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Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud
In their green pupilage, their lore half learned-
Ere guilt had quite o’errun the simple heart
God gave them at their birth, and blotted out
His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope,
As on the threshold of their vast designs
Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down.

Alas ! I little thought that the stern power
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus

efore the strain was ended. It must cease-
For he is in his grave who taught my youth
The art of verse, and in the bud of life
Offered me to the muses.

Oh, cut off
Untimely! when thy reason in its strength,
Ripened by years of toil and studious search,
And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught
Thy hand to practise best the lenient art
To which thou gavest tly laborious days,
And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth
Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes
And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill
Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale
When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou
Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have
To offer at thy grave—this and the hope

To copy thy example, and to leave
À name of which the wretched shall not think
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive
As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou
Whose early guidance trained my infant steps-
Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep
Of death is over, and a happier life
Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust.

Now thou art not—and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance-he who bears False witness -he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow—he who spreads abroad Polluted hands of mockery of prayer, Are left to cumber earth. , Shuddering I look On what is written, yet I blot not out The desultory numbers let them stand, The record of an idle revery.


WEEP not for Scio's children slain;

Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain

For vengeance on the murderer's head.

Though high the warm red torrent ran

Between the flames that lit the sky, Yet, for each drop, an armed man

Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

And for each corpse, that in the sea

Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, A hundred of the foe shall be

A banquet for the mountain birds.

Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain

To keep that day, along her shore, Till the last link of slavery's chain

Is shivered, to be worn no more.


An Indian girl was sitting where

Her lover, slain in battle, slept; Her maiden veil, her own black hair,

Came down o'er eyes that wept ; And wildly, in her woodland tongue, This sad and simple lay she sung :

“ I've pulled away the shrubs that grew

Too close above thy sleeping head, And broke the forest boughs that threw

Their shadows o'er thy bed, That, shining from the sweet south-west, The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

« It was a weary, weary

That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Where thou, in his serene abode,

Hast met thy father's ghost;
Where everlasting autumn lies
On yellow woods and sunny skies.

66'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,

That shod thee for that distant land; 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid

Beside thy still cold hand; Thy bow in many a battle bent, Thy arrows never vainly sent.

"With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,

And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,
And laid the food that pleased thee best,

In plenty, by thy side,"
And decked thee bravely, as became
A warrior of illustrious name.

« Thou’rt happy now, for thou hast passed

The long dark journey of the grave, And in the land of light, at last,

Hast joined the good and brave; Amid the flushed and balmy air, The bravest and the loveliest there.

“ Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray, To her who sits where thou wert laid,

And weeps the hours
Yet almost can her grief forget,
To think that thou dost love her yet.


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