Their love, that like the unloosing hug Ay, such as tigers show, who lowly crouch If Come on then! let the star That guides be Philip! and your war-cry now LESSON CXXV.. THE LAST WORDS OF PHILIP OF MOUNT HOPE. In 1676, Philip, who had become the terror of the New England settlements, was driven into a swamp by Capt. Church, who led the colonists, and shot by an Indian, who fought with the white men, and who, it is said, had been wronged by Philip. The Oak of the hills has been felled by the white man, but the tree has not fallen until the sun of my country's glory had gone down. When the stranger came, the red man welcomed him. It was the embrace of death. He had no land, and we made room for him. He had no corn, and we shared our scanty hoard with him. He told us that he had been driven from home, and we called him brother. He was small and we encouraged him; he was weak and we spared him,―he talked to us of the Great Spirit, and we trusted him. When our eyes were opened at last, our hands were bound. The serpent had twined around us, and the spear of the red man was broken. But the oak is not uprooted without a struggle. Philip has shaken the earth in his fall. When his sun has set forever, his enemies shall say he was true. He will lie down with his fathers without shame, and the dead whom he has slain shall throng him to the spirit land. When the white man has shorn your hills of their forest crowns, and fenced off the free fields of your birth right; when his ploughshare has turned up the graves and scattered the bones of your fathers, ve shall say that Philip saw the arm that was uplifted, but the fear of the white man, and his poison, sealed your eyes and palsied your arms. When one by one your tribes disappear before the white man, ye shall say Philip would have united us, and made all our arms as one. When ye have raised the tomahawk over each other, and the foot of the white man is on your neck, ye shall say Philip would have made our hearts as one. When ye are shrinking before the eastern blast, ye shall own that Philip would have withstood it at the sea shore. But the oak is on the ground, felled by the arm it sheltered. The red-man himself has struck down the hope of his people. May the traitor live to record the fate of his race, to be the scorn of his accursed ally; never more to stand erect in the image of the Great Spirit, but doomed to crawl, like the serpent, at the feet of his destroyer. Philip has done! the mists of death shroud the hills of our fathers. They disappear, and the fields of the Great Spirit open to my view. Philip sees no white man there; the forests have never bled under their axe, and the pleasant hunting grounds have never been turned by their plough. Farewell to scenes which are no longer to smile in freedom! Farewell to the sun and moon which shall no longer behold the glory of the red man! Farewell to my tribe, I have loved them, I have died for them-in vain. Pale-face! would you smite the cougar at your feet? Do you fear the tongue when you have palzied the arm. O that your accursed race were as one man, and the grasp of Philip upon your throat. Farewell! I come! I come!- -I come! What! LESSON CXXVI. INDIAN NAMES. The following piece by MRS. SIGOURNEY, is a just tribute to the Indian languages, of which so many delightfully expressive names have been preserved, although few or none of the unfortunate tribes remain. The only names about which there is any diversity of pronunciation are Niagara, the first a of which is pronounced by some as in fat, and by others as in fall; and Missouri, which some pronounce as if the ss were zz. Grant that they all have passed away, That their light canoes have vanished That, 'mid the forests where they roamed, "Tis where Ontario's billow Like ocean's surge is curled, Where strong Niag'ara's thunders wake Where red Missouri bringeth down Ye say their conelike cabins, But their memory liveth on your hills, Old Massachusetts wears it And broad Ohio bears it Amid his young renown. Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse Through all her ancient caves. Wachusett hides its lingering voice Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, Your mountains are their monuments, LESSON CXXVII. THE INDIAN'S VOW. The following poem no doubt well expresses the feelings of hatred and revenge that make so large a part of an Indian's religion. It is to be lamented that the whites have not always acted up to the better principles of Christianity with equal fidelity. The lines were written during the Florida war by C. SPERRY. Away! away! I will not hear Of aught but death or vengeance now ; My knee shall never learn to bow! Nor grasp in friendly grasp a hand, Before their coming, we had ranged As free as roll the chainless streams, Touch not the hand they stretch to you ; Or taste the poison draught to die? Their honor but an idle breath; Their smile-the smile that traitors wear. Plains which your infant feet have roved, |