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THE INDIAN HUNTER.

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in,
And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin,
And the ploughshare was in its furrow left,
Where the stubble land had been lately cleft,
An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow,

Looked down where the valley lay stretched below.

He was a stranger, and all that day

Had been out on the hills, a perilous way,
But the foot of the deer was far and fleet,
And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet,
And bitter feelings passed o'er him then,
As he stood by the populous haunts of men.

The winds of Autumn came over the woods
As the sun stole out from their solitudes,
The moss was white on the maple's trunk,
And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk,
And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red
Were the tree's withered leaves round it shed.

The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
And the sickle cut down the yellow corn-
The mower sung loud by the meadow side,
Where the mists of evening were spreading wide,
And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.

Then the hunter turned away from that scene,
Where the home of his fathers once had been,
And heard by the distant and measured stroke,
That the woodman hewed down the giant oak,

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THE INDIAN HUNTER.

And burning thoughts flashed o'er his mind
Of the white man's faith, and love unkind.

The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white
A footstep was heard in the rustling brake,
Where the beech o'ershadow'd the misty lake,
And a mourning voice and a plunge from shore ;-
And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.

When years passed on, by that still lake-side
The fisher looked down through the silver tide,
And there on the smooth yellow sand displayed,
A skeleton wasted and white was laid,

And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow,
That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS.

BY W. BRYANT.

It is the spot I came to seek,

My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot, I know it well

Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river side;

I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide;

The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

BURYING-PLACE OF THE INDIANS.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,

And labourers turn the crumbling ground
Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot on its way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade,
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,
The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worshiped the God of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows, lie

The weapons of his rest;

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

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BURYING-PLACE OF THE INDIANS.

Ah! little thought the strong and brave,
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth;
Or the young wife, that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth,

That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us-aye-like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go
Towards the setting day,-

Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind,

Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed;
The melody of waters filled

The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more,
The springs are silent in the sun,
The rivers, by the blackening shore,
With lessening current run;

The realm our tribes are crushed to get,
May be a barren desert yet.

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious Main!
Pale glist'ning pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells.
Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain,
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the Depths have more !-What wealth untold,

Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,

Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main! Earth claims not these again!

Yet more, the Depths have more !-Thy waves have rolled

Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry!

Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play,

Man yields them to decay!

Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more!
High hearts, and brave, are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,-
The battle thunders will not break their rest.

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave !—
Give back the true and brave!

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