To what strange lands must Shalum take his way!
Groves of the dead departed mortals trace;
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chace,
But all are empty unsubstantial shades,
That ramble through those visionary glades;
No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend,
But sickly orchards there

Do fruits as sickly bear.

And apples a consumptive visage shew,
And wither'd hangs the hurtle-berry blue,

Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!
Wandering a stranger to the shores below,
Where shall I brook or real fountain find?
Lazy and sad deluding waters flow-
Such is the picture in my boding mind!
Fine tales, indeed, they tell

Of shades and purling rills,
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the western hills,

But when did ghost return his state to shew;
Or who can promise half the tale is true?
I too must be a fleeting ghost-no more-
None, none but shadows to those mansions go;
I leave my woods, I leave the Huron shore,
For emptier groves below!

Ye charming solitudes,
Ye tall ascending woods,

Ye glassy lakes and prattling streams,

Whose aspect still was sweet,

Whether the sun did greet,

Or the pale moon embrac'd you with her beams-—

Adieu to all!

To all, that charm'd me where I stray'd,

The winding stream, the dark sequester'd shade;

Adieu all triumphs here!

Adieu the mountain's lofty swell,
Adieu, thou little verdant hill,

And seas, and stars, and skies-farewell,
For some remoter sphere!

Perplex'd with doubts, and tortur'd with despair,
Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?
Nature at last these ruins may repair,

When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep;

Some real world once more may be assign'd,
Some new-born mansion for the immortal mind!
Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods,
To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray,
Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods,
Beyond the Huron bay!
Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low,
My trusty bow, and arrows by my side,
The cheerful bottle, and the ven'son store;
For long the journey is that I must go,
Without a partner, and without a guide.

He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep; Then clos'd his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!*

There is another Indian poem, which some of our readers may miss from this selection, entitled, The Death Song of a Cherokee Indian. It appears as follows, in Carey's American Museum, i. 77:—

THE DEATH-SONG OF A CHEROKEE INDIAN.

By P. Freneau.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors: your threats are in vain,
For the Son of Alknomock can never complain.
Remember the woods, where in ambush he lay,
And the scalps which he bore from your nation away
Why do ye delay?.... 'till I shrink from my pain?
Know the Son of Alknomock can never complain.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
The flame rises high, you exult in my pain,
But the son of Alknomock will never complain.

It is also assigned to Freneau by Samuel L. Knapp in his Lectures on American Literature, 169. We find it, however, introduced, with some slight variations, in the dialogue of Maria Edgeworth's Rosamond (Harper's ed. p. 304), where the authorship is given to "the widow of the celebrated John Hunter," and the following author's note recited from the volume of poems from which it is taken :-"The idea of this ballad was suggested several years ago by hearing a gentleman, who had resided many years in America among the tribe called the Cherokees, sing a wild air, which he assured me it was customary for those people to chant with a barbarous jargon, implying contempt for their enemies in the moments of torture and death. I have endeavored to give something of the characteristic spirit and sentiment of those brave savages."

In Chambers's Cyclopædia of English Literature, ii. 279, there is a notice of Mrs. John Hunter's volume, "a retired but highly accomplished lady, sister of Sir Everard Home, and wife of John Hunter, the celebrated surgeon." Her poems were collected and published in 1806, several of them having been previously extensively circulated. Chambers prints the poem, and as it has several lines different from the copy circulated in this country, we give it in Mrs. Hunter's language:

THE DEATH SONG.

Written for and adapted to an original Indian air.
The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in vain,
For the Son of Alknomook will never complain.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow,
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low,
Why so slow? do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No; the Son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,

And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.
Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain,
But the Son of Alknomook can never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone,

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son;
Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain:
And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.

No roving foot shall find thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear. By Nature's self in white array'd, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose. Smit with these charms, that must decay, I grieve to see thy future doom; They died-nor were those flowers less gay, (The flowers that did in Eden bloom)

Unpitying frost, and Autumn's power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
From morning suns and evening dews
At first, thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,

For when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour,
The mere idea of a flower.

THE HURRICANE

Happy the man who safe on shore,
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmov'd, he hears the tempest's roar,
That on the tufted groves expire:
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble barque must bear them all.
Now to their haunts the birds retreat,
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are blest but wretched we-
Foredoom'd a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.
While o'er the dark abyss* we roam,
Perhaps, whate'er the pilots say,
We saw the sun descend in gloom,
No more to see his rising ray,
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!
But what a strange, uncoasted strand
Is that, where fate permits no day-
No charts have we to mark that land,
No compass to direct that way-
What pilot shall explore that realm,
What new COLUMBUS take the helm!
While death and darkness both surround,
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour-
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comfort on this troubled sea?
The barque, accustom'd to obey,
No more the trembling pilots guide:
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on either side-
Thus skill and science both must fall,
And ruin is the lot of all.

ST. CATHARINE'S.†

He that would wish to rove awhile
In forests green and gay,

From Charleston bar to Catharine's isle
Might sigh to find the way!
What scenes on every side appear,
What pleasure strikes the mind,
From Folly's train, thus wandering far,
To leave the world behind.

An island on the sea-coast of Georgia. + Near the east end of Jamaica. July 30, 1784.

The music of these savage groves

In simple accents swells,

And freely, here, their sylvan loves
The feather'd nation tells;

The panting deer through mingled shades
Of oaks forever green

The vegetable world invades,

That skirts the watery scene.

Thou sailor, now exploring far
The broad Atlantic wave,

Crowd all your canvass, gallant tar,
Since Neptune never gave

On barren seas so fine a view
As here allures the eye,

Gay, verdant scenes that Nature drew
In colors from the sky.

Ye western winds! awhile delay
To swell the expecting sail-
Who would not here, a hermit, stay
In yonder fragrant vale,
Could he engage what few can find,
That coy, unwilling guest

(All avarice banish'd from the mind)
CONTENTMENT, in the breast!

NEVERSINK.

These hills, the pride of all the coast,
To mighty distance seen,
With aspect bold and rugged brow,
That shade the neighbouring main:
These heights, for solitude design'd,
This rude resounding shore-
These vales impervious to the wind,
Tall oaks, that to the tempest bend,
Half Druid, I adore.

From distant lands, a thousand sails
Your hazy summits greet-

You saw the angry Briton come,
You saw him, last, retreat!

With towering crest, you first appear
The news of land to tell;

To him that comes, fresh joys impart,
To him that goes, a heavy heart,
The lover's long farewell.

'Tis your's to see the sailor bold,
Of persevering mind,

To see him rove in search of care,
And leave true bliss behind;

To see him spread his flowing sails
To trace a tiresome road,

By wintry seas and tempests chac'd
To see him o'er the ocean haste,
A comfortless abode !

Your thousand springs of waters blue
What luxury to sip,

As from the mountain's breast they flow
To moisten Flora's lip!

In vast retirements herd the deer,

Where forests round them rise,

Dark groves, their tops in æther lost,
That, haunted still by Huddy's ghost,
The trembling rustic flies.

Proud heights! with pain so often seen,
(With joy beheld once more)
On your firm base I take my stand,
Tenacious of the shore:-

Let those who pant for wealth or fame
Pursue the watery road;-

Soft sleep and ease, blest days and nights,
And health, attend these favourite heights,
Retirement's blest abode!

343

THE MAN OF NINETY; OR, A VISIT TO THE OAK.

"To yonder boughs that spread so wide,
Beneath whose shade soft waters glide,
Once more I take the well known way;
With feeble step and tottering knee
I sigh to reach my WHITE-OAK tree,
Where rosy health was wont to play.

If to the grave, consuming slow,
The shadow of myself, I go,

When I am gone wilt thou remain !—
From dust you rose, and grew like me;
I man became, and you a tree,

Both natives of one verdant plain.

How much alike; yet not the same
You could no kind protector claim;

Alone you stood to chance resign'd:
When winter came, with blustering sky,
You fear'd its blasts-and so did I,

And for warm suns in secret pin'd.
When vernal suns began to glow
You felt returning vigour flow,

Which once a year new leaves supply'd;
Like you, fine days I wish'd to see,
And May was a sweet month to me,

But when November came-I sigh'd!

If through your bark some rustic arm
A mark impress'd, you took the alarm,
And tears awhile I saw descend;
Till Nature's kind maternal aid
A plaister on your bruises laid,

And bade your trickling sorrows end.
Like you, I fear'd the lightning's stroke
Whose flame dissolves the strength of oak,
And ends at once this mortal dream ;—
You saw with grief the soil decay
That from your roots was torn away;
You sigh'd—and curs'd the streain.

With borrow'd earth, and busy spade,
Around your roots new life I laid,

While joy reviv'd in every vein;

Once more that stream shall death impart!
Though Nature owns the aid of art,

No art immortal makes her reign.

How much alike our fortune-say-
Yet why must I so soon decay

1

When thou hast scarcely reach'd thy primeErect and tall you joyous stand; The staff of age has found my hand,

That guides me to the grave of time.

Could I, fair tree, like you, resign,
And banish all these fears of mine,

Grey hairs would be no cause of grief;
Your blossoms die, but you remain,
Your fruit lies scatter'd o'er the plain-
Learn wisdom from the falling leaf.

As you survive, by heaven's decree,
Let wither'd flowers be thrown on me,
Sad compensation for my doom,
While Christmas greens and gloomy pines,
And cedars dark, and barren vines,
Point out the lonely tomb.

The enlivening sun, that burns so bright,
Ne'er had a noon without a night,

SO LIFE and DEATH agree;
The joys of man by years are brok^ —”
'Twas thus the man of ninety spoke,
Then rose and left his tree.

THE ALMANAC MAKER.

Qui tuto positus loco
Infra se videt omnia
Occurrit suo libens

Fato, nec queritur mori.-SENEC.

While others dwell on mean affairs,

Their kings, their councils, and their wars,
Philaster roves among the stars.

In melancholy silence he
Travels alone and cannot see
An equal for his company.

Not one of all the learned train

Like him can manage Charles's wain

Or motion of the moon explain.

He tells us when the sun will rise,
Points out fair days, or clouded skies;--
No matter if he sometimes lies.

An annual almanac to frame
And publish with pretended name,
Is all his labour, all his aim.
He every month has something new,
Yet mostly deals in what is true
Obliging all, and cheating few.
Our sister moon, the stars, the sun,
In measur'd circles round him run;
He knows their motions-every one
The solar system at his will-
To mortify such daring skill,
The comets-they are rebels still.
Advancing in its daily race
He calculates the planets' place,
Nor can the moon elude his chace.

In dark eclipse when she would hide
And be awhile the modest bride,
He pulls her veil of crape aside.
Each passing age must have its taste:
The sun is in the centre plac'd,
And fuel must supply his waste;
But how to find it he despairs,
Nor will he leave his idle cares
Or Jove to mind his own affairs.

He prophesies the sun's decay;
And while he would his fate delay,
New sorrows on his spirits prey.
So much upon his shoulders laid,
He reads what Aristotle said;
Then calls the comets to his aid.

The people of the lunar sphere
As he can plainly make appear
Are coming nearer year by year.
Though others often gaze in vain
Not one of all the starry train
Could ever puzzle his strong brain,
The ram, the twins, the shining goat
And Argo, in the skies afloat.
To him are things of little note;

And that which now adorns the bear,
(I heard him say) the sailor's star,
Will be in time the Lord knows where.

Thus nature waiting at his call,
His book, in vogue with great and sma 1,
Is sought, admir'd, and read by all.
How happy thus on earth to stav,
The planets keeping him in pay-
And when 'tis time to post away,

THE NEW ENGLAND SABBATH-DAY CHASE.

(Written under the Character of Hezekiah Salem.) On a fine Sunday morning I mounted my steed, And southward from Hartford had meant to proceed;

My baggage was stow'd in a cart very snug,
Which Ranger, the gelding, was fated to lug;
With his harness and buckles, he loom'd very grand,
And was drove by young Darby, a lad of the land-
On land or on water, most handy was he;
A jockey on shore, and a sailor at sea;
He knew all the roads, he was so very keen,
And the Bible by heart, at the age of fifteen.

As thus I jogg'd on, to my saddle confined,
With Ranger and Darby a distance behind;
At last in full view of a steeple we came,

With a cock on the spire, (I suppose he was game;
A dove in the pulpit may suit your grave people,
But always remember-a cock on the steeple.)
Cries Darby-" Dear master, I beg you to stay;
Believe me, there's danger in driving this way;
Our deacons on Sundays have power to arrest
And lead us to church-if your honor thinks best:
Though still I must do them the justice to tell,
They would choose you should pay them the fine-
full as well."

The fine (said I), Darby, how much may it beA shilling or sixpence? Why, now let me see, Three shillings are all the small pence that remain, And to change a half joe would be rather PROFANE. Is it more than three shillings, the fine that you speak on?

What say you, good Darby, will that serve the deacon?

"Three shillings!" (cried Darby) "why, muster, you're jesting!—

Let us luff while we can, and make sure of our westing

Forty shillings, excuse me, is too much to pay.
It would take my month's wages-that's all I've to

say.

By taking this road that inclines to the right,
The squire and the sexton may bid us good night:
If once to old Ranger I give up the rein
The parson himself may pursue us in vain."

"Not I, my good Darby (I answer'd the lad), Leave the church on the left! they would think we

were mad.

I would sooner rely on the heels of my steed,
And pass by them all, like a Jehu indeed:
As long as I'm able to lead in the race,
Old Ranger, the gelding, will go a good pace;
As the deacon pursues, he will fly like a swallow,
And you in the cart must undoubtedly follow."
Then approaching the church, as we pass'd by the
door

The sexton peep'd out, with a saint or two more,
A deacon came forward and waved us his hat,
A signal to drop him some money-mind that!-
"Now, Darby, (I whispered) be ready to skip.
Ease off the curb bridle-give Ranger the whip:
While you have the rear, and myself lead the way,
No doctor or deacon shall catch us to-day."
By this time the deacon had mounted his
pony,
And chased for the sake of our souls and-our money:
The saint, as he followed, cried-" Stop them, hal-
loo !"

As swift as he followed, as swiftly we flew.

Ah, master! (said Darby) I very much fear We must drop him some money to check his career; He is gaining upon us and waves with his hat

There's nothing, dear master, will stop him but that.
Remember the Beaver (you well know the fable),
Who flying the hunters as long as he's able,
When he finds that his efforts can nothing avail,
But death and the puppies are close at his tail,
Instead of desponding at such a dead lift,
He bites off their object, and makes a free gift.
Since fortune all hope of escaping denies,
Better give them a little than lose the whole prize."
But scarce had he spoke, when we came to a place
Whose muddy condition concluded the chase.
Down settled the cart, and old Ranger stuck fast.
Aha! (said the saint), have I catch'd ye at last?

*

Cætera desunt.

NEW ENGLAND AND NEW YORK.

These exiles were form'd in a whimsical mould, And were aw'd by their priests, like the Hebrews of old;

Disclaim'd all pretences to jesting and laughter,
And sigh'd their lives through, to be happy hereafter.
On a crown immaterial their hearts were intent,
They look'd towards Zion, wherever they went,
Did all things in hopes of a future reward,

And worry'd mankind-for the sake of the Lord.
With rigour excessive they strengthen'd their reign,
Their laws were conceiv'd in the ill-natur'd strain,
With mystical meanings the saint was perplext,
And the flesh and the devil were slain by a text.
The body was scourg'd for the good of the soul,
All folly discourag'd by peevish controul,
A knot on the head was the sign of no grace,
And the Pope and his comrade were pictur'd in lace.
A stove in their churches, or pews lin'd with green,
Were horrid to think of, much less to be seen,
Their bodies were warm'd with the linings of love,
And the fire was sufficient that flash'd from above.
"Twas a crime to assert that the moon was opaque,
To say the earth mov'd, was to merit the stake;
And he that could tell an eclipse was to be,
In the college of Satan had took his degree.
On Sundays their faces were dark as a cloud-
The road to the meeting was only allow'd,
And those they caught rambling, on business or
pleasure,

Were sent to the stocks, to repent at their leisure.
This day was the mournfullest day in the week-
Except on religion, none ventur'd to speak-
This day was the day to examine their lives,
To clear off old scores, and to preach to their wives.
In the school of oppression though woefully taught,
"Twas only to be the oppressors they sought;
All, all but themselves were be-devill'd and blind,
And their narrow-soul'd creed was to serve all

mankind.

This beautiful system of nature below

They neither consider'd, nor wanted to know,
And call'd it a dog-house wherein they were pent,
Unworthy themselves, and their mighty descent.
They never perceiv'd that in Nature's wide plan
There must be that whimsical creature call'd MAN,
Far short of the rank he affects to attain,
Yet a link in its place, in creation's vast chain.

Thus, feuds and vexations distracted their reign,
(And perhaps a few vestiges still may remain)
But time has presented an offspring as bold,
Less free to believe, and more wise than the old.

Their phantoms, their wizzards, their witches are fled

Matthew Paris's story with horror is read-
His daughters, and all the enchantments they bore-
And the demon, that pinch'd them, is heard of no

more.

Their taste for the fine arts is strangely increas'd,
And Latin's no longer a mark of the Beast:
Mathematics, at present, a farmer may know,
Without being hang'd for connections below.
Proud, rough, INDEPENDENT, undaunted and free,
And patient of hardships, their task is the sea,
Their country too barren their wish to attain,
They make up the loss by exploring the main.
Wherever bright Phoebus awakens the gales
I see the bold YANKEES expanding their sails,
Throughout the wide ocean pursuing their schemes,
And chacing the whales on its uttermost streams.
No climate, for them, is too cold or too warm,
They reef the broad canvas, and fight with the
storm;

In war with the foremost their standards display,
Or glut the loud cannon with death, for the fray.
No valour in fable their valour exceeds,
Their spirits are fitted for desperate deeds;
No rivals have they in our annals of fame,
Or if they are rivall'd, 'tis YORK has the claim.

Inspir'd at the sound, while the name she repeats,
Bold fancy conveys me to Hudson's retreats
Ah, sweet recollection of juvenile dreams

In the groves, and the forests that skirted his streams!
How often, with rapture, those streams were survey'd
When, sick of the city, I flew to the shade-
How often the bard and the peasant shall mourn
Ere those groves shall revive, or those shades shall
return!

Not a hill, but some fortress disfigures it round! And ramparts are rais'd where the cottage was found!

The plains and the vallies with ruin are spread,
With graves in abundance, and bones of the dead.
The first that attempted to enter this streight
(In anno one thousand six hundred and eight)
Was HUDSON (the same that we mention'd before,
Who was lost in the gulf that he went to explore.)
For a sum that they paid him (we know not how
much)

This captain transferr'd all his right to the Dutch; For the time has been here, (to the world be it known,)

When all a man sail'd by, or saw, was his own.
The Dutch on their purchase sat quietly down,
And fix'd on an island to lay out a town;
They modell'd their streets from the horns of a ram;
And the name that best pleas'd them was New

Amsterdam.

They purchas'd large tracts from the Indians for beads,

And sadly tormented some runaway Swedes,
Who (none knows for what) from their country had
flown

To live here in peace, undisturb'd and alone.
NEW BELGIA, the Dutch call'd their province, be sure,
But names never yet made possession secure,
For Charley (the second that honour'd the name)
Sent over a squadron, asserting his claim.

* See Neal's History of New England.

(Had his sword and his title been equally slender,
In vain had they summon'd Mynheer to surrender)
The soil they demanded, or threaten'd their worst,
Insisting that Cabot had look'd at it first.

The want of a squadron to fall on their rear
Made the argument perfectly plain to Mynheer—
Force ended the contest-the right was a sham,
And the Dutch were sent packing to hot SURINAM.
'Twas hard to be thus of their labours depriv'd,
But the age of republics had not yet arriv'd-
Fate saw-tho' no wizzard could tell them as much—
That the crown, in due time, was to fare like the
Dutch.

THE ROYAL APPRENTICE: A LONDON STORY.

A widow who some miles from London lived,
Far in a vale obscure, of little note,
With much ado a poor subsistence gain'd

From a spinning-wheel, that just her living brought.

A son she had, a rude, mischievous wight,
Who, now to fifteen years or more arrived,
Would neither dig nor thresh, nor hold the plough,
But simply by the poor old woman lived.
Joan thought it time this lazy, lounging lad,
Should learn some trade, since country work he

hated:

Jerry, said she, to London you must go,
And learn to work; for this you was created.
While tarrying here, you eat up all my kail,
Scarce leave a turnip-top-my hens you kill,
And nothing earn. My wheel alone goes round,
But time must come, my boy, when stop it will.
Your legs and arms grow every day more strong;
For height you shortly will be call'd a man:
Not so with me-I am hastening down the hill,
And soon must mix with dust, where I began!
Jerry with tears received the good advice;
So, up to London town next week they went.
Now choose, said Joan, the trade you fancy best
For to some trade you must and shall be sent.
So round he stroll'd through many a street and alley,
Saw blacksmiths here, like Vulcan, wielding sledges;
There tailors sitting cross-legg'd on a board,
Next barbers whetting up their razors' edges.
Now saw a cobbler cobbling in his stall,
Then weaver busy with his warp and woof;
Now mason raising high some lordling's wall,
Or carpenter, engaged upon a roof.

These pleased him not. All this was hard-earn'd cash.
Tight work he thought, in one disguise or other.
He look'd at labor-saw it was not good-
Or only good as managed by his mother.

He shook his head, as if he meant to say,
All this is worse than threshing-learn a trade!
Something I'll learn that's fine, genteel, and airy,
For common work these hands were never made.
At last he chanced to stray where dwells the king-
Great George the Third, in all his pomp and glare;
Well now, thought Jerry, here must live a man
That has a trade would suit me to a hair.

There's little doing-all is brisk and gay,
And dainty dishes go a begging here:
Some seem to work, yet all their work is play,
I will be bound at least for seven long year.

So back he came where honest Joan was waiting.
Well, Jerry, tell me, what's the trade you pitch o..?
Mother, said he, there is but one I like,

Or which a man is likely to get rich on.