R

the red

B

BATTLE-GROUND OF DENONVILLE.

OH! what secrets are revealed
In this ancient battle-field!

Round are scattered skull and bone,
Into light by workmen thrown
Who across this valley fair
For the train a way prepare.
Pictures brighten thick and fast
On the mirror of the past;
To poetic vision plain
Plume and banner float again;
Round are mangled bodies lying,
Some at rest, and others dying-
Thus the Swan-ne-ho-ont greet
Those who plant invading feet
On the chase-ground where their sires
Long have kindled council-fires.
Fragments of the deadly brand,
Lying in the yellow sand,
With the fleur-de-lis to tell

Of the Frank who clenched it well,
When his race encountered here
Tameless chasers of the deer-
Arrow-head and hatchet-blade,
War-club broken and decayed,
Belts in part resolved to dust,
Gun-locks red with gnawing rust.
Other sounds than pick and spade,
When this valley lay in shade,
Ringing on the summer air
Scared the panther from his lair;
Other sounds than axe and bar,
Pathway building for the car,
Buzzing saw, or hammer-stroke,
Echo wild from slumber woke,
When New France her lilies pale
Here unfolded to the gale-
Rifle-crack and musket-peal,
Whiz of shaft and clash of steel-
Painted forms from cover leaping,
Crimson swaths through foemen reaping,
While replied each savage throat,

To the rallying bugle-note,
With a wolf-howl long and loud,
That the stoutest veteran cowed,
Mingled in one fearful din

Where these graves are crumbling in.
Busy actors in the fray
Were their tenants on that day;
But each name, forgotten long,
Cannot now be wove in song.
They had wives, perchance, who kept
Weary watch for them, and wept
Bitter tears at last to learn
They would never more return;
And in hut as well as hall
Childless mothers mourned their fall.
In a vain attempt they died
To bring low Na-do-wa pride,
And extend the Bourbon's reign
O'er this broad and bright domain.
When the whirlwind of the fight
Sunk into a whisper light,
Rudely opened was the mould
For their bodies stiff and cold:

Brush and leaves were loosely piled On their grave-couch in the wild, That their place of rest the foe, Drunk with blood, might never know. When the settler for his hearth, Cleared a spot of virgin earth; And its smoke-thread on the breeze, Curled above the forest trees, Nor memorial sign, nor mound Told that this was burial ground. Since this bank received its dead, Now unroofed to startled sight, With its skeleton's all white, More than eightscore years have fled. Gather them with pious care,— Let them not lie mouldering there. Crushed beneath the grinding wheel, And the laborer's heavy heel. Ah! this fractured skull of man Nursed a brain once quick to plan, And these ribs that round me lie Hearts enclosed that once beat high. Here they fought, and here they fell, Battle's roar their only knell, And the soil that drank their gore Should embrace the brave once more.

MENOMINEE DIRGE.

WE bear the dead, we bear the dead, In robes of otter habited,

509

From the quiet depths of the greenwood shade,
To her lonely couch on the hill-top made.
There, there the sun when dies the day
Flings mournfully his parting ray-
In vain the winds lift her tresses black-
Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac!*
When ploughs tear up the forest floor,
And hunters follow the deer no more,
When the red man's council-hearth is cold
His glory, like a tale that's told,
Spare, white man! spare an oak to wave
Its bough above the maiden's grave,
And the dead will send a blessing back-
Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac!

Another race are building fires
Above the bones of our buried sires-
Soon will the homes of our people be
Far from the bright Menominee;
But yearly to yon burial-place
Some mourning band of our luckless race
To smooth the turf will wander back-
Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac!

On the wafting wings of yesternight,
The soul of our peerless one took flight;
She heard a voice from the clime of souls,
Sweeter than lays of orioles,

Say, "Come to that bright and blissful land
Where Death waves not his skeleton hand,
Where the sky with storm is never black"-
Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te nac!

*Flower, farewell!

hood,

wood

Barns that they haunt no thunderbolt can shatter, Full many a hind believes;

No showers that bring a blighting mildew patter Upon the golden sheaves.

Taught were our fathers that a curse would follow,
Beyond expression dread,

The cruel farmer who destroyed the swallow
That builded in his shed.

Oh! how I envied, in the school-house dreary,
The swallow's freedom wild,

Cutting the wind on pinion never weary,

Cleaving the clouds up piled.

And when the bird and his blithe mate beholding

Abroad in airy race,

Their evolutions filled my soul unfolding

With images of grace.

And, oh! what rapture, after wintry chidings, And April's smile and tear,

Thrilled to the core, my bosom at the tidings, "The swallow, boy, is here!"

Announcement of an angel on some mission Of love without alloy,

Could not have sooner wakened a transition
From gloom to heart-felt joy.

For summer to the dreaming youth a heave
Of bliss and beauty seems,
And in her sunshine less of earthly leaven
Clings to our thoughts and dreams.

In honor of the bird, with vain endeavor,

Why lengthen out my lay?

By SHAKSPEARE's art he is embalmed forever, Enshrined in song by GRAY.

LAY OF A WANDERER.

A FLORIDIAN SCENE.

WHERE Pablo to the broad St. John

His dark and briny tribute pays, The wild deer leads her dappled fawn,

Of graceful limb and timid gaze;
Rich sunshine falls on wave and land,

The gull is screaming overhead,
And on a beach of whiten'd sand

Lie wreathy shells with lips of red.
The jessamine hangs golden flowers

On ancient oaks in moss array'd,
And proudly the palmetto towers,

While mock-birds warble in the shade;
Mounds, built by mortal hands are near,

Green from the summit to the base,
Where, buried with the bow and spear,
Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase.

Cassada, nigh the ocean shore,
Is now a ruin, wild and lone,
And on her battlements no more

Is banner waved or trumpet blown;
Those doughty cavaliers are gone

Who hurled defiance there to France,
While the bright waters of St. John
Reflected flash of sword and lance.
But when the light of dying day
Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time,
And the wan features of decay
Wear softened beauty like the clime,
My fancy summons from the shroud
The knights of old Castile again,
And charging thousands shout aloud-
"St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain!"

When mystic voices, on the breeze That fans the rolling deep, sweep by, The spirits of the Yemassees, Who ruled the land of yore, seemed nigh; For mournful marks, around where stood Their palm-roofed lodges, yet are seen, And in the shadows of the wood Their monumental mounds are green.

*An old Spanish fort.

THE author of " Alice, or the New Una," is of de eminent families of HUNTINGTON and TRUMULL, in Connecticut, and is a brother of Mr. HUNINGTON the painter. He was born in 1815, and as educated for the profession of physic, which e practised for several years; but turning his atntion to theology, he became in 1839 a candidate

r orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church, and Foon after was appointed one of the professors in Lust. Paul's College, Long Island. He was subseuently, during a short period, rector of a church Middlebury, Vermont; but his health failing, he EU Vent to Europe, and passed several years in Italy.

In 1843 he published, in New York, a volume of Poems, comprising “The Trysting-Place," a romantic story; "Fragments and Inscriptions from the Greek;" "Inscriptions and Fragments from the

66

Female Poets of Greece;" "Sacred Pieces," consisting chiefly of translations from ancient Latin hymns; "The Northern Dawn," Sketches in the Open Air," and miscellaneous sonnets and other short pieces, all of which are in a style of scholarly elegance.

In 1849 Mr. HUNTINGTON published, in London, "Alice, or the New Una," a romance which attracted much attention for its literary and speculative characteristics. Its ingeniously dramatic though frequently improbable incidents, its highlyfinished and poetical diction, and the skill with which the views of the author-those of the extreme " Tractarians"-are maintained and illustrated, secured for it at once the favourable consideration of critics in art, and the applause of a religious party.

I. THE ABBEY.

WITHIN the minster's venerable pile What pomps unwonted flash upon our eyes! What galleries, in gold and crimson, rise Between the antique pillars of the aisle, Crowded with England's gayest life; the while Beneath, her dead, unconscious glory lies; Above, her ancient faith still seeks the skies; And with apparent life doth well beguile Our senses in that ever-growing roof; Whence on the soul return those recollections Of her great annals-built to be time-proof, Which chiefly make this spot the fittest scene Wherein to consecrate those new affections We plight this day to Britain's virgin queen.

II. THE QUEEN.

How strange to see a creature young and fair Assume the sceptre of these widespread lands!— How in her femininely feeble hands The orb of empire shall she ever bear!— And crowns, they say, not more with gems than care Are weighty yet with calmest mien she stands; August in innocence herself commands, And will that stately burden lightly wear. Claims surely inoffensive!-What is she? Of ancient sovereignty a living shoot; The latest blossom on a royal tree Deep in the past extends whose famous root; And realms from age to age securely free, Gather of social peace its yet unfailing fruit.

III. THE CROWNING.

How dazzling flash the streams of colour'd light, When on her sacred brow the crown is placed! And straight her peers and dames with haughty

haste

Their coronets assume, as is their right,
With sudden blaze making the temple bright.
Does man's enthusiasm run to waste,
By which a queen's investiture is graced
With deafening demonstrations of delight,
That from the cannon's roar protect the ear?
We may not dare to think so, for His sake
Whose word has link'd king's honour and GOD'S
fear.

Nor is it servile clamour that we make,
Who, born/ourselves to reign, in her revere
The kingly nature that ourselves partake.

ON READING BRYANT'S POEM OF "THE WINDS."

YE Winds, whose various voices in his lay
That bard interpreted-your utterance mild,
Nor less your ministration fierce and wild,
Of those resistless laws which ye obey
In your apparent lawlessness-oh say!
Is not your will-less agency reviled
When it is liken'd unto what is styled
By such unwise the Spirit of the Day ?
Not all the islands by tornadoes swept,

E'er knew such ruin as befalls a state
When not the winds of God, but mortal breath,
With threatening sweetness of melodious hate,
Assaults the fabrics reverent ages kept
To shelter ancient loyalty and faith. 511

I.

SISTER! for as such I loved thee,

May I not the privilege claim
As thy brother to lament thee,

Though not mine that sacred name?

For though not indeed thy brother,
Yet fraternal is the grief,
That in tears no solace meeting,

Now in words would find relief.

Who did watch thy final conflict?

Who did weep when it was o'er?
Whose the voice which then consoled

One by thee beloved more?

Lips that kiss'd thy cold white forehead,
Sure may sing thy requiem;
Hands that closed thy stiffening eyelids,

Should it not be writ by them?
To perform those death-bed honours
Soften'd much my deep regret ;
But to celebrate thy virtues

Is a task more soothing yet.
O'er thy features death-composed,
As the life-like smile that play'd,
By its beauty so familiar

Tears drew forth which soon it stay'd.
So the memory of thy goodness

Calms the grief that from it springs: That which makes our loss the greatest, Sweetest consolation brings.

II.

When the Christian maiden findeth
In the grave a maiden's rest,
We mourn not as did the heathen
Over beauty unpossess'd.

As the tender MELEAGER,

In that sweetly mournful strain,
Sung the fate of CLEARISTA
Borne to nuptial couch in vain :
How her virgin zone unloosed,

She in Death's embraces slept;
As for vainly-woo'd ANTIBIA

Pure ANYTE hopeless wept.
For the soul to CHRIST united

Need regret no human bliss,
And there yet remains a marriage
Better than the earthly is.

Wedded love is but the symbol
Of a holier mystery,

Which unto the stainless only
Ever shall unfolded be.

Life and Hope, when they embracing
Seem like one, are Love on earth;
Death and Hope, so reuniting,

Are the Love of heavenly birth.

Was it haply this foreknowing That thou so wouldst ever be? From pursuing ardours shrinking In thy saintly chastity.

III.

In thy fairy-like proportions
Woman's dignity was yet,
And in all thy winning actions
With the grace of childhood met
With what light and airy motion

Wert thou wont to glide or spring!
As if were that shape elastic

Lifted by an unseen wing.

In what sweet and lively accents
Flow'd or gush'd thy talk or song!
What pure thoughts and gentle feelings
Did that current bear along!
But affliction prematurely

On thy tender graces breathed,
And in sweet decay about thee

Were the faded flowerets wreathed. Blasts that smite with death the flower, Cull for use the ripen'd fruit; Suns the plant that overpower, Cannot kill the buried root:

So the grief that dimm'd thy beauty Shower'd gifts of higher worth, And the germ of both is hidden Safely now within the earth. Nature, eldest, truest sybil,

Writes upon her wither'd leaves, Words of joy restored prophetic To the heart her law bereaves.

IV.

Greenly swell the clustering mountains
Whence thy passing spirit went;
Clear the waters they embosom;
Blue the skies above them bent.
Pass'd away the spirit wholly

From the haunts to us so dear?
Or at will their forms assuming,
In them doth it reappear?
For there is a new expression.
Now pervading all the place;
Rock and stream do look with meanings
Such as wore thy living face.
Nor alone the face of Nature;
Human features show it too;
Chiefly those by love illumin'd
Of the heart-united few.
We

upon each other gazing,
Mystic shadows come and go,
Over each loved visage flitting,
Why and whence we do not know.
In the old familiar dances
Mingle thy accustom'd feet;
Blending with the song familiar
Still are heard thy concords sweet.
Hence we know the world of spirits
Is not far from each of us;
Scarce that veil forbids our entrance
Which thou hast half lifted us.

1

IT.

THE JOURNALIST.

As shakes the canvass of a thousand ships,
Struck by a heavy land-breeze far at sea-
Ruffle the thousand broad-sheets of the land,
Filled with the people's breath of potency.

the A thousand images the hour will take,

[sings;

From him who strikes, who rules, who speaks, who Many within the hour their grave to makeMany to live far in the heart of things.

A dark-eyed spirit, he who coins the time, To virtue's wrong, in base disloyal lies-Who makes the morning's breath, the evening's tide, The utterer of his blighting forgeries. How beautiful who scatters, wide and free, The gold-bright seeds of loved and loving truth! By whose perpetual hand each day supplied, Leaps to new life the nation's heart of youth. To know the instant, and to speak it true, Its pasing lights of joy, its dark, sad cloudTo fix upon the unnumber'd gazers' view, Is to thy ready hand's broad strength allowed. There is an inwrought life in every hour, Fit to be chronicled at large and told-'Tis thine to pluck to light its secret power, And on the air its many-coloured heart unfold. The angel that in sand-dropp'd minutes lives, Demands a message cautious as the agesWho stuns, with whirling words of hate, his ear, That mighty power to boundless wrath enrages. Shake not the quiet of a chosen land,

Thou grimy man over thine engine bending; The spirit pent that breathes the life into its limbs, Docile for love is tyrannous in rending.

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whatever condemnation others have expressed, his friends can perhaps cite as high authorities in approval. This may doubtless be said, both of his prose and verse, that it illustrates truly, to the extent of the author's abilities, directed by much and honest observation, the present, in our own country; or perhaps it may be said with more justice, in New York. The poems on "Man in the Republic" are entitled, "The Child," "The Father," "The Teacher," "The Statesman," "The Reformer," "The Masses," &c.

In the last edition, the author, referring to some friendly criticisms, observes: "I have carefully considered whatever has been objected to them, and where I could, in good conscience, and according to the motions of my own taste, have made amendment."

Obey, rhinoceros! an infant's handLeviathan! obey the fisher mild and young! Vex'd ocean! smile, for on thy broad-beat sand The little curlew pipes his shrilly song.

THE CITIZEN.

WITH plainness in thy daily pathway walk,
And disencumber'd of excess: no other
Jostling, servile to none, none overstalk,
For, right and left, who passes is thy brother.

Let him who in thy upward countenance looks,
Find there in meek and soften'd majesty
Thy Country writ, thy Brother, and thy God;
And be each motion onward, calm, and free.
Feel well with the poised ballot in thy hand,
Thine unmatch'd sovereignty of right and wrong,
"Tis thine to bless or blast the waiting land,
To shorten up its life or make it long.

Who looks on thee, with gladness should behold
A self-delivered, self-supported Man-
True to his being's mighty purpose-true
To this heaven-bless'd and God-imparted plan.

Nowhere within the great globe's skyey round
Canst thou escape thy duty, grand and high-
A man unbadged, unbonneted, unbound —
Walk to the tropic, to the desert fly.

A full-fraught hope upon thy shoulder leans,
And beats with thine, the heart of half the world;
Ever behind thee walks the shining past,
Before thee burns the star-stripe, far unfurl'd.