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"Vain, foolish hope! how could I look upon thy glorious

form,

And think that e'er the time might come when thou wouldst cease to charm?

For ne'er till then wilt thou be freed from beauty's magic

art,

Or cease to prize a sunny smile beyond a faithful heart.

"In vain from memory's darken'd scroll would other thoughts

erase

The loathing that was in thine éye, where'er it met my face: Oh! I would give the fairest realm, beneath the all-seeing

sun,

To win but such a form as thou mightst love to look upon.

"Wo, wo for woman's weary lot if beauty be not hers;
Vainly within her gentle breast affection wildly stirs;
And bitterly will she deplore, amid her sick heart's dearth,
The hour that fix'd her fearful doom-a helot from her birth.

"I would thou hadst been cold and stern,-the pride of my high race

Had taught me then from my young heart thine image to efface;

But surely even love's sweet tones could ne'er have power to

bless

My bosom with such joy as did thy pitying tenderness.

"Alas! it is a heavy task to curb the haughty soul,

And bid th' unbending spirit bow that never knew control; But harder still when thus the heart against itself must rise, And struggle on, while every hope that nerved the warfare dies.

"Yet all this have I borne for thee-aye, for thy sake I learn'd

The gentleness of thought and word which once my proud heart spurn'd;

The treasures of an untouch'd heart, the wealth of love's

rich mine,

These are the offerings that I laid upon my idol's shrine.

"In vain I breathed my vows to heaven, 't was mockery of

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In vain I knelt before the cross, I saw but Louis there :

To him I gave the worship that I should have paid my God, But oh! should his have been the hand to wield the avenging rod?"

STANZAS.

OH! knowest thou, dear one, the love of youth
With its wayward fancies, its untried truth;
Yet cloudless and warm as the sunny ray
That opens the flowers of a summer's day,
Unfolding the passionate thoughts that lie
'Mid feelings pure as an angel's sigh;
Till the loftiest strength of our nature wakes
As an infant giant from slumber breaks:
Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be?
In earlier days such was mine for thee.

Oh, knowest thou, dear one, of woman's love
With its faith that woes more deeply prove;
Its fondness wide as the limitless wave,
And chainless by aught than the silent grave;
With devotion as humble as that which brings
To his idol the Indian's offerings;

Yet proud as that which the priestess feels,

When she nurses the flame of the shrine while she kneels :

Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be?

Such ever has been in my heart for thee.

Oh knowest thou the love of a poet's soul,
Of the mind that from heaven its brightness stole,
When the gush of song, like the life-blood springs
Uncheck'd from the heart, and the spirit's wings
Are nerved anew in a loftier flight

To seek for its idol a crown of light;

When the visions that wake beneath fancy's beam,
But serve to brighten an earthly dream:

Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be?
Such long has been in my heart for thee.

Oh, tell me, dear, can such love decay
Like the sapless weed in the morning ray?
Can the love of earlier, brighter years
Be chased away like an infant's tears?
Can the long tried faith of a woman's heart

Like a summer bird from its nest depart?
Can affection nursed within fancy's bowers,
Find deadly herbs 'mid those fragrant flowers?
Oh no, beloved one, it cannot be :
Such end awaits not my love for thee.

Youth's pure fresh feelings have faded now;
But not less warm is love's summer glow;
Dark frowns may wither, unkindness blight
The heart where thou art the only light;
And coldness may freeze the wild gush of song,
Or chill the spirit once tameless and strong;
And the pangs of neglected love may prey
Too fatally, dear, on this fragile clay;

But never, Oh! never beloved, can it be

That my heart should forget its deep fondness for thee.

HENRY WHITING,

A NATIVE of Lancaster, Massachusetts, is now a Major in the army of the United States. He is the author of Ontwa, the Son of the Forest, an Indian tale, published in 1822. It was written in the wilderness, and in the huts of the savages, during the military service of the author on the western frontier. It contains many interesting and spirited descriptions of Indian manners, and fine sketches of local scenery.

ONTWA.

FAR up the lengthen'd bay we urge,
To where the triple streams converge
And on its ready head distil

The tribute sent from distant hill-
Now mounting up the sinuous bed
Of Wagouche to its marshy head,

We toil against the foamy leaps—
Or wind where still the current sleeps
'Mid seas of grain, the boon of heaven
To sterile climes in bounty given.
At last we reach the narrow mound-
The wide diverging waters bound-
Where, almost mingling as they glide
In smooth and counter-current tide,
Two rivers turn in sever'd race,
And flow, with still enlarging space,
Till one rolls down beneath the north
And pours its icy torrent forth,
While-glowing as it hurries on-
The other seeks a southern zone.
Here, as the heaven dissolves in showers,
The boon on either stream it pours,
And the same sunbeams, as they stray,
On both with light impartial play;
But onward as each current hies,
New climes and sunder'd tropics rise,
And, urging, growing, as they run,
Each follows down a varying sun,
Till, o'er her tepid Delta spread,
The Michi-sipi bows her head,-
While Lawrence vainly strives to sweep
His gelid surface to the deep.

Scarce did the low and slender neck
The progress of our passage check;
-And ere our bark-which, dripping, bore
The marks of rival waters o'er-
Had lost in air its humid stain,

"T was launch'd, and floating on again--
'Mid isles in willow'd beauty dress'd
That deck'd Ouisconsin's yellow breast.
The stream ran fast, and soon the scene
Changed into frowns its smiles serene.
Nature arose in troubled mood,
And hills and cliffs, of aspect rude,
Hoary with barrenness, save where
The stunted cedar hung in air
Fix'd in the rocks that beetled high,
Darken'd the current rushing by-
Oft choked and broken in its pass
By mighty fragments' clogging mass,
Sever'd, mayhap, by bolt of heaven,
And down the steep in thunder driven.

Our rapid bark, ere twice the day
Had shone upon its downward way,
Turn'd its light prow, in upward course,
To stem the Michi-sipi's force-

Where her broad wave rolls on amain,
Sever'd by thousand isles' in twain,
And giant cliffs, with theatening frown,
Conduct her prison'd current down.
Full many a stream, on either side,
Through the cleft walls sends forth its tide,
Descending far from distant plains,
Where in its gloom the Prairie reigns,
Seated in grandeur on its throne
Amid a desert world alone.

Oft up the steeps, by rugged path
Sloped by the winter torrent's wrath,
We toil'd, where high the sumach hung,
And tendral vines around it clung,
Checking our way with woven bowers,
Or twining over head their flowers;
While higher still, in dizzier break,
The trembling aspen tree would shake-
And oft the wand'ring eye would meet
With sparkling crystals 'neath the feet,
Rudely enchased on some dark stone
Shining with lustre not its own.
Hard the ascent, but fair the sight
That spread beneath the lofty height,
Where river, isles, and meadows drew
Their varied pictures to the view,-
Or would the downward eye forbear
To dwell on scene so soft and fair,
'T was but to raise a level glance
And all was rude and bold at once,

Where the dark Bluffs, half bare, half crown'd,
Arose in gloomy sternness 'round.

For many a day the stream we stemm'd,
Through isles that still its bosom gemm'd,
While oft, where back the cliff's retired,
The waving plain, in green attired,
Smiled in the dark and deep recess,
Like guarded spot in wilderness;
(Where Hamadryades might sport,
Or fairies hold their dewy court.)
At last our bark, 'mid eddies toss'd
And foam that all the wave emboss'd,

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