible in the pallid gloom of the horizon. The wind blows in gusts; the billows overwhelm him. He raises his eyes, but sees only the livid clouds. He, in his dying agony, makes part of this immense insanity of the sea. He is tortured to death by its immeasurable madness. He hears sounds which are strange to man, sounds which seem to come, not from the earth, but from some frightful realm beyond. There are birds in the clouds, even as there are angels above human distresses, but what can they do for him. They fly, sing and float, while he is gasping. He feels that he is buried at once by those two infinities, the ocean and the sky; the one is a tomb, the other a pall.

Night descends; he has been swimming for hours, his strength is almost exhausted; that ship, that far-off thing where there were men, is gone; he is alone in the terrible gloom of the abyss; he sinks, he strains, he struggles, he feels beneath him the shadowy monsters of the unseen; he shouts. Men are no more. Where is God? He shouts. Help! help! he shouts incessantly. Nothing in the horizon, nothing in the sky. He implores the blue vault, the waves, the rocks; all are deaf. He supplicates the tempest: the imperturbable tempest obeys only the Infinite.

Around him are darkness, storm, solitude, wild and unconscious tumult, the ceaseless tumbling of the fierce waters; within him, horror and exhaustion; beneath him, the engulfing abyss. No resting-place. He thinks of the shadowy adventures of his lifeless body in the limitless gloom. The bit

ing cold paralyzes him. His hands clutch spasmodically, and grasp at nothing. Winds, clouds, whirlwinds, blasts, starsall useless! What shall he do? He yields to despair; worn out, he seeks death; he no longer resists; he gives himself up; he abandons the contest, and he is rolled away into the dismal depths of the abyss forever.- Victor Hugo, 1862.

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.

HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star in his steep course?-so long he seems to pause on thy bald, awful head, O, sovereign Blanc! The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base rave ceaselessly: but thou, most awful form! risest from forth the silent sea of pines, how silently! Around thee and above, deep as the air and dark, substantial black, an ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it as with a wedge! But when I look again, it is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, thy hab itation from eternity!—O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee till thou, still present to the bodily sense, didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, so sweet we know not we are listening to it, thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, yea, with my life and life's own secret joy, till the dilating soul, enwrapt, transfused into the mighty vision passing-there, as in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven.

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O, strug gling with the darkness all the night, and visited all night by troops of stars, or when they climb the sky, or when they sink! Companion of the morning star at dawn, thyself come down to earth and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! who called you forth from night and utter death; from dark and icy caverns called you forth, down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, forever shattered, and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy; unceasing thunder and eternal főam?

And who commanded, (and the silence came,) "Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?"

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow adown enormous ravines slope amain-torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice and stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts !-who made you glorious as the gates of heaven, beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? God! Let the torrents like a shout of nations, answer! and let the ice-plains echo-God! God! Sing, ye meadowstreams, with gladsome voice! ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, and in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Once more, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks, oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene in the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thou that, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low in adoration, upward from thy base slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud, to rise before me,-rise, O, ever rise! rise like a cloud of incense from the earth! Thou kingly spirit thrown among the hills, thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven; great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, and tell the stars and tell yon rising sun, earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!

S. T. Coleridge.

EULOGY ON JEAN PAUL.

A STAR has gone down, and the eye of this century will be closed before it again arises; for blazing genius moves in far orbits, and only the children's children may greet again with gladness that to which the fathers bade farewell with tears. And a crown is fallen from the head of a king, and a sword is broken in the hand of a leader, and a high priest is dead! Well may we weep for him who was compensation for our losses, and for whose loss there is no compensation! To every land is given, for its doleful deprivations, some kindly recompense. The north, without a heart, has its iron

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strength; the effeminate south its golden sun; gloomy Spain its faith; the needy French are refreshed with a prodigal wit; and freedom lights up the misty air of England. We had Jean Paul, and we have him no more; and in him we lost what in him only we possessed-strength and gentleness and faith and cheerful mirth and unfettered speech. This is the star gone down-the heavenly faith that shone for us in him whose light is now extinguished. This is the crown' downfallen-the crown of love that ruled him who wore it, as likewise all who were his subjects. This is the broken sword-satire in a bold hand, before which kings tremble and bloodless courtiers blush. And this is the high priest, who prayed for us in the temple of nature; he is gone, and our devotion has no longer an interpreter! We will mourn for him whom we have lost, and for those others who did not lose him. Not for all has he lived! But there will come a time when he shall be born for all, and all will weep for him. And he stands patiently at the gate of the twentieth century, and waits with a smile, until his creeping nation shall come after him.

Centuries march by; the seasons roll away; changeful is the weather of fortune; the gradations of age ascend and descend. Nothing is perpetual but change, nothing constant but death. Every heart-beat strikes us with a wound; and life would be an endless bleeding, were it not for poetry. She grants us what nature denies-a golden age that does not corrode, a spring that does not fade, cloudless fortune and eternal youth. The poet is the consoler of humanity, if only Heaven itself has authorized him, if God has pressed his seal upon his forehead, if he brings not the celestial message for the vulgar reward of a carrier. Such was Jean Paul. He sang not in the palaces of the great; he made no sport with his lyre at the tables of the rich. He was the poet of the lowly-born; he was the minstrel of the poor; and where the sorrowful wept were heard the sweet tones of his harp. He was no flatterer of the crowd, no servant of custom. Through narrow, hidden paths he sought out the neglected village. He counted, in the nation, the men; in towns, the roofs; and, under each roof, every heart. All the seasons blossomed for him; for him they all bore fruit. For the freedom of thought he struggled with others; in the battle for the freedom of feeling he stands alone.

Such was Jean Paul! Do you ask where he was born, where he lived, where his ashes rest? He came from Heaven, he lived on the earth, our heart is his grave. No hero, no poet has drawn so true a picture of his life in his works

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