It is not possible that such a being could fail in fascinating the heart of the Indian hunter, and the great chief "Winnepuckit," alias George Sachem of Sangus, pays his addresses and is accepted. The wedding feast is described in a graphic way, and with the greatest minuteness, as these passages may serve to show :

"Steaks of the brown bear fat and large
From the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge;
Delicate trout from the Babboosuck brook,
And salmon spear'd in the Contoocook;
Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick
In the gravelly bed of Otternic,

And small wild hens in reed-snares caught
From the banks of Sondagardee brought;
Pike and perch from the Suacook taken,
Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills
shaken,

Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog,
And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog."

What beautiful imagery the following lines display :

"Her heart had formed a home; and freshly

all

Its beautiful affections overgrew

Their rugged prop. As o'er some granite wall

Soft vine leaves open to the moistening dew

And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife

Found on a hard, cold breast, the dew and warmth of life."

Some time elapses, and the old chief regretting his separation from his daughter, and anxious for her return, even for a short time, signifies his wish to Winnepuckit, who accedes, and sends her back to her father, protected by a goodly band. of his followers. When the time appointed for her return has arrived, no little wonder is created in the household of Passaconaway, by the non-appearance of Winnepucket, who vows at last that he will receive his wife on no other condition than that she be sent back again to him with the same form, and attended with a retinue as numerous as that which accompanied her on her departure.

"If now no more a mat for her is found,
Of all which line her father's wigwam round,

Let Pennacook call out his warrior train And send her back with wampum gifts again."

The old chief waxes indignant at such a proposal, and solemnly declares.

And again

"No more

Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor."

"May his scalp dry black

In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back."

Constant however to her attachment, and full of the most etherial devotion for her spouse, Weetamoo resolves on returning to him. In pursuance of this generous determination, she commences her voyage in a frail boat, unaccompanied even by a single attendant. The catastrophe now ensues. She is drowned! and her kindred mourn her untimely fate in the following beautiful and touching lines :

"The Dark eye has left us,

The Spring bird has flown,

On the pathway of spirits

She wanders alone.

The song of the wood dove has died on our shore,

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! we hear it no more!

Oh, dark water spirit!

We cast on thy wave

These furs which may never
Hang over her grave;

Bear down to the lost one the robes that
she wore;

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! we see her no more!

Of the strange land she walks in

No Powah has told,

It may burn with the sunshine,
Or freeze with the cold.

Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore;

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! we see her no more !

The path she is treading

Shall soon be our own;
Each gliding in shadow
Unseen and alone!

In vain shall we call on the souls gone
before;

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! they hear us no more!

Oh, mighty Sowanna!

Thy gateways unfold,

From thy wigwam of sunset

Lift curtains of gold!

Take home the poor spirit whose journey is o'er;

Mat Wonck Kunna Monee! we see her no more."

"Mogg Megone," the longest poem in the collection, abounds in fine dramatic passages, and beautiful descriptions; it is not, however, a perfect composition, though there are passages therein, which, for vigor and beauty, have never been surpassed by the author. Its imperfection, as a composition, is mainly attributable to the great space which intervenes between the completion of the tragic incident and the conclusion of the poem; and in like manner to the lengthy descriptions which inundate its pages. However, it is to be held in mind that the author's professed object in undertaking this production was, to describe the scenery of New England, and its early inhabitants, and it is impossible to avoid seeing how faithfully this object is realized.

"Mogg Megone," forcibly reminds us of the poetry of Sir Walter Scott; the same vigorous flow of thought, spirited narrative, dramatic colouring, and glorious descriptive power, which have delighted us, in "Marmion," or the "Lay of the last Minstrel," we here behold again in the plenitude of their power. The following description of an Indian warrior's costume has never been surpassed even by Cooper—

"The moonlight through the open bough Of the gnarl'd beech, whose nakedroot Coils like a serpent at his foot,

Falls, chequered, on the Indian's brow. His head is bare, save only where Waves in the wind one lock of hair,

Reserved for him, whoe'er he be, More mighty than Megone in strife,

When breast to breast, and knee to knee,
Above the fallen warrior's life

Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping knife.
Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun,
And his gaudy and tasseled blanket on;

His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid,
And magic words on its polished blade-
'Twas the gift of Castine to Mogg Mecone,
For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn;
His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine,

And Modocawando's wives had strung The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine

On the polished breech, and broad bright line

Of beaded wampum around it hung."

The outlaw Bonython is thus ushered before us

"What seeks Megone? His foes are near-
Grey Jocelyn's eye is never sleeping,
And the garrison lights are burning clear,
When Phillips' men their watch are
keeping.

Let him hie him away through the dark
river fog.

Never rustling the boughs nor displacing the rocks,

For the eyes and the ears that are watching

for Mogg,

Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox

He starts-there's a rustle among the leaves;
Another-the click of his gun is heard!

A footstep-is it the step of Cleaves,
With Indian blood on his English sword?

Steals Harmon down from the lands of York,
With hands of iron and foot of cork?
Has Scammon, versed in Indian wile,
For vengeance left his vine-hung isle?
Hark! at that whistle, soft and low,

How lights the eye of Mogg Megone!
A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow-
'Boon welcome, Johnny Bonython!'

Out steps, with cautious foot and slow,
And quick, keen glances to and fro,
The hunted outlaw, Bonython!

A low, lean, swarthy man is he,
With blanket garb and buskined knee,
And nought of English fashion on;
For he hates the race from whence he sprung,
And he couches his words in the Indian
tongue."

Mogg Megone and Bonython proceed together to the cottage of the latter; whose daughter's hand is about to be given to the savage as a reward for his having slain her seducer. While they proceed, the poet seizes the opportunity of presenting us this choice descriptive sketch

"Hark! is that the angry howl Of the wolf, the hills among ?— Or the hooting of the owl,

On his leafy cradle swung?
Quickly glancing, to and fro,
Listening to each sound they go:
Round the columns of the pine,

Indistinct, in shadow seeming
Like some old and pillared shrine;
With the soft and white moonshine,
Round the foliage-tracery shed
Of each column's branching head,
For its lamps of worship gleaming!

And the sounds awakened there,
In the pine leaves fine and small,
Soft and sweetly musical,

By the fingers of the air,
For the anthem's dying fall

Lingering round some temple's wall!---
Niche and cornice round and round
Wailing like the ghost of sound!
Is not Nature's worship thus
Ceaseless ever, going on?
Hath it not a voice for us,

In the thunder, or the tone
Of the leaf-harp, faint and small,
Speaking to the unsealed ear
Words of blended love and fear,
Of the mighty soul of all?"

Having reached Bonython's hut, his daughter is introduced.

Tall and erect the maiden stands,
Like some young priestess of the wood,
The free-born child of Solitude,

And bearing still the wild and rude,
Yet noble trace of Nature's hands.

Her dark brown cheek hath caught its stain
More from the sunshine than the rain;
Yet, where her long, fair hair is parting,
A pure white brow into light is starting;

And, where the folds of her blanket sever,
Are a neck and bosom as white as ever
The foam-wreaths rise on the leaping river.
But, in the convulsive quiver and grip
Of the muscles around her bloodless lip,

There is something painful and sad to see;
And her eye has a glance more sternly wild
Than even that of a forest child

In its fearless and untamed freedom should be."

Actuated by that undying attachment for one who has once been the object of her affection, in which she only exhibits one of the truest characteristics of her sex, Ruth repents the short-lived anger which prompted her to consent to the destruction of her seducer, and when the bloody scalp of him she once cherished with all the passionate fervor of her young

confiding heart, is held before her eyes, her horror knows no bounds, and all the soft associations which stud the memory of her love, rush rapidly on her agonized brain.

"With hand upraised, with quick drawn

breath,

She meets that ghastly sign of death;
In one long, glassy, spectral stare
The enlarging eye is fasten'd there,
As if that mesh of pale brown hair

Had power to change at sight alone,
Even as the fearful locks which wound
Medusa's fatal forehead round,

The gazer into stone.
With such a look Herodias read
The features of the bleeding head.
So looked the mad Moor on his dead,

Or the young Cenci as she stood,
O'er-dabbled with a father's blood!
Look! feeling melts that frozen glance,
It moves that marble countenance,
As if at once within her strove
Pity with shame, and hate with love.
The past recalls its joy and pain,
Old memories rise before her brain-
The lips which love's embraces met
The hand her tears of parting wet,
The voice whose pleading tones beguiled
The pleased ear of the forest child,-
And tears she may no more repress,
Reveal her lingering tenderness."

With what truth the poet immediately adds

"Oh! woman wronged, can cherish hate

More deep and dark than manhood may;
But, when the mockery of fate

Hath left Revenge its chosen way,
And the fell curse, which years have nursed,
Full on the spoiler's head hath burst-

When all her wrong, and shame, and pain,
Burns fiercely on his heart and brain-
Still lingers something of the spell

Which bound her to the traitor's bosom;
Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell,
Some flowers of old affection blossom."

Bonython, now that he has accomplished his aims, through the agency of the savage, burns with desire to destroy him likewise, thus preventing the necessity of giving him his daughter in marriage. He lacks nerve to execute his fell design; not so Ruth, whom the remorse of love has goaded to the very verge of madness.

"Ruth starts erect-with bloodshot eye,
And lips drawn tight across her teeth,
Showing their locked embrace beneath,
In the red fire-light!-Mogg must die!
Give me the knife!-The outlaw turns,
Shuddering in heart and limb, away-
But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns,
And he sees on the wall strange shadows
play.

A lifted arm, a tremulous blade,

Are dimly pictured in light and shade,

Plunging down in the darkness. Hark,
that cry!

Again and again-he sees it fall-
That shadowy arm down the lighted wall!

He hears quick footsteps-a shade fits by!
The door on its rusted hinges creaks-
Ruth-daughter Ruth!' the outlaw shrieks,
But no sound comes back-he is standing
alone

By the mangled corse of Mogg Megone!"

Then follows a beautiful descriptive passage :

"Tis morning over Norridgewock-
On tree and wigwam, wave and rock,
Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred
At intervals by breeze and bird,
And wearing all the hues which glow
In heaven's own pure and perfect bow,
That glorious picture of the air,
Which summer's light-robed angel forms
On the dark ground of fading storms,

With pencil dipped in sunbeams there-
And, stretching out, on either hand,
O'er all that wide and unshorn land,
Till, weary of its gorgeousness,
The aching and the dazzled eye
Rests gladdened, on the calm blue sky-
Slumbers the mighty wilderness!

The oak upon the windy hill,
Its dark green burthen upward heaves-
The hemlock broods above its rill,
Its cone-like foliage darker still,
While the white birch's graceful stem
And the rough walnut bough receives
The sun upon their crowded leaves,

Each colored like a topaz gem;
And the tall maple wears with them,
The coronal which autumn gives,

The brief, bright sign of ruin near,
The hectic of a dying year!"

Then follows the narrative of Ruth's love, her joy, her shame, her misery, and her crime :

"There came a change; the wild, glad mood

Of unchecked freedom passed. Amid the ancient solitude

Of unshorn grass and waving wood,

And waters glancing bright and fast,
A softened voice was in my ear,

Sweet as those lulling sounds and fine,
The hunter lifts his head to hear,
Now far and faint, now full and near-
The murmur of the wind-swept pine.
A manly form was ever nigh,

A bold, free hunter, with an eye

Whose dark keen glance had power to
wake

Both fear and love-to awe and charm:
'Twas as the wizard rattlesnake,
Whose evil glances lure to harm-
Whose cold, and small, and glittering eye,
And brilliant coil, and changing dye,
Draw, step by step, the gazer near,
With drooping wing and cry of fear,
Yet powerless all to turn away,

A conscious, but a willing prey!

Fear, doubt, thought, life itself ere long."

She then mentions the bitter agony she experienced when the savage trophy of her dead lover is paraded before her :

"Oh God! with what an awful power

I saw the buried past uprise,

And gather, in a single hour,
Its ghost-like memories!

And then I felt-alas! too late,
That underneath the mask of hate,

That shame, and guilt, and wrong had
thrown

O'er feelings which they might not own,

The heart's wild love had known no
change;

And still, that deep and hidden love,
With its first fondness wept above,
The victim of its own revenge!

There lay the fearful scalp, and there
The blood was on its pale brown hair!
I thought not of the victim's scorn,
I thought not of his baleful guile,
My deadly wrong, my outcast name,
The characters of sin and shame
On heart and forehead drawn;

I only saw that victim's smile

The still, green places where we met

The moon lit branches, dewy wet;

I only felt, I only heard

The greeting and the parting word

The smile, the embrace, the tone, which made

An Eden of the forest shade."

Her death concludes the poem, and is thus beautifully

narrated :—

"Blessed Mary! who is she Leaning against that maple tree? The sun upon her face burns hot, But the fixed eyelid moveth not; The squirrel's chirp is shrill and clear, From the dry bough above her ear; Dashing from rock and root its spray,

Close at her feet the river rushes;

The blackbird's wing against her brushes,
And sweetly through the hazel bushes
The robin's mellow music gushes;
God save her! will she sleep alway?

Castine hath bent him over the sleeper:
'Wake daughter-wake!' but she stirs
no limb;

The eye that looks on him is fixed and
dim;

And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper,

Until the angel's oath is said,

And the final blast of the trump goes forth To the graves of the sea and the graves of the earth.

Ruth Bonython is dead!"

These two beautiful poems whose plots we have just been sketching, are followed by many shorter pieces remarkable for great descriptive beauty, dramatic incident, and colouring, among which may be mentioned his fine lines on the "Merrimack," the fearful masacre of Pentucket, the story of "Toussaint L'ouverture," and the "Fountain." We are forced