With its unnumbered islands there encircled
By foaming surges, that the mounting eagle,
Lifting his fearless pinion through the clouds
To bathe in purest sunbeams, seemed an ospray
Hovering above his prey; and yon tall pines,
Their tops half mantled in a snowy veil,
A frigate with full canvas, bearing on

To conquest and to glory. But even these

Had round them something of the lofty air

In which they moved; not like to things of earth, But heightened, and made glorious, as became Such pomp and splendor.

Who can tell the brightness

That every moment caught a newer glow,
That circle, with its centre like the heart
Of elemental fire, and spreading out

In floods of liquid gold on the blue sky

And on the opaline waves, crowned with a rainbow
Bright as the arch that bent above the throne
Seen in a vision by the holy man

In Patmos! who can tell how it ascended,

And flowed more widely o'er that lifted ocean

Till instantly the unobstructed sun

Rolled up his sphere of fire, floating away,-
Away in a pure ether, far from earth,

And all its clouds,-and pouring forth unbounded
His arrowy brightness! From that burning centre
At once there ran along the level line
Of that imagined sea a stream of gold,—
Liquid and flowing gold, that seemed to tremble
Even with a furnace heat,-on to the point
Whereon I stood. At once that sea of vapor
Parted away, and, melting into air,
Rose round me; and I stood involved in light,
As if a flame had kindled up, and wrapped me

In its innocuous blaze. Away it rolled,

Wave after wave. They climbed the highest rocks,
Poured over them in surges, and then rushed

Down glens and valleys, like a wintry torrent
Dashed instant to the plain. It seemed a moment,
And they were gone, as if the touch of fire
At once dissolved them. Then I found myself
Midway in air; ridge after ridge below
Descended, with their opulence of woods,
Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake
Flashed in the sun, and from it wound a line,
Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge
Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks

Was round me,-but below, how beautiful,
How rich the plain! a wilderness of groves
And ripening harvests; while the sky of June,
The soft blue sky of June, and the cool air,
That makes it then a luxury to live,

Only to breathe it, and the busy echo

Of cascades, and the voice of mountain brooks,
Stole with such gentle meanings to my heart,
That where I stood seemed heaven.

And Chocorua is the only mountain whose peak is crowned with a legend. Would that the vigorous pen which has saved for us many of the fragmentary traditions of the early Indian life in New England, and set them to the music of such terse and vigorous lines as "The Bridal of Pennacook," "Mogg Megone," and "The Funeral Tree of the Sokokis," had enshrined thus the story of Chocorua's Curse, and in this way given the mountain added glory in the landscape of New Hampshire! Mr. Whittier has not told it in verse; but our readers will be glad that we can give it to them in such vivid prose as the following, by Mrs. Child :

"A small colony of hardy pioneers had settled at the base of this mountain. Intelligent, independent men, impatient of restraint, they had shunned the more thickly-settled portions of the country, and retired into this remote part of New Hampshire. But there was one master-spirit among them who was capable of a higher destiny than he ever fulfilled.

6

"The consciousness of this had stamped something of proud humility on the face of Cornelius Campbell,-something of a haughty spirit, strongly curbed by circumstances he could not control, and at which he seemed to murmur. He assumed no superiority; but, unconsciously, he threw around him the spell of intellect, and his companions felt, they knew not why, that he was among them, but not of them.' His stature was gigantic, and he had the bold, quick tread of one who had wandered frequently and fearlessly among the terrible hiding-places of nature. His voice was harsh, but his whole countenance possessed singular capabilities for tenderness of expression; and sometimes, under the gentle influence of domestic excite

ment, his hard features would be rapidly lighted up, seeming like the sunshine flying over the shaded fields in an April day.

"His companion was one calculated to excite and retain the deep, strong energies of manly love. She had possessed extraordinary beauty, and had, in the full maturity of an excellent judgment, relinquished several splendid alliances, and incurred her father's displeasure, for the sake of Cornelius Campbell. Had political circumstances proved favorable, his talents and ambition would unquestionably have worked out a path to emolument and fame; but he had been a zealous and active enemy of the Stuarts, and the restoration of Charles II. was the death-warrant of his hopes. Immediately flight became necessary, and America was the chosen place of refuge. His adherence to Cromwell's party was not occasioned by religious sympathy, but by political views too liberal and philosophical for the state of the people; therefore, Cornelius Campbell sought a home with our forefathers, and, being of a proud nature, he withdrew with his family to the solitary place we have mentioned.

"A very small settlement in such a remote place was, of course, subject to inconvenience and occasional suffering. From the Indians they received neither injury nor insult. No cause of quarrel had ever arisen; and, although their frequent visits were sometimes troublesome, they never had given indications of jealousy or malice. Chocorua was a prophet among them, and, as such, an object of peculiar respect. He had a mind which education and motive would have nerved with giant strength; but, growing up in savage freedom, it wasted itself in dark, fierce, ungovernable passions. There was something fearful in the quiet haughtiness of his lips; it seemed so like slumbering power-too proud to be lightly roused, and too implacable to sleep again. In his small, black, fiery eye, expression lay coiled up like a beautiful snake. The white people knew that his hatred would be terrible; but they had never provoked it, and even the children became too much accustomed to him to fear him.

"Chocorua had a son, nine or ten years old, to whom Caroline Campbell had occasionally made such gaudy presents as were likely

to attract his savage fancy. This won the child's affections, so that he became a familiar visitant, almost an inmate of their dwelling; and, being unrestrained by the courtesies of civilized life, he would inspect everything, and taste of everything which came in his way. Some poison, prepared for a mischievous fox, which had long troubled the little settlement, was discovered and drunk by the Indian boy, and he went home to his father to sicken and die. From that moment jealousy and hatred took possession of Chocorua's soul. He never told his suspicions; he brooded over them in secret, to nourish the deadly revenge he contemplated against Cornelius Campbell.

"The story of Indian animosity is always the same. Cornelius Campbell left his hut for the fields early one bright, balmy morning in June. Still a lover, though ten years a husband, his last look was turned towards his wife, answering her parting smile; his last action a kiss for each of his children. When he returned to dinner, they were dead-all dead! and their disfigured bodies too cruelly showed that an Indian's hand had done the work!

"In such a mind grief, like all other emotions, was tempestuous. Home had been to him the only verdant spot in the desert of life. In his wife and children he had garnered up all his heart; and now that they were torn from him, the remembrance of their love clung to him like the death-grapple of a drowning man, sinking him down into darkness and death. This was followed by a calm a thousand times more terrible-the creeping agony of despair, that brings with it no power of resistance.

'It was as if the dead could feel

The icy worm around him steal.'

"Such, for many days, was the state of Cornelius Campbell. Those who knew and reverenced him feared that the spark of reason was forever extinguished. But it rekindled again, and with it came a wild, demoniac spirit of revenge. The death-groan of Chocorua would make him smile in his dreams; and, when he waked, death seemed too pitiful a vengeance for the anguish that was eating into his very soul.