The dark chiefs yelled alarm,--and swore
The white man's blood should flow,
And his hewn bones should bleach their shore,-
Two hundred years ago!
But lo! the warrior's eye grew dim,—
His arm was left alone;
The still, black wilds which sheltered him,
No longer were his own!
Time fled, and on the hallowed ground
His highest pine lies low,-
And cities swell where forests frowned
Two hundred years ago!
Oh! stay not to recount the tale,—
'Twas bloody, and 't is past;
The firmest cheek might well grow pale,
To hear it to the last.
The God of heaven, who prospers us,
Could bid a nation grow,
And shield us from the red man's curse,
Two hundred years ago!
Come, then,-great shades of glorious men,
From your still glorious grave!
Look on your own proud land again,
O bravest of the brave!
We call you from each mouldering tomb,
And each blue wave below,
To bless the world ye snatched from doom,
Two hundred years ago!
Then to your harps! - yet louder, -higher
And pour your strains along,-
And smite again each quivering wire,
In all the pride of song!
Shout for those godlike men of old,
Who, daring storm and foe,
On this blessed soil their anthem rolled
Two hundred years ago!
THE hunter went forth with his dog and gan
In the earliest glow of the golden sun;
The trees of the forest bent over his way,
In the changeful colors of autumn gay;
For a frost had fallen, the night before,
On the quiet greenness which nature wore
A bitter frost!-for the night was chill,
And starry and dark, and the wind was still;
And so, when the sun looked out on the hills,
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills,
The unvaried green of the landscape fled,
And a wild, rich robe was given instead.
We know not whither the hunter went,
Or how the last of his days was spent;
For the noon drew nigh; but he came not back
Weary and faint, from his forest-track;
And his wife sat down to her frugal board,
Beside the empty seat of her lord.
And the day passed on, and the sun came down
To the hills of the west like an angel's crown;
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill,
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill,
Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled
All over the west like a wave of gold.
Yet he came not back-though the stars gave forth
Their wizard light to the silent earth;
And his wife looked out from the lattice dim,
In the earnest manner of fear, for him;
And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood
To welcome his father back from the wood!
He came not back-yet they found him soon,
In the burning light of the morrow's noon,
In the fixed and visior less sleep of death,
Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath,
And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet,
Crouched silent and sad at the hunter's feet.
He slept in death!-but his sleep was one
Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon :
For his brow was black, and his open eye
Was red with the sign of agony;
And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim, That an evil deed had been done on him.
They buried him where his fathers laid,
By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade;
Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead,
And beldames muttered while prayers were said,
And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed
The damp earth down on the hunter's breast.
The seasons passed; and the autumn rain
And the colored forest returned again:
'Twas the very eve that the hunter died;
The winds wailed over the bare hill-side,
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook
Their red leaves over the swollen brook.
There came a sound on the night-air then.
Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men;
And louder and shriller it rose again,
Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain;
And trembled alike the timid and brave,
For they knew that it came from the hunter grave!
And, every year, when autumn flings
Its beautiful robe on created things,
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain,
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again,
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth
Like the howl of a demon, struggling forth!
I LOVE the hearth where evening brings
Her loved ones from their daily tasks,-
Where Virtue spreads her spotless wings,
And Vice, fell serpent! never basks;
Where sweetly rings upon the ear
The blooming daughter's gentle song,
Like heavenly music whispered near,
While thrilling hearts the notes prolong.
For there the father sits in joy,
And there the cheerful mother smiles, And there the laughter-loving boy,
With sportive tricks, the eve beguiles; And love, beyond what worldlings know, Like sunlight on the purest foam, Descends, and with its cheering glow Lights up the Christian's happy home. Contentment spreads her holy calm Around a resting-place so bright, And gloomy Sorrow finds a balm In gazing at so fair a sight; The world's cold selfishness departs, And Discord rears its front no more; There Pity's pearly tear-drop starts, And Charity attends the door.
No biting scandal, fresh from hell,
Grates on the ear, or scalds the tongue;
There kind remembrance loves to dwell,
And virtue's meed is sweetly sung;
And human nature soars on high,
Where heavenly spirits love to roam,
And Vice, as stalks it rudely by,
Admires the Christian's happy home.
Oft have I joined the lovely ones
Around the bright and cheerful hearth,
With father, mother, daughters, sons,
The brightest jewels of the earth;
And while the world grew dark around,
And Fashion called her senseless throng
I've fancied it was holy ground,
And that fair girl's a seraph's song.
And swift as circles fade away,
Upon the bosom of the deep,
When pebbles, tossed by boys at play,
Disturb its still and glassy sleep,
The how have sped in
pure delight,
And wandering feet forgot to roam,
While waved the banners of the night
Above the Christian's happy home.
The rose that blooms in Sharon's vale,
And scents the purple morning's breath,
May in the shades of evening fail.
And bend its crimson head in death; And earth's bright ones amid the tomb May like the blushing rose decay; But still the mind, the mind shall bloom When time and nature fade away.
And there, amid a holier sphere,
Where the archangel bows in awe,
Where sits the King of glory near,
And executes his perfect law,
The ransomed of the earth, with joy,
Shall in their robes of beauty come,
And find a rest, without alloy,
Amid the Christian's happy home.
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