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If i' TO THOMAS MOORE, THE MOST rOPOLAK, MOST POWERFUL, ANI> MOST r.VT;:l 'TIC POET OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURV, WUOSB MAGIC KtWUEaS HAVE VIBRATED TO THE HEARTS OF NATIONS, THESE POEMS APtE DEDICATED, BY ms MOST ARDENT ACMIUER, ADAM KIDD MoKTREAL, January 25, ISSO. '/ ' Y/c 3 W: CONTENTS. Poge The ITuuoN Chief, , ]a To Clara, ....,,.... 13] To Miss E R , . . . , ,133 My Irish Home, ..,..,...,...,, 134 To the Countess of D e, ....,,.,,.., 135 Monody, to the Shade of Lord Byron, , , 13G To Miss , . , 140 To the Rev. Polyphemus, 141 To Sophia, 1 49 My Brother's Grave, I53 » «......., 154 The Canadian Girl, 155 Spencer- Wood, 157 T« , . .-'■ 160 Napoleon in Exile jgj^ To Mary, ^4 ■Vpostrophe, to the Harp of Dennis Hanipson, iQt\ To Mis? Evclecn . ' " ' IG9 VI Page To tlje Memory of Henry R. Synies, 170 <;ttthleen, 17'2 Sacred Melody 175 The Fdiiy-Boat, ... 176 To , a great poetical plagiaiist, ...... 179 A Fugitive Garland, 180 To 18» To Miss M G , 184 The Broken Heart, 186 Epitaph, on the Rev. 189 To Miss Susan B s, 190 laiproinptu, to S C — dm — n, Esq., 193 Sophia's Reply, 195 To Mary, 197 Rangleawe, the roving Bard, 199 Monody, to the memory of the Right Hon. George Canning, . 202 Stanzas, to the memory of a Friend, 204 Elegy, on the death of Captain J. M 'Michael, 207 The Hibernian Solitary, 209 The Chiming Bell, 212 Stanzas, to the Lord Bishop of Quebec, . . . . . , . 214 I Page 170 171 175 . 176 . 179 180 isa 184 186 189 190 193 195 197 199 202 204 207 209 212 214 \- qu m as PREFACE. At a time when Poetry lias received the iiighest polish, from the master hands of a Byron and a Moore, it seems ahnost rashness in a youthful hard to attempt to cull, from the banks of Helicon, even one leaf of the immortal baccaliay to adorn his aspiring brow — while the conse- quences may prove as serious before the ordeal of Criticism as the efforts of Pliny, who perished in the fire of Vesu- vius, while searching into the cause of the beauteous, but destructive element. The little birch canoe, in which I have safely glided through the tranquil lakes of the Canadas, could not se- curely venture on the boiling surge, and foaming breakers, over which Childe Harold and Lalla Rookh triumphantly rode in their magnificent Gondolas. X It is noi howevor, my intention to trouble the read- ers ol' the '* HuKON Chief " witli useless apologies for the defiects that it may possess, knowing that a poem of such length can scarcely be free from errors ; and, parti- cularly, when written, wiilx^^^.t much opportunity for cor- rection, on the inner rind of birch bark, during my travels through the immense forests of America, and under many difficulties and privntions, arising from causes that I must, for the present, avoid mentioning. The innocent, and unassuming, iVieiidly treatment that I experienced among the Indians, together with the melancholy recital of the deep wrongs which they received from those calling them- selves " Chrktiatisy >nduced me to undertake this dra- matic poem. From the days of the American Revolution until this very hour, the poor Indians have been so cruelly treated, and driven from their homes and hunting-grounds, by the boasted freemen of the United States, that the Mohicans, the Naragansetts, the Delawares, and others, once powerful Tribes, have now become totally extinct— while Al d| d< m •f le tliu read- >ologies for a poem of and, paiti- ity for cor- niy travels ider matiy lat I must, cent, and id amonir al of the ng them^ this dra- until this treated, i> by the HICANS, ^Sf once — while XI the remaining Nations are daily dwindling away, and in a few years hence will scarcely leave a memorial to per- petuate their names, as the once mighty rulers of the vast American regions. I am fully aware, that the "Huron Chief" will draw on me the censure of many — but this is no consi- deration, since I can fairly and honestly plead the correct- ness of my observations. Many of the Indian Tribes have emigrated into Canada — and are now prospering, and hap- pily enjoying the manly protection of the British Govern- ment. The miscellaneous poems, which follow the '' Huron Chief," with the exception of the one to Polyphemus, were written for amusement, during the leisure hours ne- cessarily abstracted from a long round of professional studies, the benefits of which I have never yet reaped, owing to an accidental fall from the cloud-capped brows of a dangerous Moui.vain, over which 1 had heedlessly wandered, with all that open cpvelessness which is so pe- culiarly the characteristic of poetic feeling. Xll In the lines addresbed to the Rev. Polyphemus, per- haps I have been too severe, having written them at a mo- ment when my every feeling was deeply touched by a sad and a serious disappointment. Let such be my apology ! The liberal and friendly encouragement with which my first attempt has been so highly favoured, and parti- cularly in the Canadas— fifteen hundred copies being al- ready called for — will induce me to follow up, in a more extensive volume, the Tales and Traditions of the Indians, which I have personally collected among them^ together with local descriptions of the numerous cascades, stupen- dous cataracts, and majestic scenery of the country, which for beauty and grandeur remain unrivalled in ^-he universe. The poem of the Huron Chief has mado such an impression on the Indian warriors to whom it has oeen communicated, that it will shortly be translated into their respective tongues, by Sawennowane, and other Chiefs, equiUy celebrated and intelligent, who speak and .vrite several languages « lemus, per- ni at a mo- 2(1 by a sad ' apology ! ith which and parti- being al- n a more Indians, together stupen- fi which niverse. iuch an IS (leen o their Chiefs, '.vrife # THE HURON CHIEF. On Huron's banks, one summer-day, When all things bloomed with beauty gay, I wandered undisturbed and free, Nor heard a sound, save wood-doves cooing. Or birds that tapped the hollow tree, Where owlets sat, their play-mates wooing, And harmony had filled the throng Of pleasure, as I moved along. ''yflf \ tM* 19 And almost plays the lover's part, When one like this, its pulse awaken, With all the thrillings of the hearf; In solitude — alone — fbrsalcen, To hear — to see — and not be seen — The sorrows of an Indian Queen. Now, all around is hushed and still, Save the notes of Whip-poor-will — And now deep in the tranquil lake, I see a sky of blue reflected — Without one curl its orb to shake. As if iEolus had neglected, To rouse it into life again. But left it bound in summer's chain. So calm, so still, no living thing, Was heard, but wild bees on the win^, Flitting around from leaf to flower. In all the luxury of roving, «*a«-,n^f> Drinking up tlic honey- shower — Just hkc the tender youth when loving- Yet never satisfied to stay, With the rose, even one short day. 1 1^ Here, now T said, this silent hour, Invites me to her lonely bower, I will advance — she cannot fear — And thus I reasoned, one short minute— My very look, must soon appear, And show her there's no danger in it ; But ere the words had left my tongue, My feet by impulse moved along. And as I now had stepped unseen, Before the arbour of the Queen, Again I paused, and looked again, As if to sue for invitation, But the load of sorrow's chain, JStill bound her in the same fixed station; •'^'Jifi(f„.-:^f' Like a statue, Ibnned of grief — She mourned — she wept her Huron Chief'. Then ean it be that I should dare, Her pangs of sorrow lierc to share, Or even venture to obtrude, On pure affection's burst of sadness, Poured forth in deepest solitude ; The act would be fiir more than madncss- I will not — cannot now destroy, The bliss of tears — oft felt like joy, I now resolved my steps to take. Along the windings of the lake, And glad to think I could evade The eyes, I long had wished to gaze on. When from a close, dark tangled shade, A hoary Chief, whom age delays on, Addressed me thus, in accents clear, As if an angel whispered near. ^m.^^ Oi) Stranger ! whither woulcljit thou stray, I wish to guide thy wand'ring feet, Tliis is not the uliite man's way, Another path wc soon shall meet. I'm the Chieftain of tiiid mountain — Times, and sea&ons,* found me here — jNTy drink lias been the crystal fountain — My food the wild moose or the deer. And though much sorrow I have found, Since first the white man touched our shore- Nought here but miseries abound, And pleasures we can taste no more. But tiiough I've shared the worst of ills, The Christian foe-man could devise — it * "I am an tigal Ijcn.lock," saM a d.-.stingu'died Oiiclda Cliief, " the winds of one Limdrcd and twenty ycuis luve wliislkd llirough „jy branciics." \ Q3 Yet, on those wild, untravclled hilli, Of him rU make no sacrifice. My soul disdains a coward's deed— My heart and hand shall freely give, Relief to all who stand in need, While on Lake Huron's banks I live. Thus spoke the noble Indian Sage, As from a grove of infant pine, He stepped, in all the grace of age, And looked as If a saint divine. It His language o'er my feelings stole, Like notes of pleasure on the ear, Or joys flung o'er the drooping soul. When hope itself had ceased to cheer. igh I felt each throb of fear give way, While tracing every line of grief, m That on his withered visage lay, And thus addressed the aged Chief: Sire— I'm not the Indian's foe- No hostile hand I bear to thee : My bosom feels for others' woe, And my affections run as free, As yon clear stream that winds along, The velvet borders of the wood, To mwgie with the mighty throng, Of waters in their destined flood. i am a stranger— here before My feet have never dared to tread, Nor touch the verdure of the shore. Where Huron laves his pebbled bed. But now, since mutual converse brings, Tlie heart's best feel-'ngs purely out, 25 And o'er the soul such candour flings, That we can neither fear nor doubt — Permit me here, to ask the name, Of one who proves so much a friend — Unpurchased by the hope of fame, Or aught that could such worth extend. My name, replied the gentle sage, Is Skenandow— once known afar, When first the white man felt the rage, Of Indians, in defensive war. But here, in converse, while we stood, Shaded from the sunny ray — A youth, emerging f.om the wood, Thus sung his plaintive melody. There is a grief, Beyond relief^ Now pressing on my soul, r, 2G With all the pain, That can remain, In sorrow's tainted bowl. I And I must sup, The baneful cup — Misfortune stamps my lot- Nor will bestow, On me below, One peaceful — little spot ! There was a time, When joys sublime, Beat proudly in my heart— And I could share, Such pleasures, rare, As love, and bliss, impart. But here I stray, From day to day, And pass my hours alone— •""'M«f;.K*>^v''- 1 27 The maidj revered — To me endeared — Is dead !— forever gone ! Now, when the youlh had ceased to sing, And echo brought the Ung'ring tone, Upon the Zephyr's mellowed wing, «< Is dead ! — forever gone ! " The aged Chief resumed again, • The freedom of his gentle speech, As slow we moved across the plain, That winds along the sloping beach. That youth, he said, whose plaintive song. Has just now melted on the ear. As through the woods he strayed along — Nor thought that we were standing near Is one of Sioux' noble race, Who well the battle-axe could wield— ■""■«l|f..4t>^'V' ■ 4 28 Nor would the Indian name disgrace, When honour called hini to the field. Pure, gen rous love, his soul inspired, Fcr Ta-poo-ka,* of raven hair He sought— he gained what he desired - And love the fondest joined the pair. But Fate, that ever loves to throw An evil shade o'er joys like this, Was sure to bring a drop of woe. To mingle with their cup of bliss ! And soon he found, that heart and hand, He fancied his—and his forever- Were, by a father's fixed command, Now destined from him here to sever ! Yet, Ta-poo-ka, full well he knew, Possessed a heart, too pure to dread, ^ * This word requires a slow accent. '"•• •aji.iw,. TliiU aught on earth could it subdue, Till death had wrtipped it with the dead ! But ere the coming of that time, Whicli mutual love had marked to be The witness of such joys sublime, As crown the marriage jubilee — 1 A father's mandate had declared, That she must be another's bride — The day was fixed—all things prepared, To adorn the weddin'? fireside. And now the marriage feast was laid, Midst guests assembled from aflw, Who, having to Manitto* prayed, Salute the beauteous bridal-star. * The Mamtto Is a sort of idol, ivprcscntlr^-, m wood, the head of a ni.ia in miniature, which they alwujs cany about then., cither oi. c3 tl ""«».•.»(>. \ 30 The eve was fine — no breatli to sliake Tlie verdant leaves that o'er them hung- And far across the glassy lake, The moon a path oC light had idling — And all around, the twinkling glow Of fire-flies, that sported near, llluni'd the scene^ above, below, As if the evening's joys to cheer. Eye beamed on eye, while every Chief, Midst laughing looks, soft pleasures trace- u striiig round their neck, or in a bug. Tiiey hang it ulso aLouL their children, to preserve them from illness, and to ensure to them success. — LOKKIEL. Macken'/ik, in his voyages from Montreal, through the Continent of North America, to tlie Frozen and Pacific Oceans, says, that each Indian carries with hini, in his medicine bag, u kind of household god, which is a small carved image, about eight inches long. Its iirst co- vering is of down, over which a piece of birch bark is closely tied, and the whole is enveloped in several folds of red and blue cloth. This little figure is an object of the most pious regard. ■'H»lB..vUr,, 31 But in one heart there lay a grief, Which St. n must find a resting place. Yes— Ta-poo-ka, the trembling bride, Felt pangs too sadly keen to last- Deep pangs, that with life's tiovving tide. Were to the inmost feeling cast. She had resolved— the vow once made, And sanctioned by a stainless heart, Could never, never be betrayed, Till from her bosom life depart ;— >ouL their u success. Continent ;liut each hold god, lU'St CO- iely tied, lue cloth. n An aged Chief she could not wed. And break the pledge already given— Ah no ! she'd rather seek the dead. And risk the mercy sent by heaven. With thoughts like these upon her mind, She from her father's cabin stole— 'rH»iB„^Uii> 1 ,3^ When festl\e pleasures, iincoiiniied, rilled higli uith rapture every soul. And to a cliff, that far extends Its frowning horrors o'er the hike, Ilcr trembling step she onward bends, Nor seemed one minute's pause to make. Then, from the gloomy brink above- Where nought a female foot could urge, Save the keen power of maddening love- She plunged withiii the foaming sur.^e ! £' * There, ever since, the spirit-bridc, When night-shades round are closing din, In her canoe, is seen to glide, Across the curling water's brim. The Huron paused-and I could tr.^ I" every h'ne that marked his face, ace Wi To An Mi^ 33 Feelings he wished not to impart — Yet, now and then, saddest throbs would spring, From the pained recess of the heart, The herald of his deep sorrowing — Like the tear that brings relief, The mute interpreter of grief. Long, long upon the holy man. My eyes with admiration ran. Till every feeling stronger grew, That to his forest-home had bound me, And even at the moment drew. Such scenes of bliss enchanting round me. That Europe's pomp Fd quick resign, To dwell within his groves of pine. With such a man, poor Goldsmith might have stood, To see "the luxury of doing good" — And here, where nature's child delights to stray, Might gladly pass the lengthen'd summer day, i 3i Where, uiulistiirbed, the I Indian linds repose, Jl iii blush rose. Midst arbours scented by t Oh ! what a spot, to make one minute's pause, And feel the transport contemplation draws, While every prospect rising to the view, Half tells the joys our happier fathers knew, Before the plans of art had come between, And made of beauty's shades a barren scene. Oh, happy home ! where nought but nature's plan Is felt, and practised, by contented man ; No shifting system here we ever trace, But all things have their own, their proper place. No 'lalf-taught Noble, from the Charter-school, Whose wealth, and vanity, are sure to rule, Can here disturb that peace, that tranquil '^ood, Which cheers the freeman of the bount'ous wood. Here, from the silence sorrow brought, Deep wrapped in melancholy thought, Like the gloom of saddening pain — 35 The Huron Chief, nith deepest feeling, Thus touched the pliant chords again, Of conversation — gently stealing O'er a heart, long unknown to ease- In words which much resemble these. Friend — since we've past this summer day In mutual converse here alone, Till now the sun's last parting ray Is faintly o'er the waters thrown — I fondly ask, that you would share The Indian wigwam for the night — Nor think that danger lodges there, Or aught that could the heart affright. Ah no ! — the Huron has a soul Untainted by the coward's deed — And bravery beyond control, When summoned forth in time of need. k t I 30 Then come — we'll now our path pursue By yon dark grove of lofty pine, Where oft the wild deer rambles through, Or Joves in silenee to reehnc. The moon now gleaming o'er the trees, Will he the evening's modest guide — And still the rustling of the leaves Will eheer us to the cabin side. Such nobleness of word and thought. So highly every feeling wrought, That here I could not once refuse,* The friendship of his invitation — Or even shyness seem to use, When thus, the hero of a nation. * It is the custom of au Indian never to repeat a request if once rejected. Th».y believe that those to whom they offer any niaik of friendship, and who give a reason for refusing it, do so in perfect sin- cerity, and that it would be rudeness to require them to alter their deterniiiiation, or break their word. — Biciunan's SuKTcnits. 1 57 Had kindly asked that I mi^ Fidum pectus (anoribus. u ,1 -Iv, 1. \ Oh ! never since my boy-hood's days, When o'er Slievegallin's mantled brae^... Kru tliought, or reason, took command, I strayed with heart as h'ght as featlier, Or raised my rude, unguarded hand. To sUiy the bee lodged In the heather — Have joys so stainless touched my heart, As tliose which now their bliss imparl. Yet, be our transports e'er so sweet, Anotlier hour we're npt to meet, Whieh disapproves the o?ic gone by. And stands the Sage to show its errors— Thus man moves on through destiny, With wiser acts — all free from terrors — Till every moment of the past, Seems fool, or madman, to tlie hisl. I ■5 li V For me, I hate all whining cant, And, doubly so, the Churchman's rant, thi H. 4S If even sent from sides of iron, By hill> by dale, by grot, or fountain. Against the great, immortal Byron 1 In all the poising of a M***T**N, * Who nothing loves, but what's his own. Or some thing else that wears a gown. But I have wandered here too far — Yet, who the Muse's flight can mar. Or even stop her in her way ? f When once her wing is full extended, No human art her power can stay. Till she her destined course has ended, Then lights again, all fair and mild, MNEMOSYNE'sf enchanting child. From this last theme I find relief, To turn and view the Huron Chief, * Vide, the address to the Rev. Polyphemus, towards the end of this volume. t A Persian Nrmph, who brought forth the nine Muses to Jupiter, J „/i%^|ap* :■ %i '\ 40 Where, like some noble lord of man, In all the dignity of feeling, He stands, surrounded by his clan ; In every look and act revealing, The fondness of parental care. Which all around him freely share. Ilcrc now the fire's flaming h'ght, Seemed mingling with the stars of night, Till every leaf, and plant, and flower, In burnished beauty smiled around ua, Illumining the happy bower, Where love enchanting fondly bound us, Midst a glow of heavenly bliss. Which few on earth have shared, like this. Oh ! what a circle now appears. Where smiling joy eacli moment cheers, Giving to love so sweet a tone, As makes the heart forget its sorrows, 47 To s^ic oil jetty eyes ulonc, With every thrill that pleasure borrows, From looks that wear so chaste a hue, When half the soul seems shining through. And how the mind delighcs to trace The beauties of a lovely face,* Where only nature's hand had wro .t, The softest charms— by art unaided— And into pure perfection brought Each tint-which glossy locks had shaded, On a brow of pleasing dye, As smiled beneath a sunny sky. Yes— on Kemana 1 could gaze. And ever love to sing her praise. .- Mackkkzxk, in speaking ol' some of the Indian women .horn Ic .net with in h. travels Unoush Canada, s.ys :-.' Thcu. i.,u.c . ,ci - .aiy well proportioned, and the regulanty of thei. icatutcs would be ackuowicdgcd l.y the moic civilized people of Europe. ' ■ \ ' n 48 Till life's warm s,rcam should cease to flow, Or my loved harp's last chord be broken, And ruin o'er its I'rame should throw The shade, which brings a silent token, That harp, and bard, and all had fled, To moulder with the lonely dead. Thus, thus my fancy led me o'er New joys, unfelt — unseen before — Till every bliss that seemed unfurled, Proclaimed the Indian's richest treasure — Pure emblems of another world — And I had paused, to hear with pleasure, The Huron Chief thus speak again, In friendship's softest, kindest strain. There is to me a transport given. While here I view my children all, Beneath a starry sprinkled heaven. Enjoying pleasure's festival. 49 And still I hope my days shall run, Thus marked with friendship's softest hue, Until my life's last setting sun Shall throw its parting beams on you. And when beside yon cedar grove, I'm left in silence calm to sleep, The Indian there at times may rove, Or make a pause, perchance to weep. !^ m m Yes — he may weep, and backward throw One thought upon this brilliant night ; And breathe the name of Skenandow — Who loved the Huron with delight. Now, as the oak upon the hill. Whose aged branches feel decay, The streams of life begin to chillj And all my vigour wastes away. tt: It 60 The season's gone, when I could trace The foot-steps of the boundhig roe, Till, in the long directed chase, 1 raised the never-erring bow ; — But my worn heart no more can bear The toils that once were rendered sw ,'t Ah no ! — Time's hand lies heavy there, And ruin seems almost complete. J) I If Oft, in my boy-hood's cheerful hour, Through these green woods I've loved to stray, And chase the bee from leaf to flower, Or with the little Chipmunk* play. * This is the iiaiue genenilly given to the Otchi-ta-inoii, or small striped squirrel — wliich is very commonly met with in America. They are very pretty little creatures ; and have frequently startled nie by their sudden chirp, as they darted among the withered leaves at my feet, when perhaps in the act of raising my gun, to lire at a partridge, perched on the lofty branch of some neighbouring elm. twt lit de fu U 51 Yes — I have felt my days glide by, Without one touch of earthly care, To damp the glow of ecstasy, Which youthful hearts alone can share. But all such joys have passed awa}--, Just like soft music's thrilling tone. When every look, and heart, was gay. And soul, with soul, seemed linked in one. stray? Yet, with this remnant of my tribe, My life shall gladly meet its close — t, or small ica. They led me by ;aves at my , partridge, iK LoKi) Kaimes obscrvts, that it is computed by able vvrlteis, that the present inhabitants (Aboriginlcs) of America, amount not to a twentieth pait of those who existed when that continent was discovered by Columbus. Tliis decay is ascribed to the intemperate use oi spirits, and to the small-pox — both of them introduced by the Europeans. He seems to have forgotten— adds another writer — that they are in- debted to us also for tlie intemperate use of the sword, and tlie dread- ful bigotry and cruelties practised by the religious and avaricious Spaniards. Bartuolemew Casa aflirms, that the Spaniards, in Ame- liea, destroyed, in about forty-five years, ten millions of human souls — and this with a view of converting these unfortunate men to Chrisl- e2 [I 52 And on that spot — which I prescribe- There let my sorrows find repose ! i TliLis spoke the very aged Sire, To all assembled round the fire — Which threw its fiame across the heaven, In all the brilliancy of beauty. Like a burnished cloud al even, Illumining man's path to duty, When he hears upon the air. The vesper-bell invite to prayer. i I ianity. He also tells us, that the Inuiaiis were huiigctl thirteen in a row, in honour of the thirteen Apostles .' and that their i?ifants were given to be devoured by dogs.— There is a story recorded of an Indian, who, being tied to the stake, a Franciscan Friar persuaded him to turn ChrL^tian, and then he would go to heaven. Tlie Indian as.ked him, « Whether there were any Spaniards ^n heaven ?' ' Cer- tainly,' answered the Friar, « it is lull of them.' Then, the last words of the dying Indian were, « I had rather go to hell than have any more of their company !'— Couhim assures us, that they destroyed above ^fifteen millions of these unhappy men iu less than ilfty years. 53 Oh ! what a hallowed, charming hour, In nature's sweet, romantic bower, To see the Indian lift his eyes, With purest feehngs of devotion. To his own unclouded skies, Until the heart's deer, felt emotion. From his lips, in strains of iove, Is to the Spirit sent above. ' ' " 1 i T 1 '", \U And I have thought this spot to be A type of that pure sanctu'ry, Where, first repenting, man had trod. When by some holy angel guided. To talk in prayer alone with God — And, having in his love confided. Felt the balm of sweet relief, Wlien rescued tlom his load of jrrief. It was a pure, a holy sight. In the lone silence of the night. m Ml 5'i To see devotion's fervent soul,* By Nature's God alone directed, Beyond the pressure of control, Pursue a path not once neglected, To a sunny splicre of bliss, Possessing joys unknown in this. J n Here, as I pictured every good, That seemed to cheer the bount'ous wood, The happy Tribe retired to rest, On cedar boughs, and skins of beaver, Soft as the down that clothes the breast Of infant swan, or snow-bird ever — m fi * They generally make fca&ts and sacrifices, and the scene of these ceremonies is in an open inelosurc on the bauL of a rivei or lake, and in the most conspicuous situation, in order that such as arc passing along, or tiavelliiig, may he iniluccd to make ihcir olTerings. There is, also, a particular custom among them, that, on these occasions, if any of the tribe, or even a stranger, should be passing by, and be in real want of any thing that is displayed as an ofiering, he has a right (o lake it, so Ihat he replaces it with some article he can spare, though it be of far inferior v-iIuc—Mackenzie's Jot unai.s. t.--^ And tl'us, my life's first liappy day, 'Midst scenes the purest, moved away. Soon as the morning's cheerful light Had thrown aside the veil of night — And having breathed my parting prayer, To Chief— to youth — and all around me- But most to one that lingered there — To one, that by love's magic bound me- Along the Lake's smooth, shelving side, I wandered with my chosen guide. * y' And as 1 marked each brilliant scene That bloomed in summer's youthful green, Alkwanwaugh gently told the tale Of days, that live but in tradition — And all the joys that cheered the vale, Where dwells the remnant of the Nation- That remnant loving still to trace The glories of the Huron race. 56 From Atsistari,* known afar, By all his noble deeds of war- He well recounted every name On meni'ry's page — stamped in succession, Bright as the beams of lasting fame — Nor seemed to make one short digression — Through every scene of varied strife, Until this very date of life. * Atsistaki. — This distingii'slicil wariior, who r.oiii'ishcd in 167G, is still spukeii of, bv the Chicl'Uiins of the jneseiit day, as one of the greatest heroes that ever lived among the lluroiis. In all my inquiries respecting this noble Indian, I received tlie most honourable, and most interesting accounts, p.nd particularly from Oti-A-RA-Liii-xo, the old- est Chief of the village of Lorette. — This venerable patriarch, who is now ajjproaching the precincts of a century, is the grandson of Tsa- A-RA-Liii-To, head Chief of the Ilurons durirg- the war of IT-'O. Oii- A.RA-Liii-TO, with about thiitv-llve warriors of the Indian Vilinae of Lorette, in conjunction with the Irociiois and iii.GONQ.iix.s, was ac- tively engaged in the army of Uorgoyne, a name unwoithy to be asso- ciated with tlie noble spirit of Indian heroism. — During niy visit to thisold Chin" — IMay, lE2i) — lie willingly furnished me with an account of the distinguished warriors, and the tr iditions of diflerent tribes, which arc still fresh in his memory, and are handed from father to son, willi the same precision, interest, and admiration, that the Tales and ex. ploits of OhS'an and his heroes are circulated in their orig'nal purity, to this day, among the Irish, 57 From Tribe to Tribe— from Chief to Chief— In ail the pride of manly grief, His soul of feeling led him on, To tell the Indian's wrongs and sorrows— But most of Logan, lately gone — With throbs as deep as sadness borrows, When first the sympathising heart Its burst of angu'sh would impart. And never has attention hung, Upon the accents of a tongue, With truer, fonder, purer zeal, Than when I heard the Mingo's story. Which Alkwanwaugh loved to reveal — Recorder of the Hero's glory — In words, as perfect as before. Like these, addressed to Lord Dunmore. Let any white man now declare. Whom fate impelled to wander here, ■xnaaiow^w -- \ d8 If Logan e'er refused to share His cabin and its humble cheer. Or when the chilh'ng blasts of wind, And hunger forcibly assailed, His wearied heart— did he not find That Logan'.s care o'er all prevailed ? ft/ And whe]! destructive war's fell rage — In many battles, lost and gained, Regardless still of youth or age, Its bloody conflict still maintained. Such was the love I bore the whites, I stood the advocate of peace, And yielded more than half my rights, While striving others to release : Till every Indian, as he pass'd, His home and country to defend. .-sf. -., \ 59 On me his eyes indignant cast — Said, " Logan is the white man's friend !" But still, regardless of the blame My Country's heroes threw on me, I ever hoped to check the flame, And with my counsels set them free. But Perfidy, that foulest stain — Which to the whites its gifts impart — * For every good inflicted pain, And roused the fury of my heart. Then, then, the battle-axe I drew, And with an arm long skilled in war, i\ I * There is no faith to be placed in the words of the white men. They are not like the Indians, who are only enemies while at war, and are friends in peace. Tliey will say to an Indian, • My friend— my brother.' They will take him by the hand, and at the same mo- ment destroy h'mu—Spccc/t of a great Delaware Chief. I ■ l r >= tl CO On Kauhaway's proud banks I slew, Each white that sought its force to mar. And still, my wives and children all, Whose murdered bodies clothe the grounu, To me for vengeance loudly call, Nor can I look in silence round ; — For now, beneath yon glowing sun, There neither lives, nor breathes, one creature- Where e'en one drop of blood can run, To stamp the last—the Mingo's* feature ! * Logan was a celebrated Chief of the Mingo tribe, and long distinguished as the generous friend of the whites, until his wives and little children, who had been travelling in a hunting party with the Indians, were basely murdered in the spring of 1771, by Colonel Cre- sap and his Christian followers, whom he had long befriended. Logan was so deeply enraged at this unprovoked cruelty, that he determined to seek revenge, and nobly signalized himself in a decisive battle fought at the mouth of the great Kanhaway, between the collected forces of the MiNGOJCs, Shawanese, and Delawaues ; and the Vikcinian Militia. But, since my vengeance is complete, And I've appeased the mighty dead— . I stand life's darkest ills to meet, Nor any power does Logan dread. Yet, for tlie happy beams of peace, And for my country's good alone, 1 now rejoice at this release From evils— though untimely gone. But do not harbour one foul thought, That mine can be the ' Joy of Fear'- Ah, no— this heart was never brought To yield to mortal, sword, or spear. Nor would I, in the field of strife, One second on my heel there turn, If certain then to save my life Where none for Logan stops to mourn ! &• •"-""lyH^^J*?;'- 62 Such was the tale— and such the man, Designed to show that noble plan, Which Nature formed for one and all, When Freedom— first her gifts bestowing- Had Buuimoned at her magic call Proud heai ts, with noble ardour glowing, To worship at her holy slirine^ And snare the cup of bliss divine. When thus imagination strays To gather joy from other days, The real sorrows of our own Seem mantled with some bright illusion, Until the spell aside is thrown, And we can view the dark confusion Of gloomy images, that pass Before life's party coloured glass. i ■ Still, if one pleasure earth bestows, To mako the heart forget its woes, or U I V And steal it from itself away — This lovely wood must be the dwelling, Of all that pleasure can pourtr-iy, Where beauty — beauty seems excelling, In summer's sweet enchanting smile, Around the spirit-guarded Isle.* Here, while the captive eye surveyed The mingled grandeur, far displayed On every side— like Eastern bowers, Where some young ITinda oft reposes — Or strays alone, in sunny hours, 'Mong arbours blushing with sweet roses A hunter, in his birch canoe, Sailed o'er the dimpling wave of blue. * BlAxiToruN.— This name implies the residence of Manitoes, or genii, a distinction very commonly attributed to the Islands. — Henry's Thavels. f^ II If ' 1 Am], as a swallow cleaves the air, Ills bnrk ran swiftly through Saint Clair, Nor scmetl to feel the current's force. In which the pliant paddle bended, IJut onward kept its steady course, To where the Lake's wide wave extended- Yet, now so tranquilly at rest. Life's bark might slumber on its breast. a Hi' All looked so like the scenes and groves, Through which the dreaming spirit roves, That my wrecked heart forgot the pain A Mountain Demon Hung before it — While thus, the hunter's mellowed strain, With soft'ning influence came o'er it, Like breathings of some magic song, As slow he steered liis boat along. SONG. Far o'er the lake's extended brim, V I sec the light that guides me home- '" If f ,*" 05 And now my bark doth lightly skim The waters, omvaid to my dome. And oh ! 'tis sweet at day's decHne, When wearied with the lengtiiened chase, To see yon distant hghts now shine. And guide me to that favourite place — Where Coosea, mild as the dove, Oft cheered my heart at close of day. And sung nnmeasured strains of love Such strains as stole my heart away. Bright as our Council-fire there gleamed, Diffusing joy through shades of night. Her sparkling eyes with lustre beamed, And cheered the heart with soft delight. For CoosEA, had charms alone, That could subdue the warrior Chief, f. f3 i i ? 60 And with each sweet, untutored tone, Bring to the wearied heart relief. \% Yes, lovely as Alkwanwaugh's bride*- More soft than down of infant beaver- Thy touch could raise a thrilling tide, Of love, the purest — sweetest ever. I 1 ■J The swan that skims our native lakes, Is not so graceful in its air — The birdf that haunts our silent brakes. Is not so jetty as that hair. That hair which faiis in artless grace. Concealing half those smiles of thine, M * The unfortunate Ta-poo-ka, to wliom the Indians con)pared every thing that was beautiful. — She was the idol of the Nation — cvciy young heart worshii»ped her. f This seems to be a species of the black-bird, so generallv known in the British Islands — it is somewhat smaller, but of a much darker colour. These birds are very numerous in Canada, anti lodge chiclly about the difl'erent fens and marshes of the country. C7 In which each vvond'ring youth may trace, A soul that purely is divine. . Oh, CoosEA ! I hail the shore, And shady bank, where oft I've stood, My love-song in thine ear to pour, Thou sweetest daughter of the wood. Thanks to the Indian's God who brings Kekapoo to his home again, Where undisturbed he freely sings, With CoosEA to join the strain. Then, Spirit of the great and free, Protect us from the white man's laws — We only bow, and bend to thee, Of Good, the Author and the Cause, I Day after day with rapture flew, Unfolding ever something new— I 1 ■r in 68 Where'er we looked — where'er we strayed- % rugged cliffs-- bj' groves, or waters- Such varied grandeur seemed displayed As Nature with profusion scatters And every tint, and every dye, Smiled 'neath a lovely, glowing sky. ' \ SI'- V When we had viewed the winding Lake, To Erie* then our course we take, Well fitted with a birch canoe, So neat, so light, you'd scarce discover The motion, as it onward flew, The shooting rapids swiftly over While the trees, on either shore, The other way seemed hurried more. Now, o'er a clear—a placid stream- Half burnished by the sun's last beam, * Lake FaIq, i. 09 vVhicli tlirougl) the lofty pines was thrown- Our little bark went proudly gliding, As rriistress of the wave alone, Where we in safety now were riding, 'Midst scenes majestic, and as grand As e'er were shaped by Nature's hand. We next approached a lovely bay, Which in the woods half folded lay, Without one motion on its breast — And seemed most cheerfully inviting, As if to lull our bark to rest, And make each prospect more dellghting- While on its brim we cast an eve, To trac each figure of the sky.* * So pellucid urc the waters of tlie i^ioat LakcK in Canada, tliat, in a ci'.lin evening, when the sun is shining, the broken clouds, as they tloat in air, and the branches of the giant pine, half nodding over the mighty deep, arc beautifully reilccted. — The St. Lawuence — called liy the, Ilurons, Ladauanna — which Hows from thc^c great reservoirs, partakes all the transparency of its origin, till it meets, at tiic Cas- nides, the expanded wntcrs of the Ottaw,\. The junction of these ^*\ / y i 70 Here, 8s we gained the velvet Bhore, Where scene on scene attracted more, two mighty rivers forms, perhaps, one of the grandest prospects in the world. On one side is scon the impatient watc of the St. Law- rence, tumbling over i-ugged rocks and cascades, like the white foam- ing horses of Ossian ; and on the other, the gloomy majesty of the Ottawa, rolling on, through immense forests, iu the silent dignity of his greatness— until they meet, side hy side, in the broad valley of IIosiiKLACA. Here the contrast becomes magnificent — for the pioud St. Lawrence — which the impudent Buchanan* would sell for a bag of Jlax.seed—stW] maintains its purity, nor seems willing to receive the proffered waters of its dark but noble rival, until running a d is- tiince of more than twcaty-seven miles, and distinctly passing Mon- TKEAL — where their reconciled spirits more closely meet, and become niulually blended. — The lovely Biys, formed among the thousand Is- lands in the St. Lawrence, between Kingston and Brockville, and even as far as Counwall, afibrd the most delightful scenery and fishing place^.— Often have I remained in several of these Bays, for hours, leaning over the side of a birch canoe, watching the numerous hordes of large fish sporting, at not less than twenty feet below the surface, until the appearance of some overgrown monster, as ruler of the great abyss over which I was then suspended, reminded me of the delicate texture of my vessel, and that, even with one fiap of his tail, 1 might become an unwilling partaker of the element I was so much admiring. * Mr. Bcciianan is now British Consul at Now York. It Is a gre.it pity he was not appointed one of tlie Commissioners for settling the binuid- ary line j and then the Americans might have got ail the ^^t, tiiWRENCE to themselves. We have already experienced the eifcets of such wisdom as XVIR. Ulchanan s. He had better commence brewing, on a stream sepa- rate from the majestic St. Lawrence. w 71 A voice as soft — divinely sweet* As summer winds o'er rose-buds playing, With potent magic seemed to meet The list'ning ear — and onward straying, Note by note — you'd think when nigher, Some fairy hand had touched the lyre. In such a place — in such an hour — It looked as if enchanting power, With Syren spells to lure away The heart to some unthought of danger, And make but an ignoble prey Of one, to evils not a stranger — Of one, who seldom tasted bliss — Then, if deceit — none sweet as this 1 V But soon we found the pleasing tone Was breathed by one that sat alone, * The women sung — and the sweetness of theii- rolces exceeded whatever I had heard before, — IIenrv's Tk^vbls, \ 72 Upon a little hillock's side, W'itii cedar branches spreading o'er her, As if her slender form to hide, Where shrubs and riowers bloomed before her Forming a most delightful spot, For one, whom all but one forgot. 1 So Jightly did our birch canoe* Steal o'er the bay of liquid blue, Tliat easily was heard the song, That touched the very soul o£ feeling, As on the breeze it sighed along, And softly to the heart appealing, In words I never can forget, So sweet, their tones seem breathing yet. * The canoes of the Indians are reniarliably light, and glide over the wave with as much ease as a sea-bird. They are made of birtli baik, aud of difTeient sizes — carrying from two to eight or ten persons, together with their bedding, (which generally consi&b of bull'alo, deer and bear skins) aud all their hunting and fishing mateiials.— An Euro- pean is somewhat surprised to see one of those vessels irauspoiled, fioiii stream to stream, over hills, and through the forest, on the shoulders of an Indian— thus alternately carrying and being carried, qs it best suits his convenience. 73 SONG. Here now, beneath this lonely shade, Far, far from home, I sit reposing, And listen to the wild cascade, While evening's curtain round is closing, And every bird, with spirit gay, Sings, sweetly sings its vesper lay. Vet, oh 1 how happy here to dwell, With my young Chief— my Indian lover— And all this bosom's feeling tell, Of sorrows past, and dangers over. Until the heart again would feel New dreams of rapture o'er it ste^l. While now the sporting fire-flies play. Where from yon rock the streamlet gushes, Or frolic o'er the azure bay, Or pause among the bending rushes— @ ^^I.^ES£l3y«fc ft f> i: A :' I 74 To nic their joys awake again All that of pleasure can remain. The little frog* perched on the tree, As if to tell of pleasant weather, Sings its wild scng m ecstacy, Till, iiv etJi^i.; ^'\ concert together, * The Rana Arbovin, or tree Trofj, calltcl by the Iiuliuns Athcikij, l)us ccitiiiiilv a most carious apptar.uite, u'ld puitlcularly t»y tiie s:iiall music ba;j, ^^ll;cli liccoiiics txtcided under its neck, when in the ucl of sjigiiig. To a sliangcr, when travelling through the lonely forests of Aiiier:c;i, and ei^pcciilly in the twilight, the tiirllling voice of these little creatures awakens very unusual sensations. — The first I ever licard was on the bank of the River Moira, near Bellviile, in Upper Canada ; and being anxious to know the author of such singular mu- sic, I wcat in search, and afier sonic difficulty, arising from the cun- ning of tiie little creature — for it became silent on niy approach — I fouiul it pcreticd ciose on tlie brancii of a plum tree. Discovering, ])y its conduct, that it w.is no way solicitous about my visit, I instantly withdrew, and having concealed myself for a few minutes behind a large pine, it clieerfully resumed its accustomed song. Desirous, how- ever, of proving its shyness, I rcturni.d quietly to the plum tree, when, as before, it imiucdiately became hus'ied, placing itself as Hat as possi- ble on the brancii. Several of the country pcop'e, with whom I con- versed respecting it, told nic, that, Cumclion-like, it assumes the co- lour of the place it rests — and generally, mounts the trees in search of insects. As it regards the one which 1 examined, its colour corres- ponded so exactly with the bark of the plum tree, that it required lui- iiutc search to discover th^ residence of tlje little niinslrch \ I I '. I 15 The bull-toad, from the swamp remote, Sends forth u louder — harsher note. But here upon the evening air — The verdure of the forest shaking — ril breathe affection's fervent prayer, The soul's best sympathies a^vaking, With hopes that my young hero Chief May never f::el the paiii of grief. Soon as we heard the closing sound, And gently gained the rising ground, We slow advanced, to steal a view Of one, whose voice had rapture in it. And then, the waving branches through. We cast a look each anxious minute — And oh ! what joy does heaven confer — 'Twas Ta-poo-ka — the loved — sat there ! g2 1. i 76 And he— the hravc, the Chieftain guide, Who stood confounded by my side- Was that young Sioux who had strayed On Huron's banks, his Jove-dirge singing, When Skenandow and I delayed, To hear him from his bosom bringing A mingled tide of woe and song, Unheeding as he moved along. A look— a pause— and then a start. Quick as the impulse of the heart. With all the frenzy of surprise. In her fond arms Poon found him folded, While from their Jark, their flowing eyes. Their mutual tears in one seemed moulded, And heaving throbs responsive move, In all the luxury of love. When joy's first burst was partly o'er, And former fears could spring no more, 77 Tlicn, to a path— not distant fnr — I.appcd round a lovely mountain's border, O of which the beauteous evening star, As if by heaven's special order, Had just now thrown its modest ray, To light our onward, shady way. At length, we reached her cabin-home. Close by a little river's foam, Whose banks were covered, here and there. With many wigwams, neatly lighted, And every flame now flung in air, From blazing pine-knots, all delighted — While fishing* torches distant gleam, And move like meteors o'er the stream. * rerhaps it may Ic well lo u^bci-vc, tliat the nets and fishfnpjJincs of the Iiuliixiis, arc made of willow bark and nettles; those made of fn of (ho Ii.illnns-an«l gmn ,llv "If-fHlr rili iliru (-oi.itu;t!f!. I" m 81 Tlius were we pleasingly detained, While beauteous TA-roo-KA regained Her wonted charms, till day, by day, She seemed a more engaging creature, And one, that well might lure away The feeling heart—while every feature, Tinged with a soft, a brownish hue, The spirit pure shone lovely through. The sculptor's polished chisel yet A finer model i:ever set— Nor has the connoisseur surveyed Corrector h'nes, on eastern beauties, Than, unadorned, are here displayed, In all the light of native duties— Where eyes beam forth-like evening's star. Than night's dark essence darker far. The scene-the place-the happy hour- Heminded much of Milton'., bower: I h J 82 Where first ilie parent of mankind Conducted Eve — with beauty bkishing, And feelings pure, and unconfjixd, As yon pellucid stream, now gushing- From the lovely arbour's side, Clear as was then Euphrates' tide. And here is ^cen the caraboo, The elk, and wild d:cr, roving through The silent forest's decp'ning shade— Nor distant is tlie swan — rcneuing Pride, which for herself was made — Now, in the licjuid mirror viewing A graceful form — much whiter still Than snow Hakes on the Alpine hill. ,« .;f l.i^ While others feel the magic hand Of love, their every thought command — My 'raptured soul delights to trace, The charms which beauty round discloses. J S3 Tlirougliout tliii su'cct, romantic place, To where tiie lily calm reposeS;, Nou- on its half reclining stem, Supporting Nature's purest gem, Aiid how the eye delights to see, The hunnning-bircl,* from tree to tree, So nimbly flit, till it can find Some blushing rose, with nectar in it, Where, on a wing more fleet than wind, It banquets for a little minute, * Til's is one of tlu pi-ctLtt.'. 1 ttlc cic.itures among the featlicreJ liiljc. Tlicre are nnuiy ^])ec!ts of tliciu ; but Un- smallest seems no larger than llic wild black bee, vvh'ch it iuiitates in fociliiig on the purest flowers. The richest fancy of the niost luxuriant piintcr couKl never invent any thing to be compared to the beautiful tints with which th's little miniature insect bird is arrayed. The wings are a dm.'[) green, ami thro.v a variety of shades. The fine downy feathers on it> jicad arc embellisljcd with tlie purest yellow, the most perfect azure, and dazzling red. "When feeding, it aj)pcars immoveable, thouglj continually on the wing, having its long fine bill dipped into the lieart of the most dci.cate rose without the slightest injury, wh^le its eyes appear like Utile diamonds sparkKng in the morning sunbeam. It is very rcsUcssi, and seldom perches toi uioie than a few seconds at a time. 84 Then quickly off it darting goes, To seek elsewhere another rose. ( And oh ! how charming is the bliss— So seldom felt— so pure as this, Where in the forest's bosom ftir, From Europe's crimes, and Europe's errors, Beneath the glowing western star, The Indian dwells secure from terrors—* And by his streams, or by his lakes, His path of independence takes. if i Such were the joys here now displayed, Where'er I turned, where'er I strayed, Until imaginafion took A full repast— and backward turning ^- We and our kindred tribes«observe the Indians-lived in peace and hannony with each other, before the white people came into this country ou,CouneiUhou.e extended far to the uorfh and far to tic -h. ^"thennddlcoritwewouia.ectfro.allparMo J th pipe of peace together. 1 •I 85 To Ta-poo-ka, one cheering look, Where two dark eyes, in beauty burning, Reminded — in my airy flight — I'd been a stranger to their light. peace u this » the I the 1 To Ou-KA-KEE, the good, the kind — A noble Chief of noble mind — Alkwanw AUGH now his story told, And of his bride, long since intended — And how five seasons past had rolled, Since she that frowning cliff ascended, At whose dark base she sought a grave, Deep in the bosom of the wave. Keen sorrow touched the brave man's heart, To hear Alkwanwaugh thus impart The tale of woe — which raises still, In manly hearts a fount of feeling, And, like some pure — some holy thrill, Comes o'er the soul, divinely stealing, If ^ 8G s u Until the very joy of grief, Brings forth its own— its sweet relief Alkwanwauoh was a Sioux filmed— In many battles honours claimed— And closely by his mother's side, To Atsistari was related — That hero, long the hero's pride, Than whom was never yet created, A nobler Chieftaiji for the field— A lion heart, unknown to yield. When Ou-KA-KEE— who shared this place, And all the richness of the chase. With Ta-ioo-ka — the well-beloved And ever valued as his daughter- Had heard the tale— an. 1 deeply moved— F/>f to tins spot himself had brought her- Ke oradj si^'^h hearts deserved his care, And shot :.i his home and cabin share. I From hut to hut tlic tidings llcvv — The marriage of the happy two — The wished for day — the very hour By every tongue was soon repeated — And e'en tlic lovely maple bower, Close by the hill — where last defeated, The white man breathed his life away — Would be the spot of pleasure gay. From woods — from streams, they gathered all The dainties for the festival, Till gifts on gifts, brought from the chase, Had fully stored the Chieftain's dweUiug — And in each look you well might trace The tide of joy, so gayly swelling, Where every youth had longed to sec Of spousal love the jubilee. The day arrived — midst scenes as sweet As e'er the heart or eye ecu Id n cU— h2 i 88 And every rose that purely tljrew Its richest fragrance on the morning, There bore a lovelier— brighter hue, Where violets seemed no less adorning The blushing beauty of the grove, Now made the peaceful home of love. Such soft attraction seemed to run In every blossom — where the sun Had mildly thrown his gentle beam We to the mountain's summit wandered, Close by a little dimpling stream, That slowly to the vale meandered, Where we a distant view might take Of Erie's wide, extended lake. Then down the sloping brow we strayed, To where the bay close by displayed A gentle rippling on its breast, And seemed to yield a double pleasure, • - / M I 89 To that, which on our hearts was pressed, When we had heard, in fairy measure, The sweetest tones, like magic glide, From her, the loved— the chosen bride. While winding round the silent shore, To that lone spot, where once before We fondly went, to catch one view Of her, who, then unknown, was singing, And with her incantation drew The pliant heart — and nearer bringing We saw, fur o'er the water's brim, Another bark, as lightly skim. It being now almost the hour. When we must to the wedding bower Direct our steps— where sure to meet Great Chieftains, who had been invited. With lovely girls— so lovely, sweet— As showed each heart was well delighted- h3 90 f h t 1 ■i' " Hi fi That longer here wc could not stay — But enter on our homeward way. Yet, still we paused — to watch the sail, So steady in the gentle gale, Pursue its path, along the line, That seemed the sky and water bonndrncr. Then near, and nearer still incline. Where other prospects were surrounding — And we could take a clearer view or those who steered the swift canoe. A minute — and one minute more. It touched the margin of the shore, Close by the spot where we remained, So fondly on its movements gazing — And when the beach three heroes gained, We heard them all its beauties praising, Till, in an open space below. We saw the noble Skknandow! ! m So tmcxpccted was tlic sight, Our bosoms tilling with dch'ght, VVc hurrictl to tlic happy green, And, with the licart's most fervent feeling, Repeated jo^'s, now felt* — now seen — Until .1 tear came gently stealing, From Ta-poo-ka*s dark, flowing eye, PreCt. ^r cf a broken sigh. It was the tear of pleasing grief, ** That flowed to bring the heart relief — And like the dewy mist that plays — As if a liquid mantle throwing — Before the sun's sweet cheering rays Yet leaves the beam moi^ lovely glowing * I was tliinkiiig here of what Horai'E so bcautifuliy says in his Pindaric Oilc, aiUlicssed to IcLts : — Nunc jiH(V, si quid loqi/ar (iiidicfiduni, rods acccdet bo7ia pars ; et u Sol Pulchcr, C> Inudnyuh', canatn, rcceplo C(rs(ire FeU.v, ■->. ^!^^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) /. ,^ . <^ /2 / ^^ 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4S03 ^ iP \ V LV >.% '^ ■^ % % 1 1 02 So, when the darkh'ng tear was o'er, Her beruty shone redoubled more. Of alJ the charms that pleasure throws One moment o er the gloom of woes, There never yet came one so sweet As that which now appears so splendid, And brings the heart again to meet What heaven alone for man intended, Unfolding, in one day like this, A happy age of purest bliss. The worthy Chiefs, with noble pride, Conducted by the lovely bride, Now onward take tlieir forest wav. To join the cheerful wedding party. Where smiling Indian girls play, And echo tells the laugh as hearty— As if to please the happy throng. Where merry pleasure sports along. ^-^■ . iwa ^^,.^^ i^jkxA-w I 93 When SkenandoW; and Ou-ka-kee, Had joined in conversation free — For they to each were proudly known, Long having stood in war together — And having many whites o'erthrown, By lakes, by woods — no matter whetlier- Around the noble warriors two. Each youthful heart attentive drew.* Though 1 have witnessed fancied joys, And etiquette, which pleasure cloys — Before this real blissful hour, None ever had such transport in it As that which sanctifies this bower, Where I can see, in one short minute, A world of peace — a world of love — A type of all that dwells above. * Nothing seems to afford the Indian so much pleasure as the rela- tion of his noble exploits in war. The young men gather round the old warriors, and listen to their stories with all the delight of a proud en- thusiasm. 94 The wedding over — and unseen The holy rites* — and all between- * The Indians arc by no means willing to allow a while ir.an tho privilege of witnessing their marriage ceremonies- -believing that sueli an act would not only be displeasing to the Great Spirit, but render the married couple very unfortunate and miserable through life. They adhere closely to all their old forms of devotion, and find them- selves happier in their •« wild nativity," than undtr the hypocritical sophism of their sac/fZ/t'-irtg" inspired preachers. — "Why," (observes the author of "Sketches among the Indians,") "therefore, ought ihey to depart from the worship of their forefiiUiors, and follow the religion called Cliiistian ? As under the name of that religion, and from those who professed it, had they experienced all their wrongs and .suacrings, and Iiad arrived at their present wasted condition I Sure- ly, they should not embrace a faith that would tolerate such wicked- ness. "What treaty had Chrisflans kept witli them ? "What just prin- ciples had ihcy not violated ? Had they not despoiled them of their lands, of their hunting grounds, of their lakes, and their mountains ? Had they not slain their young and their old wa,rriors ? Had they not taught them to act worse than the beasts of the forest, by the use of spirituous liquors ? Did they not give them rum, to cheat and de- ceive them — to take from them their fields and their skins ? And had they not derived loathsome diseases, and other evils, from those professing Christianity." — These I'cmarks I have seen fully verified diiring eleven years residence in America. Nor do I Ijcsitatc to s.iy, that, in proportion to the intimacy carried on Ijctween the white man and the Indian, so far does the latter seem to have seriously suH'cied in Ills morals, and in the total destruction of that noble and independ- ent spirit which so honourably distinguished such liidiun heroes as PoNTiAc, CoHN Plant, Logan, Atsistari, O-ma-ija, Tsa-wa- WAN-Hi, Skenandow, Red Jacket, TEc^M^^EIr, and countless others. /! ■n lor nil pre his tci wi Ini 'Hi i Because inferior is the name — And I believe a just recorder — Oi* Christian — honoured by his fame ! Who first for peace brought foul disorder, And in Religion's pathway threw Sectarian seeds, which rankly grew. 'tc jarring Creeds-men, why thus strive To keep the impious flame alive — That flame which discontent has brought, And even now its crusade making, in crimes like those yourselves have taught The social tie of friendship breaking — ^• * A striking display of Indian cliaractci occurred some yeais b:iicc •'1 a town in Maine. An Indian of the Kennebcck tribe, remarkable lor his good conduct, received a grant of land from the State, and fixed himself in a new township, where a number of families were settled. — TJiough not ill-treated, yet the common prejudice against Indians prevented any sympathy with him. This was shown on the death of his only child, when none of the people came near him. Shortly af- ter, he gave up his farm, dug up the body of his child, and carried it with him two hundred miles through the forest, to join the Canadian Indians.— Ti/rfor's Letters on the Eastern States of America. There are no people in the world fonder of their children and rcla- i it v% ► ' t 90 Because to you, you think is given A nigher way to march to lieaven ! ! * lions than the Indians. In many instances, they have been Known to carry, on their backs, their aged and liclplcss parents, through ail the privfitions and difllculties olliic; and, among nmny of the wandering tribes that I visited, I have found very old men, quite utiablc to pro- vide for themselves, who had been tenderly conveyed, by their families, through all their diilerent stations, and hunting grounds, with the p-rcatest care and aflection. — I note this particularly, as Thomas MooHE, the first poet of the age, seems to have had a very unfavour- able opinion of Indian tenderness and sympathy, when he observed, in his advertisement to the fifth number of the Irish Melodies, «' that the Indians put their relatives to death when they become feeble." Mr. Moore must have collected this information from the enemies of the poor Indians, when travelling through the United States, in 1804 ; but a personal knowledge of the Aboriginies of America would have caused his manly and independent mind to have spoken in a dif- feront style, with regard to the noble, but much injured, sons of the forest. The Indians belonging to Great Britain have an utter dislike to the Yankees — as the Americans are called. Nor am I surprised at this feeling — fur there is scarce a day but brings them some cruel ac. counts of the destruction and massacre of their brethren in the United States — and, even at this moment, in Georgia, the poor Indian is hunted from his home, and barbarously murdered — while those who are under the protection of the British Government enjoy comfort, peace, and happiness. Well, then, might the poor Kennebeck Indian carry the bones of his little child to a wel comer grave among the un- disturbed forests of Canada. * Juvenal must have had^ a veiy unfavourable opinion of the hu- man race, when he thussaid : — Rari quippe boni : numero vix sunt totidenif quot Thebarum porta;, vel divitis oslia Nili. i T a ol 97 1 known ti> igh all the wandering ble to pro- X families, , with the i Thomas unfavour- bservcd, in ;es, ''that le feeble." ic eneniieii States, in rica would n in a dif- sons of the ter dislike urprised at ! cruel ac. he United Indian is hose who f comfortt !ck Indian g the un- jf the hu- vix $unt M' I T 4 But here, what joyous rapture seems In every eye that brightly beams, Where melody as freely strays From youthful tongues,* now breathhig pleasure, As from the scarlet-hird, that plays From branch to branch— while music's treasure, Comes, like the fabled harp, that sings To every breeze that sweeps its strings. Now, on a fallen trunk of pine One peaceful moment to recline, And view such joys — beyond control — Wakes in the heart some sweet emotion, Like that which cheers the Persian's soul, In tranquil hours of pure devotion — Who only asks to love and see. The image of his Deity. * There is a peculiar softness in the singing of the young Indian girls. The first time I heard the songs of these daughters of the forest, was during a visit to Capt. ■W*****ms, of H. M. R. N., at his cottage on the Bay of Quiutie — and uever were music, time and i^lace so happily blended. IV- kl 98 The dance* — the laugh — the pleasing fltisli Of joy, which through their bosoms rush, Proclaim the bliss of one and all — Nor ever yet was seen so splendid, Nor such a wedding festival — Nor joys, with joys so purely blended — As crowns the lovely — loving pair, With all the soul could wish or share. \ ^^\ s 'I t * Dancing is one of the most favouiite amusements of the Indians — and exhibits to an European something more singularly grand than he has ever been accustomed to witness among the artificial assemblies oi a more polished, but a less interesting people. With the Indian, the pure feelings of the heart are the only guide in the happy hour of his playful festivities — which are unencumbered by that cold reserve and mawkish ceremony, practised in the studied dance of our own speculat- ing times. By the request of a Huron Queen, I attended one of theii parties, in the summer of 182G ; and hud the honour of being intro- duced, by her, to several Chiefs belonging to the Iroquois and Algon quin tribes — who c:ime distinctly for the purpose of joining in the pleasure of the appointed dance. It was a most delightful evening in the month of June — and the wild, romantic scenery of the place where they were assembled, added doubly to the anticipated joys, while a full, yellow moon emerged, in all the majesty of beauty, from behind the lofty trees of the forest, and Hung her magic beams along the curling waters of a lovely bay, on whose tufted banks all were now happily seated. A large pine log, about eight yards long, being rolled on the gieeu, the party commenced dancing round it, answering, occasionaU f ^ BM 0tm 99 But, hush ! — that watch-dog seems to say Some stranger comes, unknown, this way- Yes — yes — I see — I plainly hear Each oar now in the current plying — And there, five other boats appear, With men, to gain the shore fast trying- It is an enemy ! — to arms — The war-whoop, at one breath, alarms. Now, Chiefs and heroes firmly stand, Prepared to meet the first command. Jy, in responses, to the Chief who conducted the ceremony, hokliiig in his hand a horn fdled vvith snuiU pebbles— which, by alternately siuik- ing, and striking against the palm of the left hand, afforded a kind of music, which appeared to be well understood by the dancers. Other individuals, seated at a distance, played on instruments made of dress- ed deer-skins, lived on a round hoop — and, though not very harmonious, still it seemed to correspond with the idea of the first progress of mu- sic, and conjured up to me the image of the Arcadian Pan, vvith all his lovely shepherdesses, dancing to the music of his enchanting reed. The Indian war-dance is one of the grandest displays an European can witness— and I regret, that a work so limited as this, deprives me of the pleasure I would feci in giving a full description of it to my readers. i2 !■; *.l 100 And tcacli the Christian soon to know The danger of his foul intrusion- Till, from the tomahawk, one blow Shall pay him for the dire confusion He to the Indian oft has given, And all to claim the love of heaven ! I II; N ;| -Ml Man stands 'gainst man, in dreadful strife. Till ebbs the flowing tide of life — And long, and doubtful seemed the day, On either side so well contended— Nor gained, nor gave an inch away, Till dead, and dying, lay extended, In mangled ruin on the shore, With human blood empurpled o'er ! Close by the border of the stream I see a battle*axe quick gleam. And throw its flashes o'er the wave — 'Tis Skenandow's — its death-blows giving — I 101 And he who me ^s it, meets his grave, Nor longer shall disturb the living- It is the lightning of his course No human arm can stop its force. I Thus, while the contest is maintained, By neither won, by neither gained— The great Tecumseh* hurries o'er, Just in the fury of the action * This celebrated warrior belonged to the Sri.iwANESE tribe, that inhabited the territory on the borders of Lake Michigan, until they were all nearly annihilated by an armed body of Americans—who, in the dead hour of night, rushed upon them, on the banks of the Wa- bash, and destroyed every thing that came in their way, witliout re- gard to either sex or age, with more than a savage ferocity. Tecum. SEir, however, fortunately escaped, and. with the few that remained, crossed the upper Lakes to the British possessions, and joined the HcRONS—one of the finest tribes that belongs to the Indian Na. tion.—TEcuMSETf, although not much over thirty years of age, was, IVom his brave and nsaniy conduct, appointed head Chief of this dis. tinguished tribe— a circumstance that but seldom occurs among In- dians, as they are very particular in conferring that honour on lhc.,ged and experienced warriors of their respective bodies.-In the winter of 1312, Tecumseh and his Ilurons joined the aimy of General Proctor, against the " Long Knivcs"_a name by which they still designate If J 0-2 Directly from the other shore, With heroes roused to keen distraction — Whose vengeance, bursting on each white, Decide the h'>rrors of the fight. the Americans — and, in 1813, had upwards of three thousand selectcJ warriors under his conininnd. But the Napolton of the West hud not long to live — his glorious career was now hurrying to its close— aiul on the 5th of October, 1811, while heroically leading on his hravo companions, in a desperate engagement, fought between the llutiih and the Americans, at the Moravian Village, on the banks of the tliver Thames, iu Upper Canada, he received his death shot — and, hi the very moment when courageously maintaining the contest against the left of the American line, alter the cowardly Proctor had lied, leaving the flag of Great Britain alone to be defended by the brav-t, but unsupported Indians, against the overwhelming numbers of a pow- erful enemy. After the battle, thirty-three distinguished Indian war- riors were found dead on the field — and among them, the famous TecumsehI — Before the death of this noble Chief, of which, it ap- pears, he had some presentiment, it is said, that, in one of hissp'ceohcs, he, in the name of the Nation, charged the Hurons never to select his 8on — a lad then about fifteen years of age — as their Chief — adding, that, although very fond of the boy, "he was too fair, and too much like a white man." What a lesson might civilized nations icarn IVom this untutored Indian, who thus threw aside all paiental prejudices, when put in competition with the happiness and safety of his Country — believing, that as an Indian approached, in look and features, the white Christian, he must also resemble him in perliily and in wicked- ness ! Too just a reason had the brave Tiitasisjia for such a cun- clusioii I f 103 And now, tlie crackling flnmes arc seen, In columns, . . .g far between Tlie poncVrous branches of the pine, Till onward through the forest rushing, Where beasts no longer can recline — And heaven's distant arch seenris blushing, As if illiim'd by Etna's flame, Tar o'er the crater whence it came. * While here the foaming torrent roars, And dashes round the rugged shores, The timid deer starts from his lair, And o'er the mountain's summit bounding, Avoids the rage of horror there, And scenes now dismally surrounding That spot, where he so late could roam. And find a peaceful forest home. Ul V "I rilJ The sullen murmur of the breeze. That eddies through the falling trees, 104 Comes like the pensive dirge of woe, Or death-notes deepest anguish waking, When doomed the soul's last struggling throe To hear, or see from nature breaking, Leaving a gloomy wreck hphind, No more to pain or earth confined. r.i . And now, the dying white man's groan, Unpitied, and unwept — alone — Breaks on the ear — and now his prayer To heaven he seems for mercy raising , With h*ps that scarcely breathe the air. And eyes but faintly upwards gazing, Tilt the unerring* feathered dart Drains the last life-drop from the heart. '^ I have often been surpriscil, when travelling through the immense forests of America, to see with what precision a young Indian boy raises his bow, and in an instant drives the ariovv into a squirrel, wood- pecker, or some other bird, perched on the highest tree. ':?s=s -mr ?*»•*■ ' 105 Before the sable skirt of night Had closed upon the dismal sight — Of all the Christian foe-men, three Alone remain to weep their errors,* And ruin's dark reality, Which stalked with unexampled terrors, While in each look of deadly hate, They read their own impending fate. It is a foul — unholy crime, Stamped on the open page of time— To plunder Nature's humble child Of all the gifts for him intended, And scattered through his forest wild, Till Christian charity extended Her bounteous hand, and made him know, For bliss exchanged — a real woe !f * Every classical reader wil' recollect the sentiment of Juvexal — Nil erit ultcrius, quod nosirrs moribui addat posleritas. f It is worthy of remark, that the Boetiiic, or Red Indian?, once a numerous and a powerful tribe, inhabiting the western shores of New- m ' i f r' jl ft I ^ ^ I' 10(3 The Missionary evils brought,* By those who first ReHgion taught — Forgive the phrase — had more of hell — And all the crimes with it connected- foundliind, and tlic coasts of Labrador, are now almost extinct— and the (cw that remain, scarcely known to the inhabitants. It ap- pears, that about a century and a half ago, the Jiocthic Indians, and the Micmacs, a neighbouring tribe, lived in the greatest harmony and friendsliip, until some unfortunate occurrence sprung up between the Uoethici, and tiic Frendi. A reward wup olVcred fur the heads of some of those poor Indians ; and the Micmacs, by the inllufjnce of liquor, and other gifts, were persuaded to undertake the barbarous act. The Micmacs succeeded in murdering two of their unsuspecting neigh, hours; but, before the heads were delivered to the I'rench, they were discovered in a canoe by the relatives of the poor suflercr.i — who, disguising all knowledge of this treacherous cruelty, invi-cd the Mic- macs to a feast, and arranged their guests in such a waj, that every Uoethic had a Micmac by his side — and, at a preconcerted signal, every man slew his guest. — A desperate war afterwards ensued ; but, as the Micmacs were provided, by the French, with fue-arms— a tiling entirely unknown to the Bocthics — of course, an undisputed asccnuan-- cy was soon gained. The J^aethics, or lied Indians, being thui con- •jMeied, lied into tiie recesses of the forest, where they have m, mined till this day, feuring, and justly hating, the pale face c .' every rav7- /:c'(/ Christian. * I consider these people— says M.\cKrxziE— as having been, morally speaking, great sulTerei-s, from their comnnmicatlou with the ^..'•jects of civilized nations. m.,^an^ ■• -mu^mmm m m ii iii O 'ii -» *.^, xtiuct — and Its. It ap- ulians, and uniony and itvvecn the 3 Iicads of iliu'nice of barous act. ■'"g neigh, nch, they en? — who, the Mic. hat every ■d signal, Jt-'d ; iuit, —a tiling 'sccndan.- tiiui c'on- '■•Viiaincd 17 cu'iL S hecH. 'ith tlie Than ever yet were known to dwell With those oft called the lost — neglected- Tb . barb'rous Indian — Savage race — The outcasts of the human race ! ifet, while the independent soul Can fairly here survey the whole, And take a broad — but candid view, Of times gone by — and darkest sorrows, Which now the Indian's days pursue, The very pain vhat sadness borrows. Awakes a feeling deadlier far, Than ever roused the breast of war. Now in the twilight's thick'ning gloom, Three whites remain to know their doom, While by the fragments of the dead. Each hero Chieftain sadly pauses, Or with a slow and solemn tread, Surveys the evils, and their causea, !i 4 -■""• ■>«««- .__ h'' 108 Until ilic throb, and bursting swell, The heart's dark ruin here can tell. What ! — do I see a female there, Amid the horror of despair ? — 'Tis faithful Ta-poo-ka, alone, Now seeking for her Sioux lover — And ah ! I hear his dying moan, And see her bending sadly over The noble youth — till, clasped in death, She joins with his, her parting breath 1 :/ 'I i \^ Oh ! hapless pair 1 — dark fate has cast The death-shade o'er your brows at last — And all the throbbings of the heart, Are hushed in gloomy peace forever- No more with rapture's thrill to start — Ah, no ! — life's spark again shall never Awake, 'mong clouds so foul as those, Which on this day's sad ruins clo&c. m 109 How dismally among the leaves, Is heard the murmuring breath* of night, Like the last sigh the bosom heaves, Caught by some angel in its flight. Who, leaving its own happy sphere^ In pity to man's great distress, Comes on a holy mission here. To those who sleep in wretchedness. .^ .n \l The moon is up, and through the clouds Collected round her palely form. Like mist which some dark fiend enshrouds. Before the bursting of the storm Now takes her dull and cheerless rout, Along the gloomy arch of heaven. Where not a single star looks out, To cheer the dismal frowns of even. * There is a melancholy grandeur in the hollow breathings of the winds, passing; over the foaming cascades, till lost in the d s' iiit crhnrs of the forest, that creates a pens.vcntss in the licaii, ofwuci,, o;;) Uio,-,^; who have heard, can for one moment form the slightest conception. K \r^ -' I 110 And from tlie cloud-capped mountain high, Where now the fearless eagle sleeps, The stream sends forth a broken sigh, While tumbling down the rugged steeps— And from the hollow, blasted pine, Where heaven's light'ning played along, And wild grapes close their tendrels twine, Comes forth the screech-owl's boding song. 1 I i' '] 'f i There's scarce a sound, or motion here, But wandering breezes now and then, That slowly steal upon the ear. In broken murmurs from the glen — The Lake enjoys a dreamy rest, And all upon its waters — save The pelican's soft bosom, pressed By gentle throbbings of the wave. "Vet, ah ! how changed the sunny hour, When Ta-poo-ka, the trembling bride, t Ill Stood by the Water-God's deep bower,* With iier young Sioux at her side — Where, dancing onward as it goes, They viewed the Hquid Curtain s\ foam, iff, ''•■ There is a belief uinoiig the Indians, thiit a Spirit piesldcs at all their great cascades and waterfalls— and to this Deity tliey frequently make sacrifices. According to Ovin, a similar opiiuoii bccms to have prevailed among the ancients. IIwc (torn us, h(uc sales, hwc sunt penetralia mngni Aninis : in hoc residens facto dc cautihus aiitro, Undis Jura dahit, ni/7nphisque colcntibus undas. ■\ This idea occurred to me on viewing the falls of the Ridcdti, or Curtain — which tumble beautifully over a perpendicular rock of about fifty feet, into the Ottawa, at a short distance below the flourishing village of Bytown. — The river Rideau — from which the great Canal derives its name — is about four hundred yiirds wide directly above the Falls, and forms altogether a most delightful prospect. It was iu one of those charming evenings, which nrc so inviting, in the month of August, when the setting sun seems to linger with admiration oa the sur- rounding scenery of the forest, that I first found niysel standing by the side of this romantic cataract. Here, while gazing on the foaming waters, and the beautiful tints of the arched rainbow, so enchantingly thrown across their bosom, I felt as if enjoying the pleasing magic of some fairy home. But the poet's joys are merely momentary — he is the child of impulse — too much given to association and reflection — for, scarcely had I been fanned l)y the refreshing breeze of the beau- teous waterfall, than a contrast with my own loved mountain-stream, which first attracted the light steps of my boyhood, presented itself, with all the original happiness of days, which now only exist on the bro id waste of a too faithful recollection. - . k2 L;- 1V2 Just where the tinted rainbow throws An archway o'er his fairy home. But, sleep ! — no war-whoop e'er shall break The silence of this last repose, Nor cause that noble heart to wake, Which fell the victim of its foes I Ah, no ! — then let Alkwanwaugh's shade, And Ta-poo-ka's undying name, Still have such tributes to them paid As souls, like theirs, unsullied claim. Now let the Christian white men, three, Fast pinioned to that bas-wood tree, To wait the tomahawk's aimed blow, For crimes that should not be forgiven- Declare, ere forced to undergo The mandate of avenging heaven, If now, they do not deeply feel Their conscience-horrors o'er them steal. I i 113 A ghastly gloom encircles all Who sleep beneath night's dark'ning pall Their last, long sleep— and not a sound Disturbs this tranquil hour of sorrow, Save the cascade's echoing round The hollow clifFs— as if to borrow, From the bleak caverns as they go, Responses for their dirge of woe. But now, close by that maple grove, I see a flame ascend above The wide spread brandies— and the light Gleam on warriors round it standing — 'Tis the great Council-fire of night. And, by its signal, now commanding All the brave Chieftains quickly there. To tell the whites their doom, and where. Among the youthful heroes all, It was agreed the whites should fall, k3 A ■v^* , lU And that the tomahawk alone, Directed hy a hand unerring, Should make them for their wrongs atone^ Deep wrongs, which now demand repairing- And that Alkwanvs augh's noble shade. Must have the offering to it paid. The foul invaders of our rights — These cold — unfeeling — Christian whites— Who seek the Indian to destroy, And blot away his name and nation — Shall never more our peace annoy, Which long has been their occupation — * m * " Although the Indians have suftered a great deal of abuse, they are," observes Mackenzie, "naturally mild and affable, as well as just in their dealings, not only among themselves, but with strangere. They are also generous and hospitable, and good natured in the ex- treme, except when their nature is perverted by the inflammatory in- iluence of spirituous liquors. They have been called thieves — but when that vice can, with justice, be attributed to them, it may be traced to their connection with the civilized people who come into their country to traffic." 11^ No — no — each now must lose bis head, T'appeasc our brother heroes dead. Our hunting grounds— our streams— our lakes, The white usurper freely takes, And all the Indian's God* has given — Nor does he, in his rapid plunder. Think of our wives, and children, driven Far, far from home — and torn asunder,f Or seeking food we cannot give, To bid their little spirits live. The captives now, with downcast eyes. As reading their own obsequies, * Here the young warrior might have addressed iheni in the lan- guage of Alcides — Et sunt, qui credere jwssini esse dcos ? f The white Christians having taken possession of the whole of the country which the Great Spirit had given us — one of our tribes was forced to wander far below Quebec — others, dispersed iu small bodies, were obliged to seek places of refuge where they could — and some went far to the westward, and mingled with other tribes, — Relatione of a Mohican Chief, > no Look downward still — while by the flame, Whose glaring light sometimes fell o'er them, Was seen the heavy brow of shame. Once never raised — and, just before them, War's last deciding Council stood, Embosomed in the darkling wood. ^ • ' Come, said a youth, of noble look, As he his sheaf of arrows shook, Come, give the word — this pointed dart, Sent from my bow-string,* faithful ever, Shall quickly reach the foe-man's heart, And all life's chords unerring sever — My country's wrongs I must redress, Nor longer feel her wretchedness. * Perhaps it may be well to ohsctvc here, that the bow is made of cedar, six feet in length, with a short iron spike at one end, and serves occasionally as a spear. Their arrows are well made, bulbed, and pointed with iron, flint, stone, or bone — they arc feathered, and from two to two feet and a half in length. The Indians arc excellent niaiks- meu— seldom or never nKs>ii'g' their »! .'ect. It7 Fierce were the burning words that came, T.ikc lava floods of \m\v^ Hanie, Trom feeling's strong, but injured fount, When thus, each youth's keen eloquence,- His Nation's evils would lecount— Whose soul would be her bold defence^ Or, puiish in that Natioii's full, When ruin had encircled alL The rage that fired each youthful breast Subsided to a partial rest, As now the aged Sachems rise. In manly pride, to speak their feeling, And, to the Spirits of their skies, In most affecting words, appealing, Said— Hurons, spare 1* give, give consent- Pardon these whites— they may repent. * Another instance of Indian generosity was displayed at the battle of Fienchtovvn, on the '2'2d of January, 1813, by Roundhead, the distinguished Wyandot Chief, who commanded upwards of six hundred V, y 118 -" they may repent," Was soon by listening echoes sent Around La Cloche* — from flood to flood, O'er winding hills — to that great mountain, Where long the Indian's God hath stood, To list the murmurings of the fountain, While gushing forth beneath his feet, In haste some kindred stream to meet, TecuiA'Seii spoke the words of peace With full persuasion,f to release warrioii in that engngement against the Americans. Shortly after tlie coinuicnccnient of the action. General Winchester, coniniander of tiie enemy's forces, was taken prisoner by this worthy Chief — Jind, without either tomahawking or scalping, delivered safely to the Colonel of the British troops. It is questionable, if Roundheaij had fallen into the hands of his enemy, whether he would not have met a similar fate to that of the brave Tecumseh I * There is an island on the skirts of Lake Huron, called, by the Co- vadian Voyageurs, La Cloche, in consequence of a rock, standing there on a plain, which, being struck, rings like a bell. f Well may it be said of TEcunrsErr, what the poet Ennius re- marked respecting Cetiiegis, the Roman orator- -s^rtf/rt- medulla — lor he possessed tlic very essence of persuasion. 'L, ,-rf*r 119 The captive foe He would not shed A tyrant's blood, when conquered— standing In chains, like those who bend the head In sadness here — with grief commanding The finer feelings of the heart, To let them now unhurt depart. He paused— then cast his eyes of jet On Skenandow — who quickly met. With mutual glance, their magic power — And on Tecum seh's right hand turning, Now in this last — this tragic hour. Close by the flame's extensive burning, To take a view of friends and foes, And thus, his heart's pure thoughts disclose. White men ! — here, oftentimes have we Exchanged the Wampum* — set the tree — ^- WAMPuai.— -This is the cuii-eiit iuoiicy>iiioiig tliclndi.ms : it is :)i" two sorts, white and puri)le— the wliitf is woiked out of the insides s. 120 The tree of peace — and tied the chain* Of friendship, which yourselves have broken Disgracefully — still to remain — And the hatchetf — the purest token Of Indian faith — by us long buried — You've foully raised, and to war carried. Through this long hair of raven dye:}: The winds oft wandered — and the sigh 1/ A of the gi cal Congues into the form of a bead, and perforated so as to be strung on leather — the puriile is worked out of the inside of the muscle shell ; they are wove as broad as one's hand, and about two feet long. These they call belts, and give and receive them, at theii treaties, as the seals of friendship. — Coldon. * The chain of friendship vpill now, wc hope, be made strong, as you desire it to be. We will hold it fast, and our end of it shall ne- ver rust in our hands. — Speech of Corn Vlant, the Seneca Chief, to George Washington, \ The Indians, at their treaties of peace, bury the war-axe, n.s a token of reconciliation — and never have they been known to violate the conditions stipulated. I am sorry that it is not in my power to give a similar character of their white neighbours. \ The Indians have long black hair, ilowing loosely over their shoul- ders. It appears rather coarse — but this may be attributed to its being ^^r. 121 Of grief has echoed far and near, Long since the Christian came, deceiving With kind words* — and many a tear Our children wept, for thus beh'eving His artful smiles — nor dreamed that he Would be our cause of misery. But we forgive, — You may return — f Perhaps your wives and children mourn, so constantly exposed without any covering. Among the women who pay some attention to their hair, I have seen such glossy locks, waving in the breeze, as would call forth the admiration of a modern Carolan. It is very remarkable, that the oldest Indians whom I visited retained their raven locks, flowing, and as freshly coloured, as when in the full vigour of life— not like the puny whites of the present day, who become either bald or grey before they have time to put on the toga virilis. So much for luxury I * Your speech written on the great paper, is to us like the first light of the morning to a sick man, whose pulse beats strongly in his tem- ples, and prevents him frohi sleeping — he sees it and rejoices, but is not cwvgA.— Speech of Corn Plant, the Seneca Chief, to George Washington. f '• To the pure all things are pure."— The Indians are a peacea- l)le race of men— and an European may travel from one side of the continent to the other without experiencing insult.— W. Leduc. ^. 12^ I Like the poor «quaw — when struck in death The hunter of the deer is lying — Or doomed to catch his parting breath While on the field of battle dying — Who, till his spirit mounts above, Still casts on her his looks of love ! i i t Go — go — myself shall now unbind The Wattapf which has here confined Your blood-stained hands* — nor ever more Return, to bring the Huron sorrow, * The conduct of America towards the ladian tribes is dishonoura. ble, in the extreme, to her National Governmt::t, I cannot, however, comment better on this subject than by giving the fi/iiovving observa- tions of General Jackson, President uf the United States, in his message to the House of Kepresentatives, in 1829, *' Proffsing a desire to civilize and settle them, (the Indians,) we have, at the same time, lost no opportunity to purchase their lauds, and thrust them further into the wilderness. JBy this means, thsy have not only been kept in a wandering state, but been led to look on us as unjust, and indifferent to their fate. Their present condition, contrast- ed with what they once were, makes a powerful appeal to our sympa- thies. Our ancestors found them the uncontrolled j)ossessors of the vast regions. By force, they have been made to retire from river to river, and from mumuain to mountain, until sonte of the tribes have become ! 123 f .^ I Or scatter round his woody shore The anguish of some future morrow — This, this we ask — nor further roam, To rob the Indian of his home.* extinct, and others have left but remnants, to preserve for a while their once terrible names. The fate of the Mohican, the Narragansett, and the Delaware, is fast overtaking the Choctaw, the Cherokee, and the Creek. Humanity and national honour demand that every efl'ort ithould be made to avert so great a calamity." In quoting the language of the Piesident, which accidentally fell in- lo my hand, as this woik waS about to issue from the press, I consider it one of my best authorities in support of what I have previously ad- vanced. I feel no wish to bear away from whatever merit America may possess ; but, regardless of consequences — should I even be de- nounced like Thomas Moore, Basil Hall, and others — I must say, that, would America throw aside her proverbial national vanity, and act more reallij, without the aid o'l in'opJiecy, she might redeem a great deal of her lost character, and no longer become the o])ject of jest and ridicule to every intelligent traveller and historian, vvho thrives by her folly, and laughs at her presumption 1 General Jackson very happi- ly uses the word **i)rofession" — America always makes great profes- sions, but little execution — witness her ship-building transaction, to re- deem unfortunate Greece I — Be opitulandutn, noji verbis. There is a manly boldness and generous feeling displayed in every sentence which the noble President has uttered on this subject, of in- justice to the poor Indians, that at once discovers the benevolent feel- ings of a heart, vvhich is not only brave in war, but kind in peace. — Such men as Jackson deserve well the high honours of their country. * In these four last stanzas, I have been obliged to sacrifice har- mony, in order to preserve, as much as possible, the peculiar, short, l2 V, 12'1 Thus far the Chief.— And from the tree — Once more set to their liberty — The whites retire — with steps as slow As steals the guilty heart from danger — And through the woods in silence go, Midst swamps and gloom — or like some ranger, When destined on his midnight prey, Too impious for the blaze of day. I H The clouds retiring seek the west, Like giant spirits to their rest — And now, the pale moon's* trembling beam, From out the walking elements, ti pithy phrases generally used by the best Indian orators. It is the mat', lev, not the sound, that I wish to communicate. * During a visit to Colonel John Macdonell, of Point Fortune, on the banks of the Ottawa, he mentioned, among a number of his in- teresting accounts of the Indians, that they generally consult the ap- pearance of the new moon, previous to their entering on their hunting excursions. If the moon presents herself horizontally, it betokens foul weather ; but if in a perpendicular form, so as not to admit of any thing suspending from her horn, it inspires a good hope of a pleasant ^1 I. ^ i y" 125 ' Comes faintly shining o'er the stream,* Oi. whose smooth verge some soul repents, And with each tear that sadly falls, The errors of this life recalls. Tecumseh and his heroes, brave, Now enter on the pulseless wave. And in their barks that lightly press The bosom of the tranquil waters- Much like some sea-gorVs soft caress, When round his pleasing smiles he scatters— and a successful chase. Coi,. Macdoxell is one of those hearty, kind and interesting gentlemen, with whom a travellci- soon forgets that ho is a stmnger. His door is the open vcstiDulum of hospitality, and no man cvei- visited it without a kind reception. After too short a visit, I took my departure— but not without the hearty shake of a friendly hand, and, on my part, a pledge to revisit this nohle representative of a worthy riighland gentleman. * This idea occurred to me after travelling along the banks of the Schuylkill, where my fancy conjured up the image of my countryman, Thomas Mooue, and presented his beautiful verses, written when, perhaps, like myself, slr.iying along its winding banks, catching the lir.sc impressions that novelty and romantic scenery generally produce lo .ittract the admiration of the poet. l3 V T Z"^' v^^ 12G Are, in one moment's airy flight, Beyond the distant reach of sight. * h And now, the remnant seek their homo, Close by the cascade's noisy foam — Where, in some welcomed, calm repose, The wearied heart might cease its mourning, And half forget its latest woes,* Midst peaceful joys, in dreams returning, Until it felt that soothing bliss, Which makes life's days all happiness. % * Although I have, in many instance?, alluded to the unfeeling treatment of America towards the Hist proprietors of her soil — yet, I am far from considering but that many of her liberal and intel- ligent sons will heartily agree with the correctness of my observations, America is improving, and I wish well to her success, but, Jndignor qiiaiidoqite bonus dormitatlloments. In my travels through that country, I had the honour of being introduced to some of her highly po- lished and most interesting gentlemen, among whom I will mention His Excellency C. P. Van Ness, the present minister to the Court of Spain. Tiiis gentleman is very conversant, and has a good knowledge of both men and thing?. There is a becoming ease and a gracefulness of man- ner in his address, wh'ch is certainly engaging, and gives a stranger a fiivourablc opinion at his fust interview with this very accomplished American. Ml .» ^ 127 But, as they took their onward way, A direful band that darkly lay In silent ambush, rushed upon The scattered Chiefs — nor ever making One minute's pause, till life was gone, But o'er the dead and dying breaking, Till Skenandow's brave arm had stayed The fury of the white man's blade. Alone the noble Huron stands, Amidst the crash of warring hands That round him throng — and e'en the threes The captive threet of Christian feeling ! So lately rescued from the tree. Surround the Chief— their death-blows dealing- But ere his life's blood they could shed, Two fell among the mangled dead. Some now behind, and some before, Around the warrior hero pour, / 31 Iff 1«28 Like demons of the raging storm — Yet, still majestic midst the foe, Wns seen his bold, his manly form, There dealing death in every blow, Till— from the man he saved — a dart Had pierced the recess of his heart ! ^ ll Skenandow fell ! — and calmly sleeps By Erie's darkling groves of pine, Where gently now the wild grape creeps, As if to guard the holy shrine — Nor shall his name be e'er forgot — But future bards, in songs of grief, Will sadly tell of that lone spot, Where rests the noble Huron Chief ! m y -»«r»*S36!«S Ifi >• ■i^ i: ^^■^ ( ^■i ^^B i ^tt \ ^ , ■^nrWF:. »^Nw,^*Ma*.*.'*wfc^--. ''*ffr .' ?j*R*w*-, 131 TO CLARA. Where the wide spreading tliorii Diffuses its shade, Oft, oft with my Clara I've pleasingly strayed — Or paused, while she culled, By the moon's trembling light, The primrose, or daisy, That slumbered in night. And dear were the pleasures Such minutes had given, To brighten our path. In a calm summer even. -"*\ i\ But, like the soft joys That first hallow the hearty In love's early hour — Then haste to depart — yf m So hurried the moments, That only could throw A beam on life's pathway, Long shadowed by woe. w- Yet, I still must remember The pleasures that flowed, And the heaven of love Which my Clara bestowed. i\ i ^ t 133 TO MISS E- R. 4. ON HEARING HER SING A BEAUTIFUL INDIAN MELODY, KCCOA- PANYING HERSELF ON THE PIANO. Dwells there no joy in song ?— OssiAy. Oh, yes ! my fairest, there is a feeling, Alone conveyed through the tide of song. Which, like enchantment, comes softly stealing, When lips like thine its sweet notes prolong. And I could wish here to pause with pleasure, Catching each soft melting tone that falls. In purest rapture, like fairy measure, Which joys departed once more recalls. And from each chord that now pliant trembles. Sweet notes come flowing, like the strains you pour, While every thrill which that chord resembles, Awakes a joy here unfelt before. n ■ .% i i V III i Oh ! could such moments but last for ever, Kg other home I'd seek for purer bliss— Ah, no ! dear girl, I would wander never From you, and raptures which hallow this. MY IRISH HOME. While o'er the billow's heaving breast Our bark does slowly glide, Each lingering look is backward cast, Along the curling tide — And still I hope some happier day May teach me not to roam, But bless me with the smiles so gay That cheered my Irish home. Yet, Erin dear, thy green-clad hills Recede too fast from view, While now each breeze the canvas fills That bears me far from you- 'll il ..;# ■ .% 135 And, oh ! I stand upon the deck, To hear the rusth'ng foam, That half conveys my sorrows back To my dear Irish home. And now, I watch tliy mountains high, Above the ocean's brim. In graceful beauty touch the sky, Through closing night-shades dim. Till every vista disappears, And lost in evening's gloam. The twinkling star of nignt, that cheers My much loved Irish home. TO THE COUNTESS OF D- -E. Oh ! do not curse the humble bard- He's poor enough without it For if he said your heart is hard. There's very few will doubt it. m2 136 V * MONODY, TO THE SHADE OF LORD BYRON, f i True, thou hadst faults — and who has not ? But were thine still of deeper dye, Than crimes of some who share that spot Where thou wert deemed unfit to iij ? Ah, no ! — And yet to judge I dare Of every fruit which bears thy name, As well as he who would not spare One corner for thy deathless fame ! Yet, Westminster, in all her pride Of sculptured grandeur, never knew, Nor placed within her marbled side, A bard, whose claim's more justly due. Then, Byron I until Time's last verge. The weeping muse the tale shall tell, And sigh thy melancholy dirge, Thou star of genius, loved too well. 137 Ah ! why say loved ? — has not the Dean ♦ With soul so pious, weighed thy worth Refused thee all that could remain- One spot in consecrated earth ! But, sweetest bard — no matter where The mortal wreck of dust be thrown — A monumer^. thou'lt ever share In hearts of feeling, like thine own. Yes, genius will record thy name — And poets yet unborn will sing Thy lasting praise, and still proclaim Thee master of the dulcet string. The haughty Dean shall be forgot, Nor known beyond his life's short span— * Perhaps it may be well here to observe, that the present Dean ol' Westminster would not allow the remains of the immortal Byron a Rniall spot aniong the tombs of his literary countrymen— judging that the tvritirigft and conduct of the noble Bard had altogether rendered him unworthy of such an honour [—proh imdor .' Yet, were others to sit in judgment, like the pious Dean ! on the liteiar> foibles and im- moral conduct of many who have been admitted to the sacred precincts of Westminster, it is almost certain, the uncompromising Byron would stand forth from the impartial ordeal, the most pure and spotlcw. m3 t I n ;!■. I J r# ' aI 138 His memVy \vit!i himself shall rot, Liimournecl, unwept by muse or man. Oh, Byron ! thou shalt point the way, Where sordid dullness can't obtrude, And shine, in heaven's clear galaxy, A star of brightest magnitude. The rising youth will catch the beam That falls from splendour such as thine — His heart will drink the living stream, And feel each ray as if divine. And while he views thine orb so bright. To. yon grey towers his thoughts he'll turn- And ask, who dared oppose thy right To sleep within her guarded urn ? Nor can he doubt, there many a heart — ■ Though basely born — igncbly bred — Has found a tomb, where dwell apart Memorials of the mighty dead. Are trifling fops, whose highest powers Were spent in fashion's giddy round, m if^ I 139 Deemed wortlilcr of those reverend towers. For rest upon that sacred ground ? Or, is it that thy iwrhs proclaim Thy corse unfit to grace that hall ? — Oh, stranger ! read each burnished name, And say, was Byron's worse than all ? No — there are bards and lordlings too, Whose sculptured columns proudly rise, Whose souls were black in heaven's view, Whose works have spread despair and sighs. Unblushing, who religion scorned. Fair virtue mocked in wanton jest — Yet, by a worthier crowd adorned, They press upon thy sacred breast. The muse, too modest for the strain, Deigns not to touch the trembling chord, That here could waken thoughts of pain, At mention a'en of many a lord. But Greece, when o'er the Turkish vokc, Refulgent shall in glory rise, "■» '(. 140 VVill BvHoN'. deathle., shade invoke. And point .„.Vds Britain's favouriieskie,. A^Klat bards of old sho']l„;,„,^„,„^__ "" "'"""P'°- "1 affliction's hour- TOen sl,alt „.„„ shine with bWghter fan,e. And scorn pale envy's narrow po^er. BvB0«, farewell !,hy„,„,^,,^„,.^^^ Untouched by time, or fell decay J And future bards, in songs, will give . ^''•y ">emory to posterity. ;]^ ! "!' TO MISS I 'oved you. 'tis true, for a minute, W,en chance flung you into my way. But sure, all the pleasures had in it Were not worth one half the delay. St r tj i 141 LINES, VVUITTEN OK VISITIKO I'HK l-AtLS OF THE CJUUDIKUK,* 1827. Stream of the cJark, unbounded wiJd, What varied changes here to roam, Where nature's free, untutored child, Light paddles o'er thy watr oam. it-jf And in yon h'quid sheet above, Suspended near the gloomy verge, Each image of the leafy grove. Seems trembling from the swelling surge ! Oh ! there are times, when fancy feels Each splendid joy this world pourtrays And with her magic impulse steals The heart to thoughts of other days. * On consideration, it has been thought proper to substitute these stanzas, and the two following little poems, in pla<5e of the address to Polyphemus, wliich, perhaps, was too satirical for a publication of this nature. >«» t 142 And them are visions of the past, Reflected from our boyhood's prime, W'lien memory's eye is backward cast, Along the curling brook of time. Yet, in the path which fate has given. More splendid scenes ne'er shone to man, Than now, yon tinted bow of heaven Embraces in its fairy span. i«^> «> i Here, where the happy Indian strays, Or loiters on the frowning steep. To watch the beaver, where it plays Its frolicks in the distant deep. How blissful thus one hour to spend. Nature's grand outlines to behold — And to some kind — some valued friend. The feelings of the heart unfold. '*3 ■ — —^^iiaafcSfti Yes, tlicrc aro few but own the power Which mutual conversation l)rings, In such a place — in such an hour — To cheer the soul's dark sorrowings. For transient arc the beams that play Across the lonely path we tread — And dim the momentary ray, That even Hope itself can shed — Can shed, to gild the chequered stream, On which the shade of life is cast — When in its pale, its fleeting gleam, We read the future by the past ! But from such gloomy thoughts as these, My heart would now most gladly turn, Where Nature's mildest prospects please, And Discontent might cease to mourn. 144 •.A. The frowning cliff, that far extends Its spray4 b I ■ **■ - -^^^ ' "^-^ f J. •e — ?rc.* 159 Oh ! these were hours, whose soft enchanting spell Came o'er tiic heart, in thy grove's rleep recess- Where e'en poor Shcnstone might have loved to dwell, Enjoyhig the pure calm of happiness ! But soon, how soon, a different scene I trace, Where 1 have wandered, or oft musing stood : — And those whose cheering looks enhanced the place, No more shall smile on thee, lone Spencer- Wood !* es, rest. im Quebec, nd romantic ot so niagni- c Cohos, on h flow iiito Iirough the ss o£ soda" deur of the * This is one of the most beautiful spots in Lower Ciinadti, and the property of the late Hon. Michael IIknuy Pekckval, who rcsid" cd tliere witli his accomplished family ; whose pulislied, and highly educated minds, rendered n)y visits to Spencek-Wood, doubly inter- esting. — It is handsomely situated on the lofly banks of the St. Law- rence, a little more thin two miles from Quebec. The grounds, and gravel walks are tastefully laid out, interspersed with a great variety of trees, planted by the hand of nature. The scenery is altogether nuignilicent, and paiticularly towards the east, where the great pre- cipices overhang Wolfe's Cove. This latter place has derived its name from tluit hero, who, with his IJritish troops, nobly ascended its frowning dills, on the ju"ght of the 11th of September, 17^9, and took possession of the plains of Abraham. ».:p o2 ^ I do TO On this rock's narrow brink, whicli o'erlooks thy loved cot, I sit at the close of the day, And watch the round moon just emerge o'er that spot Where the forest looks smiling and gay. '( ) I*. And surely 'tis sweet, in this moment of peace, From the world here shut out a while, The scenes of my boyhood once more to retrace, Though seldom e'er blest with a smile. And yet, I could wssh to renew them again, Had I one faithful friend by my sitl e, That would freely partake of my pleasure or pain, And console me, whatever betide. And oh 1 such a friend I could fancy in thee, With a soul of the happiest die. IM «M»k 161 Unruffled and pure, as that mirror I see Reflecting a summer-eve sky. >ved cot, spot But here, on my flute, I sliall venture to raise Those melodies, dearest, of thine, Whose every note speaks the transport of days Which never again can be mine. And oh ! may its breathings, now softly drawn out, Be as softly conveyed to thine ear. By the sweet fanning zephyrs, while sporting about, To tell thee SUevegallin is here. NAPOLEON IN EXILE. In the noon of thy fame, and the proud blaze of glory, Dark Fate sent her mandate, and forced thee ow-v As if dreading thy name, in the page of her story, Thou dread wonder of worlds— of kings the dismay o3 .! 1C2 On a wild barren rock in the bosom of ocean, Where nought but the sea-fowl oan willingly rest, Thou art chained from the struggles of war's fell commo- tion, And left to such pangs as may harass thy breast. H Yet — -better, by far, thou hadst sunk in the battle, And closed thy career in the midst of the brave, Among clashing of arms, and war's deadly rattle, Than walk down in silence to Helena's grave. Thou maker of kings, and dethroner of tyrants — Thou greatest of mortals this earth has yet known — Not even the eye of the proudest aspirants Dares look at the crowns made so easily thine own ! Yet, France must remember — let Bourbons deny it — ■ If gratitude touch but one pulse of her heart — Thou hast been her friend through both tumult and rjuiet, Though malice and cn\y their slander impart. fl i\ 1G3 But now, at the foot of a low bending willow, Shut out from the sound of the war-trumpcfs broath, I„ the calm of repose-with a rock for thy pillow- Thou sleepest in silence-the long sleep of death. I Then, where are the trophies that victory brought thee- And where are the diadems dragged from eaeh throne, When nations and kings with devotion have sought thee- Greatest monarch, and guide of the world alone ? ■Tis all but a phantom-the dream of a minute- That flits from the circle where life makes a stand- And serves but to show, all the pleasures had in it Are not worth one half of the cares they command! 164 ^ ^ TO MARY. tVRlTTSN FAOU TUK BANKS OF THC ST. LAWRENCI, NEAR CORNWALL, 1823. To thee, to thee, though far away, My every inward thought I turn, And gladly hope, some future day, This wearied heart may cease to mourn. May cease to mourn, when thou art nigh To soothe and lull its woes to rest, To calm the swell, the hursting sigh, That labours in this tortured breast. I'l i For, Mary ! when the shades of care. In darkness lioated o'er my mind. The pensive hour thou couldst repair, And for each pang a solace find. CB, NEAR 165 But here, through dreary wilds, unknown, . The muse her dirge of sadness sings, Unheard, unheeded, and alone, Wherever chance her pathway brings. America ! thy boasted charms, Are merely fleeting shades of bliss — My every onward step alarms — Some lurking reptile sleeps in this. Oh ! give me back my own green hills. And humble cot on Branno's side, Whence flow the deep Pierian rills, That haste to meet Banu's glassy > .c ; Where Ossian sung, in happier days, The mighty deeds of each loved Chir'"- And still, responsive to hh lays, His gentle harp woke joy or grief. V \ i ^ 166 Tlicre may the setting star of life, Wliich long has vvantlcrcd for repose, Secluded from this world's strife, With thee, my Mary, meet its close ! APOSTROPHE, TO TIIK IIAUP of UKNNIS IIAMTSON, TltE MINSTREL OF MAGILLlfiAX, IN THE COINTV OF DERRY. In the gloom of repose, from the hand that has often, Through transport the purest, touch'd gently thy strings, Thou art destined, ah never ! again once to soften The heart with such rapture as melody brings. Ah, no ! dearest harp ! bleakest ruin hangs o'er thee. Thy chords are all torn — and the minstrel now dead. Who firs*^ through his own native isle proudly bore thee, And loved from thy bosom soft music to shed. i 1 167 Yet tlic children of Erin shall guard sale the willow, That bends in luxuriance o'er his lone grave, And nods in the night-winds-half fanned by the billow, Which loves the IMagilligan shores still to lave. MAGILLlfiAX, In the sunshine of days-now but living in story. Around his thatched cot would the villagers throng. When the heart felt no motion, save proud bursts of glory, And thrills of delight still awoke by his song. as often, J thy strings, ioften ngs. »'cr thee, now dead, bore thee, lied. ^- •#' Oh, Hampson !* each charm sweetest music has in it. In soul-breathing numbers came forth at thy touch. And yielded fresh rapture, each heavenly minute, That the heart, until then, never knew half as much. ^ This « son of soni,,' aiul the last of the wandering min.tieis of Leland, died in his own little cottage, on the shores of Magill.gan, m 1S08, at the advanced age of 115 years. Lady Mokgan has lately caused a niarble slab, with a suitable inscription, to be placed over his grave.-My talented friend, of the Irish Shield, Gkorgk PBri-En, has given, in that valuable publication, a very interesting descnpt.on of Magilligan. worthy of his classical and highly accomphshcd pen. I n n h I 168 But peace to thy shade ! — and while o'er thy wrecked lyre- True emblem of Erin — now hushed in the hall — In sorrow I gaze — deep reflections inspire, And saddest emotions my bosom enthral. Yet, di -' T It venture, loved harp, to restring thee, With i. i, tbo urh but humble — is faithful and true — The zephyrs, while playing at evening, might bring thee Such music as Mcmnon's, when sunbeams glide through. But now, since the night shades arc closing around thee, My last parting wish o'er thee bending I'll pour : — Undisturbed may'st thou rest — as when first I found thee — Till Freedom, to Erin, her anthem restore.* * Since the above stanzas were written, the noble efforts of our generous Sovereign, assisted by the immortal Wellington, and other distinguished patriots, have happily procured for Ireland her long sought freedom. m FS& ■Hi "*"' "^'" -; .^ f ' '^'— hy wrecked IGQ mU^ thee, md true bring thee e through. TO MISS EVELEEN WRITTEN OK THK TABLK HOCK., AT T1I£ FALLS OF NIAGARA, IS'23. Oh ! with thee, my dear girl, 'tis now doubly sweet, One moment to gaze on those columns of foam, O'er the brim of that precipice rushing to mcei. In Ontario's bosom a happier home. und thee, ur: — I found AnJ, oh ! there's a grandeur sublime in the surge, Which awakens a feeling unkindlod before — A language conveyed, in the gloom of that dirge, Sent forth from each torrent that bursts on the shore. "■<« of our rox, and I l»er long But now, from the struggles of waters below. Let us turn out* eyes to a happier scene, And mark the deep tints of yon miniature bow, Commingled with heaven's pure essence of green. \% 170 This, this is an xn\ of grandeur subhme, Mark'tl out iii life's pathway as onward w .» go, To the goal of our hopes, to that heavenly clime, Where the waters of Eden in ouietness flow. i TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY R. 8YMES. JAMUUE VALE. '1 ■ u t Deep o'er the pensive mind, in sorrowing gloom, Sad melancholy holds her potent sway, And marks, oh much loved youth ! thy early doom, From friends as Jear as life thus snatched away. Around the claosic board* shall we no more Pursue the page that marks the foot of time, Or drink from Helicon that living lore. Which lifts the soul, and gives it thoughts sublime. 'ft I I r I * This alliulcs to a Literarij Societt/, established in Quebec iu the wiiitcr of lS2o, ol' which Mk. SvaiEs was a neutber. riiV 171 Ah, no ! tliu scene is closed — each liope is ficd — And life fast fleeting ebl).s from every vein — Thou, Henry — thou art nun)hered with tlie dead, And 1 shall shortly follow in the train. The fairy dreams that long have mocked the view, No more shall rise to cheat th' aspiring soul — Hence to earth's visions let me breathe adieu, And learn ambition's passion to control. Poor Kirk-lVhitc, Dermody, and woe-struck 0/r, Proclaim, in all the tide of highest grief, The mind too sensitive, ill made to bear The storms of fate — in heaven but linds relief. Then, friend, farewell ! and from my feeble lyre Accept the parting tribute that it gives — Since thou art gone to join the heavenly choir, Where that best part, the soul, immortal live?. r2 172 n I II « t P \ ;: \v m CATIILEEN. Over her tearful eyes liunp loose licr disordered locks- Slic wept for her own prei-n liind. -Ossian. Upon a lonely bank, against whose base Saint Lawrence wildly heaves, she sat and wept Her sad misfortune — that dark misfortune. Which thus had forced her from her native cot, And doomed her in a distant land to seek A scanty pittance from a hand unknown. A sun more fierce than ever yet has flung Its scorching beams upon her own green hills, Had marked her care-worn cheek with brownest hue, And tinged her brow with deep Canadian die — To me she told the story of her woes, And hopes of other times, which never more Can wake one spark of joy in her dark soul. '4 173 Yet, CATnLEE>T, though a wreck, seenp-d lovely still. And kindled fceh'ngs of a finer stamp Than pity or compassion e'er hath known. Her plaintive tale was such, as Erin's child, No matter where lie strays to find a home, Might well divine. — But as my pen, too oft, Has freely strayed from that allegiance, Which some may say it owes to England's king, I'll here restrain its open willingness. And check its blamed impetuosity ! Yet, quite too soon, the chequered path of lite Thy young and gentle heart must enter on, Without a guide — save the All-ruling Power, Which, at the call of stainless purity, Is ever readv — and confers a boon, On worth and innocence so chaste as thine. Deep, deep, unseen like Bakou's ardent fire, Lie all ftie sympathies that merit praise pS 1 . / ! I .(. I I . r ■ * H 174 In man's proutl breast, till sadly once he sees Too true an image of his country's fate — The child of impulse weep, and drag the chain — Then all the soft emotions of his heart — As spirits flash resentment on the foe — Quick swell to rage — he strikes, and takes revenge. Oh, Cathleen ! I can truly share thy grief, •And fain would hope, that yet a brighter day May shine with all its wonted cheerfulness. And give to Erin's Isle what Heaven designed ; — Come then with me, the portion of my roof, Which, though but scanty^ thou shalt freely share- And when the shell of joy has once proclaimed Loved Erin ,free, I'll cross the ocean wave, And to thv niountain«cot thyself restore. I •*a li i! I a Hi 175 11 SACRED MELODY. Why should my heart forgetful be Of all thy gifts so freely given ? Why arc my thoughts estranged from thee, Thou God of grace, thou King of heaven ? Oh ! let me from my folly turn, Nor longer walk the path of death — Teach me my errors now to mourn, And praise thee with my latest breath- ».... Too long, in wild poetic dreams, My heart has drunk delusive pleasure, And on the falsely moving streams Of Fancy sought a dying treasure. But, ah ! h'jw soon the vision files. And mocks the bliss we sought for here- ;/ 176 Earth's brightest joy in darkness dies, Nor Iv^aves one hope the soul to cheer. Religion ! gives the soul relief, And points the way to purest bliss — Religion ! dries each tear of grief, And makes us e'en a heaven of this. Then, pardon all my sinful deeds, And wash each blotting stain from me — Oh ! heal this wounded heart that bleeds, And brina' it home to heaven and thee. THE FAIJIY-BOAT. Ill The winds arc hushed, the waves arc still- All nature seems to catch the tone. And caln^Iy list the Clar'net's thrill, And notes of days that now are gone. 177 Ves — I liave heard, in happier hours, Tliat sweet, that fairy breath of sonjj, While yet my patli was strewed with flowers, My own, my native hills among. And now, as f^.'er the water's brim That little bark of pleasure steers, Through time's extended vista, dim, It wakes the joys of other years Joys, happy joys, that long have slept, Now memory's page unfolds again, And all the scenes o'er which I've wept. Seem half revived in music's strain. And I am sure, that heart and hand, So happily each soft note swelling, Are not unknown to Erin's land. And seem as if her sorrows telling ! 178 1 III Vor peace no longer crowns her liills — No shell of gladness cheers her hall — No evening dance — by purling rills Ilcr daughters led the festive ball. Oh ! there's a pleasing sadness thrown — A mclancholv bliss, that steals Along the heart, and makes it own The power tiiat melody reveals — When thus, on Zephyr's airy wing, Notes loved in boyhood reach the ear— The notes my Mary joyed to sing, Bv LouGHNEA Gil's bf>nks when I was near. V But I liave left my own dear lakes, My cottage maid and humble home. To wander here, through woods and brakes, Where free as air the Indians roam. I 179 Vet, Erin ! though we sadly part, My soul's devotion bends to thee, With ail the fervour of a heart That pants to know that thou art free. And when that foul, unholy chain The patriot-hand shall proudly break, I'll string my native harp again, ^ And all its former songs awake. TO A GREAT POETICAL PLAGIARIST, In council, where the muses met, To their kind God appealing— It was resolved— without regret That you be hanged for stealing. . j., ) M"*»«t.-- '- W' 18U '# A FUGITIVE GARLAND, TO KE fcXIlEWN ON XIIE STUANCJE CHAVK OF CKOrc;K F. COOK.2, THE "IRISH nOSCIl'S." Nun e^o te mcia Chartis inurnatum silebo. Totve luos patiiir honores impu/ie, carpere lividas obiiviotte*. IIOHACE. 1 Here have 1 come, with reverential tread, O'er many a grave that throngs this sacred spot, To seek thy Tomb, among the unknown dead. Who sleep around — unmourncd — and long forgot. y , And there's a feeling — sucli as hearts like mine Alone may feel — comes trembling through my frame, While iiow I trace the Demon-defaced line That bears, oh Cooke ! thy much Insuhed name ! But. ih'.ngh some impious hand has dared (o touch Thfc niaibie block thy friend erected here — ^) H GK F. COOK.2, I oblivione*. IIOKACIC. 181 There is a pyramid to thee — and sucii As pale-faced envy never can come near. That pyramid is Fame's — and her great hand Displays the banner Genius o'er thee iumg, When, in obedience to her high command, Nations were captives to thy magic tongue ! I spot, I, J forgot. no I my franiP, I name ! touch Yet, I've a liope, that ere a distant day. Some spirit, prompted by indulgent heaven. Will safely to that Isle thy bones convey, Where first the mountain-breeze of life vvas given. And this exotic plant* — this lonely one — Sole veidure, budding on this naked mound, * The only verdure I could find on the hallowed griive of Cooke was a solitary Shamrock, which seemed to have taken shelter close by the corner of the nionun'cnl, as the faithful representative of the tragedian's country. T.'nvvilling, therefore, tiiat il should he exposed to such wreck and abuse as some foul hands have already inflicted on the monument, \ have deprived .SY. i'«;//, of New York, of this re. a m 182 I will translate — that, e'en when I am gone, Tt may, to deck thy future grave, be found — f iW ill : •i 4 .) Where it will flourish long in honoured rest — No foot to bruise or soil its tender frame — Nor folded reptile slumber on its breast, But freshly bloom with Cooke's undying name I TO Nay ! ask not why that dark'ning gloom Sits heavy on my youthful brow— Or why thus fled the healthful bloom, And left my check so sallow now — 1 I ) ;f! spcctcil cn!l)lcm of St. Pntrick, by conveying it ton.y own temporary rthodc, and shall finally plant it on the green siiniinit of the f'owcry mur\th{\ Site vegn II in, 'n\ the county of Deny — where it may once more imbibe the dew of a friendlier shy, and spread forth its little blossoms to the fairy breezes of its native mountains. 183 Or wliy my harp 1 take no more, To wake again its slunib'ring string, Or swell the note, so loved before, Whose simplest tone could sjlaee bring. There is a cause I dare not tell, Wiiieh, like a tempest rude, doth shake Isly bosom's chord — (no fancied spell) — Like reeds upon some curling lake. J iiere was a time when every joy, Like sunbeams playing o'er the wave, Danced in my path — vithout alloy — And to each sweet new relish gave. Then, ask no more — no lover's thought Disturbs one fibre of my breast — Ah, no ! 'tis something dearer bought, Which ne'er, till life's last pulse, can rest. q2 I 184 V m ^1 1 Tliere is but one, ard only one, Can read the tortiuing pang that's cast To wreck this lieart — yet were go'i^> How tbndly should I breathe my last ! i i'^i i 1 TO MISS M (J That languid look and mournful air Bespeak a heart depressed by cc-rroNV — And throbs ebb i'orth, as if despair Had left ior thee no shining morrow. Then, tell me — has false hope deceived, And proved a tyrant so unfeeling ? Or, has some youth — with vows believed — Betrayed that heart, whence sighs are stealing ? y. 'I' ■1*1 iiihiHiiMgiliatliiMWhrfi 185 If 80— may all tliu direful pangs A wounded conscience can awaken, His bosom tear, with venom'd fanf,rs, Till by the world and life forsaken. That p.diid cheek appears to mc, In '»1I ■ dress of deepest anguish, The very type of misery, Where yoiith and hope together lungniih. But, ah ! the morning calm, I fear, Of love is past— nor joy's emotion Kemains to smooth thy pathivay hero, Or I'ght the Hame of thy devotion. IIow desolate that heart must be, Still doomed— no gleam of bliss remaining- T'endure the curse of memory, Past miseries ah)ne retaining ! q3 |i. ff ^. m: i. ' x e i ■,%. ^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) / ^ 11.25 |4£ 1^ 1^ 1^ K 112.2 f -^ i|g i U ■ 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80 (716) 872-4503 iV ,v ^ } \ ^^T^ 'tS. ^\ <^ "q.^ i/.. ■i ^ 186 I i Then, let me weep and sigh with thee, And look such words as can't be spoken- Come, fly dear girl— oh ! fly to me — I'll sooth that heart too sadly broken. THE BROKEN HEART. " Slifi was not boautifu!, if bloom And smiles form beauty — for, like dcatli, Her brov was ghastly," Those veering thoughts which toss thy labouring mind, Lost in its own dark agony, are sad, And form a pit'ous wreck from what they feed on, In youtli's short morning. Thine the fate of hearts, tender, kind, possessing All the warmth that pure, gentlest love inspires. Till by sons© stroke ungenerously severe. They fall and languish. i > I ^ .j*^..' m i I ■ 187 Lately I've seen thy full buoyancy of soulj Playful and free, as mountain-sylph or fawn, Ere pain, or anxious care thy thoughts estranged, Or sorrow found thee. But, alas ! the shifting scene has left a trace — A trace too eloquent of lasting woes. In which we read misfortune's dark impression, Fixed, indelible. That cheek, on which youth's loveliest bloom has played, And brow, whose radiance might have fully vied Still with the most boasted of the eastern fair, Have lost their sweetness. J All the winning cheerfulness of thy young heart. And blushing tints which beauty round thee flung- Like flow'rs fading away in their sweet odours- Fast yield to decay. BJ^^KnS^^^^^j^l^jIgKP^^ KsafiEiMlwin MfMtv« i \ I 188 And, like the lone hermit, in his dungeon'd eel!* — Where one bright ray of heav'n's h'ght ne'er enters, Wrapp'd in the sohtude of his working thoughts- Still Memory shines, And gives to other days their happiest hue — Till, at reflection's call, his heart looks back, And shows him what he M-as, is, and soon must be — The very jest of fate. Thus, in the gloom of thine own imaginings, Thou pond'rest o'er bright days, and happy hours, Gene by, no more to cheer life's tedious round, Or smooth thy pathway. But — mildest, fairest — for yet thou still art fair — Had beauty, and all virtue can bestow, Been proof 'gainst ev'ry ill, thou hadst stood unhurt, Beneath life's pressure ! ♦ Ovid very properly terms 'darUners,' ISiaximanutrix curarum. 189 EPITAPH. ON THE REV. Ari((: Jaces Here sleeps, say what you please- Hc's rescued now from bother — He prayed, and sipped his glass, at ease, But ne'er shall sip another — Unless some friend, with friendship fraught, Who, ere he saw liim off in His last caleche, had kindly thought To slip one in his coflin. In Grotius oft he took delight, And Lincoln studied daily — But Holland surely every night, Because more clear than Pale-\y ! 190 TO MISS SUSAN 13- •S. M. h ^ There was a time I loved to gaze Upon thine eyes of deepest blue, And fancied all their beaming rays, Were but thy pure soul shining through. But fancy often points a way, Which calm reflection disapproves, And reason brings a choicer lay, Than what the poet often loves. Yet — while the wildness of my song Has freely caught thy list'ning ear, 'Twas rapture ever to prolong Such notes as thou wert pleased to hear. And, Susan ! I have thought that heart Was but the steady home of love — ■\- W '*«, I """"Wm 191 A home that only could impart Such bliss as angels taste above. Thy truth and candour — dare I say ?- 'Mong females rarely to be found, Were but the beings of a day, As void as echo's mimic sound. To blame, or even to accuse The shifting movements of thy soul, Is not adapted to the muse — She feels an honest self-control — For, oh ! such notes suit not my lyre — It loves to yield its gentle string In unison with joy's desire. Brought forth on Zephyr's airy wing. The object of thy wav'ring care Seems purely worthy to be thine^ 192 True Cambrian-like — then let him share The bliss I seek not to be mine. [^ I A scarlet coat has many a charm, Both Jish, and female hearts to gain — * Attractive powers ! — then dread no harm, The son of Mars will guard from pain ! Let talent hide her modest head- Let worth from scenes like this retire — Let genius never dare to tread The field where woman stands umpire ! Unless in scarlet they be dressed — Instead of bays, a waving feather — Then doubtless they will be caressed, And Su and they shall fly together. [ i j.i 'I I * It is a well known fact, that not only silly girls are very fond of a red coat, but even mackerel arc caught by the foulest bait when co- vered with scarlet. ISSii vj-mte*^' .•^»«.,..>^i,.^ii 193 IMPROMPTU, TO S— C-DM-N, Es(i. IN ANSWER TO A FRIENDLY NOTE, ACCOMPANYING A QUANTITY OF CHOICE WINE, SENT TO THE AUTHOR DURING INDISPOSITION, very fond of a bait when co- Dear C. True, your wine is as good As in goblet e'er stood, Or enliven'd the soul, or the sense The Falemian juice Never was of more use Freeing me from the Paulo Post tense. For long time have I been, Just lingering between Life and death, with some Sibyl as grim- But here now, with one sup, From the dear liquid cup, All my spirits shall flow to the brim. ■»««»««^. 194 IS The Caecubian draught, O'er which Horace oft laughed, As sweet as kind Venus* nectar, Never gave more rehef To the spirit, where grief Pressed deep as the woes upon Hector. r * a ■s. ilj ■■ t E'en good Cato did sip The loved balm with his lip. From th' Amystis, whene'er he should dine- Nor did Phillis do less, The Albanian press Caused her goblet to flow with pure wine. I hope no one will blame Now if I do the same — For our motives and views disagree : 'Tvvas fond pleasure they caught — 'Tis dear health that I've sought — For health's the sweet beverage for me. fm 195 Then, best thanks for your gift, VVIiich my spirits shall lift, And give a new tinge to my feeling — I am grateful to say, That I feel now this day Ev'ry pang of my heart quickly healing. SOPHIA'S JIEPLY. My child—said a mother, with caution severe- I hope you will never forget, That modesty's traces ought always appear In the form where true beauties are met. 'Tis this is the glory and pride of the fair, Adding lustre to every grace Surrounded by gallants, then strictly beware Of that full gaze of thine in their face ! a2 i Let tliy long lashes bind tliy regards to the earth, And evade the rude glance of each youth — Thus emotions of rapture thou'lt quickly give birth, And the flame thou awaken'st be truth. « I Look downward, Mama ! — said the maid in surprise — Hide the beauties that nature has given ? — As well might we think of averring our eyes From the blue smiling lustre of heaven. In periods gone by, might the maidens consent To retract their young charms from the view, When religion's or coquetry's arrows were spent — But at this day, such tales ! — and from you 1 — The men may look down, as subdued by our charms. Till we bid the mild suiters look up — And fear or exult, in the power of our arms, Impeird by despair or by hope. ■I '. cartl), .p '■- ■ I ive birth, 197 From man we emerge, as tlie sunbeams of light CL "* "ound the meridian sun's rim- Then why not the purest best nrrotos of sighif Be incessantly levelled at him ! I surprise — TO MARY, ON HER RETi;RNl>fO TO HBR NATIVE COUNTRV, AFTER AN AB8KNCB OF FIVn YEARS, sent pent — DU !' r charms, Go, fair one — go, and may each gale Propitious guide thee o'er the wave — May gentle breezes swell the sail, And Heaven prove kind my love to save. Go, fiiir one — go to that loved Isle, Where friendship hails thy glad return — Where joy the purest loves to smile, And beauty's torches brightest burn. rS 198 ■ -* And when along the green-clad shore, At evening's close you oft may stray, Ah ! tell me, shall e'en one thought more Be turned to him who's far away ? i Shall memory point to each blest hour So sweetly spent, untinged with care. When oft we sought the hawthorn bower. To sigh love forth and ramble there ? Then high raised rapture filled the eye. And melting fondness filled the heart— Nor dreamed we that an hour was nigh, Tvi wrench our mutual souls apart. But that cursed hour too quickly came. And robbed me of my purest bliss — Nor left me aught, except the name Of ' fev to feel the pang of this. I 199 Then, fare thee well — no more we'll meet By whinny brae, or heath-clad hill— No more thy gentle converse sweet, Can cheer this heart with rapture's thrill. 'Yet, all the influence time may lend, Can't break love's fondest, earliest twine. Nor chill that heart — till life shall end — Which still, dear Mary ! still is thine. i R ANGLE A WE—THE ROVING BARD. From the cot of my father, as day-light descended. And Sol dipped his rim in the far distant wave, O'er the hills of Slievegallin my lone steps I bended, Where the heath-bell nods gently o'er Rang's* silent grave. !( * As there arc fev of the Irish people to whom the writings and character of Ranglbawe, (Francis Dowling, ) are not well known.. f ^. i !\ 500 There calmly in sleop rests the Bard, famed hi £tory, Who oft from his lip would wild melody pcur, When of Erin he sung, and her long faded glory, While his harp the soft numbers repeated Gillorc, m % But that harp wo-n no longer its sweet tones awaken, To gladden the heart with each soft melting thrill — Ah, no ! every chord clumbers sadly forsaken, And the lip that breathed o'er them now hushed on the hill. it is enou.^h to say, that Vs pontic and extemporaneous cfi'usioiis, loge- tlicr with a copiuusncss oftiiat ready wit wliicli is so truly the charac- teristic oi' Ir'slinieii, rendt-red Vnw an object of the greatest respect, and alwuy^ procured for hiivi, wherever he wont, the '* Cead mile faille (lull,,'''* hundred thousand welcomes. — Litic most otiier poets, he was partifularlv Tond of ctdeiirating- the prttly ^iiris of his day. The greatest fiivou-.itc tluit he ever h.iul was a Miss Downy, whose love- ly form and fijatures are still clear to my recollection. I never saw her liut oiu'f, ami tlial '.vhcii I wus hut very y<»un,i:-. She w.is then on a v's.t to a iVicnd, in u y own lift c vilhigc, Ttillinagee — and curiosity led IPC 'o sec the lady whom our old hard iiad so ';ighly ctlehrated. W.tli rude i.oylsli g'^zv, I strictly surveyed the facing fonii of her who once could inspire the lovtr and the poet. There was an in 3''jcribable somc- th ng in iu r look and manner that I thought surpassed all I had ever seen, and made such an imprcasion on my mind, that it still is, and ever shall be, unmoved by tlie operations of time. 4 4 11 story, ;ur, ory, Hllorc, waken, ? thrill— hushed on 201 To the past days of sunshine fond memory bore me, And pictured the joys that no longer appear — She marked out the spot, where the Bard slept before me- That sr^ot which the children of Erin revere. His tomb shall be decked with the ever-green heather- The shamrock and daisy around it be spread — And the sweet smiling daughters of Erin shall gather The loveliest flowers to garnish his bed. liusions, toge- i the charac- atcsL respect, * Cead mile licrpoels, he is day. The whose love- I never saw wns then on ami curiosity ' ctlcl)rated, tier vvlio once ib.ihle somc- id ever seen, nd ever shall Then fiirewell, loved minstrel — although thy harp slum- bers, Some true kindred spirit may yet wake its tone, And touch with pure finger the soul-breathing numbers That liberty kindles in hearts like our own. Yesj — freedom restored to the green hills of Erin, Shall proudly display her own banner again— While the Demon of party in torture's despairing, And tyranny conquered shall writhe in her chain. 202 \i MONODY, TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE CANNING. ■I 1 4 • « 'Tis the last of the great that has gone to his rest, And the death-note is heard o'er the billows afar — The nations where liberty stands now confest Weep sadly the loss of this meteor-star. And Albion sighs while she points to the spot, That bears now inscribed her loved patriot's name — Her Canning ! — that statesman who never forgot What is due to mankind, and his country's fame. Now Liberty's torch shall illumine his urn, And Erin her incense around it shall fling, Whilst praying for freedom ! — and still to it turn, With a faith that incites her pure off' rings to bring. I I >>a i a 203 'Tis an off 'ring of hearts, as fixed, firm and brave, As the rock that withstands the rude surge from the deep. And smiles at the foam, and the wide-spreading wave, That loves the Green Isle in its bosom to steep. I Yet, her prayers shall be heard — for her King he is just And the land of Fitzgerald soon flourish again 'Mong the nations of earth — whilst low in the dust. Oppression shall struggle and gnaw her own chain. Oh, Canning ! the fountain of reason was thine, And the rights of mankind could thee ever inspire ; 'Midst the world's commotion — at liberty's shrine, Thou never forgottest the loved la7id of thy Sire.* From the bed of oppression, and tortures of pain. Pale Frenzy, to ease the deep pangs of her mind, Sought refuge from thee, nor sought she in vain, For thou touched every chord that vibrates on mankind. * luland. I 1 20 of pleasure, or of pain, ) To soothe, or cheer my soul to heaven. But why sho aid fairy fancy stray, Nor leave me with my griefs to dwell ?^ My purest joys have died away, Since first I heard that morning bell.* * Tlie above line were suggcstcci on hearing the morning boll of the General Hospital. The Ccncral IIo,>ital is a very l.oe an.l a ve- 214 Yet, when I slumber with the dead, Some other bard may wander here, To muse, h"ke me, on prospects fled, And all that life had rendered dear ! STANZAS, ADDRESSEU TO THE HON. AND RIGHT REVEREND CHARi.KS JAMES STEWART, I.ORIi BISKOP OF q,{,'EBEC. •i'lX^ 6 yjv co^punia'i \i 1 ■;l Ere I unstring my fond, devoted lyre, Whose faithful throobings ^poke the feeling breast- Or from the field of poesy retire. To seek one Utile calm of blibsful rect ; — ly extensive buiUlIng, siuiatetl at a.>^Jiiirt cll.staiice from Quebec, on tlie winding shores of the Ilivcr St. Ciiarlcs. The chiming of this liell has a most pleasing ciTcct, when heaiJ at a distatice on any part of the sur- rounding hills. S15 Here do I love to mingle with its tone, The parting tone, that softly breathes to thee This heart's best wishes— for thy name alone Is ever dear to memory, and to me. M And blessed are they who feel Religion's power In Gospel truths, by thee so kindly given. To cheer the sinking heart in life's last hour. Thou good — thou worthy delegate froni heaven. And, oh ! how pleasingly the mind surveys Thy tender friendship, oft on me bestowed, Throughout a sunny lapse of happier days, When this wrecked heart with pure devotion glowed. il Had nature formed me of another cast— Or chilled imagination's burning power- Still moping o'er the Fathers had I passed. In dullest gloom, the long and cheerless hour ! N'-Vii 216 But I repine not — in the Muses' train I love to follow — taught by fancy's call To wake a doleful dirge, or pleasing strain, As joy, or woe, alternately may fall ! The mind, alone the standard of the man. If rightly managed, all our bliss secures — And clearly shows, that wise, that holy plan, By which Omnipotence our peace ensures. Farewell, my Lord, until another page Shall ope its spotless bosom to my pen When on the pleasing task I will engage, To sing thy worth—thou kindest, best of men. THE END. j^^ i^ i " r