To one, who looked from upper air
O'er all the enchanted regions there,
How beauteous must have been the glow,
The life, the sparkling from below!
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks
Of golden melons on their banks,—
More golden where the sun-light falls;
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls
Of ruined shrines, busy and bright
As they were all alive with light;
And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks
Of pigeons settling on the rocks,
With their rich, restless wings, that gleam
Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm west, as if inlaid
With brilliants from the mine, or made
Of tearless rainbows, such as span
The unclouded skies of Peristan!
And, then, the mingling sounds that come,
Of shepherds' ancient reed, with hum
Of the wild bees of Palestine,

Banqueting through the flowery vales; And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods so full of nightingales!

But nought can charm the luckless Peri;
Her soul is sad, her wings are weary—
Joyless she sees the Sun look down
On that great temple, once his own,*
Whose lonely columns stands sublime,
Flinging their shadows from on high,
Like dials, which the wizard, Time,
Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie concealed,
Beneath those chambers of the sun,
Some amulet of gems, annealed
In upper fires, some tablet scaled
With the great name of Solomon,

* The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

nich, spelled by her illumined eyes,
ceach her where, beneath the moon,
rth or ocean, lies the boon,
charm, that can restore, so soon,
erring spirit to the skies!

red by this hope, she bends her thither; I laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, r have the golden bowers of even, e rich west, begun to wither; , o'er the vale of Balbec winging wly, she sees a child at play, g the rosy wild-flowers singing, rosy and as wild as they ; ng, with eager hands and eyes, beautiful blue damsel flies,

fluttered round the jasmine stems, winged flowers or flying gems; near the boy, who, tired with play, nestling mid the roses, lay,

aw a wearied man dismount

om his hot steed, and, on the brink
small imaret's rustic fount,
patient, fling him down to drink.

swift his haggard brow he turned the fair child, who fearless sat, gh never yet hath day-beam burned on a brow more fierce than that,— nly fierce—a mixture dire, thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire! ich the Peri's eye could read tales of many a ruthless deed; ruined maid, the shrine profaned, s broken, and the threshold stained blood of guests! there written, all, < as the damning drops that fall the denouncing angel's pen, Mercy weeps them out again!

Yet tranquil, now, that man of crime-
As if the balmy evening time
Softened his spirit-looked and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play:
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance
Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burned all night,
Through some impure and godless rite,
Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of day-light sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south
Lisping the eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth;
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,

And seeking for its home again!

Oh! 'twas a sight-that heaven-that child

A scene, which might have well beguiled

Even haughty Eblis of a sigh

For glories lost, and peace gone by.

And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there—while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace?
"There was a time," he said, in mild,
Heart-humbled tones, "thou blessed child,

ter and Decay of the North American Indians.— STORY.

is, in the fate of the unfortunate Indians, much to our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of ment; much which may be urged to excuse their cities; much in their characters, which betrays us nvoluntary admiration. What can be more melanan their history? By a law of their nature, they stined to a slow, but sure extinction. Every where, pproach of the white man, they fade away. We rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered f autumn, and they are gone forever. They pass lly by us, and they return no more.

centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams and the their councils, rose in every valley, from Hudson's The farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi

and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rung through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter's trace, and the dark encampment, startled the wild beasts in their lairs.

The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young lis tened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down; but they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared for the brave beyond the western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They shrunk from no dangers, and they feared no hardships.

If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love,

like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. But where are they? Where are the villages, and warriors, and youth? the sachems and the tribes? the hunters and their families? They have perished. They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No, nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which hath eaten into their heart-cores; a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated; a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin.

The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region, which they may now call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, the helpless, the women and the warriors, "few and faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow, unsteady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch; but They turn to take a last look of their They cast a last glance upon the graves

they heed him not. deserted villages.