Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole My kindly warmth away,

And dimm'd the tablet of the soul;

Yet when with lordly sway,

This brow the plumed helm display'd,
That awes the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers stray'd,
These manly locks among,

That hallow'd touch was ne'er forgot;
And now, though time hath set
His seal of frost that melteth not,
My temples feel it yet.

And if I e'er in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer-
A mother's hand and tender tear,
Still pointing to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.

THE SOUTH-AMERICAN STATUES.

There are still found among the snow-covered cliffs of the Andes, the bodies of some of those Spaniards, who soon after the discovery of America, in searching for the rich mines that had been described to them in Peru, took a circuitous route among the mountains, and perished by the cold, which petrified them into statues.

WHY seek ye out such dizzy height,

Amid yon drear domain?

Why choose ye cells with frost-work white,
Ye haughty men of Spain?

The condor, on his mighty wing,

Essays your cloud-wreath'd walls,

But to his scream the caverns ring,
As from the cliff he falls.

The poor Peruvian scans with dread,
Your fix'd and stony eye,

The timid child averts his head,
And shuddering hurries by.

They, from the fathers' of their land,
Have heard your withering tale,
Nor spare to mock the tyrant band,
Transform'd to statues pale.

Ye came to grasp the Indian's gold,
Ye scorn'd his feathery dart;
But Andes rose, that monarch old,
And took his children's part:

And with that strange, embalming art,
Which ancient Egypt knew,

He threw his frost-chain o'er your heart,

As to his breast ye grew.

He chain'd you while strong manhood's tide,
Did through your bosom roll;
Upon your lip the curl of pride,
And avarice in your soul.

He chain'd you with a mortal pang,
Amid the snow-clad plain,

While thunder-blasts your sentence rang"Sleep-and ne'er wake again."

Up rose the morn; the queen of night,
Danc'd with the changeful tide,

And years fulfill'd their measur'd flight,
And ripening ages died;

Slow centuries 'neath oblivion's flood,
Sank like the tossing wave,
But frozen and transfix'd ye stood-
The dead without a grave.

The infant measur'd out its span,
On Love's maternal breast,
And whiten'd to a hoary man,

And laid him down to rest;

How little dream'd ye, when ye hurl'd,
Your challenge o'er the main,
And vow'd to teach a new-born world,
The vassalage of Spain,

Thus till the doomsday cry of pain,
Shall rive your prison-rock,
To bear upon your brow, like Cain,
A mark that all might mock.

Long, long, from high Castilian bowers,
Look'd forth their inmates fair,
And gave the tardy midnight hours,
To watching and despair,

Oft starting as some light guitar,
Its breath of sweetness shed,
Yet lord and lover linger'd far,
Till life's brief vision fled.

Your vaunted tournament is o'er,
Your knightly lance in rest,
Ambition's fever burns no more,
Within the ice-bound breast;

For high between the earth and skies,
Check'd in your venturous path,

A fearful monument you rise,
Of Andes' stormy wrath.

THE CHAIR OF UNCAS.

In the neighbourhood of Mohegan, Connecticut, is a rude recess, and a rocky seat, still bearing the name of the Chair of Uncas, where that king sat, when his fort was besieged by the Narragansetts, anxiously watching the river, for the supplies of food, which the whites had promised to send to his famishing people. They at length arrived, in a large canoe, under the covert of midnight, and saved his tribe from starvation.

THE monarch sat on his rocky throne,

Beneath him the waters lay,

His guards were the shapeless columns of stone, Their lofty helmets with moss o'ergrown,

And their spears of the bracken gray.

His lamps were the fickle stars that beam'd,
Through the veil of their midnight shroud,
And the redd'ning flashes that fitfully gleam'd,
When the distant fires of the war-dance stream'd,
Where his foes in frantic revel scream'd,
'Neath their canopy of cloud.

Say! why was his glance so restless and keen,
As it fell on the waveless tide?

And why, mid the gloom of that silent scene,
Did the sigh heave his warlike bosom's screen,
And bow that front of pride?