As of a strong man's grief;

His heart denied its blood-his brain spun roundIle sank upon the ground!

WEARY, but now no longer girt by foes,

He darkly stood beside that sullen wave,
Watching the sluggish waters, whose repose

Imaged the gloomy shadows in his heart;
Vultures, that, in the gried of appetite,
Süll sating blind their passionate deliglit,
Lose all the wing for flight,

And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear,
Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart,

Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!" Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought,

Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream, When, suddenly, his ear

A far off murmur caught,
Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds,

l'p from his father's grave,
That ever still some fearful echoes gare,

Such as had lately warned him in his dream, Of all that he had lost-of all he still might save!

Well knew he of the sacrilege that made That sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kings

Were in their royal pomp and purple laid, Refuge for meanest things ;

Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite, And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell,

By those dread magions nightly practiced there; And who the destined victim of their art;

But, as he feels the sacred amulet
That clips his neck and trembles at his breast-

As once did she who gave i-he haih sel
His resolure spirit to its work, and well

His great soul answers to the threatning dread, Those voices from the mansions of the dead ! Upon the earth, like stone, lle cronched in silence; and his keen ear, prene,

Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear! But soon he rose in fright,

For, as the sounds grew near,
He feels the accents never were of carth :
They have a wilder birth

Than in the council of his enemies,
And he, the man, who, having but one life,
Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife,

Now, in the night and silence, sudden finds
A terror, at whose touch his muhood flies.

The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins,
His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breath
Curdles, as if in death!

Vainly he strives in flight,
His trembling knees deny--his strength is gone!

As one who, in the depth of the dark night, Groping through chambered ruins, lays his hands

On cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains,

The murdered man's remains-
Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief,

When, from the 2. b of ages, came the sound,

’T was but an instant to the dust he clung;

The murmurs grew about him like a cloudHe breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices,

Most sighing sad, but with a sound between,
As of one born to hope that still rejoices,

In a sweet foreign tongue,
That seemed exulling, starting from its shroud,

To a new rapture for the first time seen!
This better voice, as with a crowning spell,
On the chief 's spirit fell;

Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud: "Ah! thou art there, and well!

I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto me
Art life no longer-thou hast brought me life,
Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife.

But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine,
And I will wait until the terrible hour

Hath past, and I may wholly then be thine!
Now am I sworn unto a wilder power,
But none so dear, or precious, sweetest flower,
That ever, when Palenque possessed her tower

And white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy race
Most queen!y, and the soul of truth and

grace;Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep,

And know not to resignI would, but cannot weep!

These are not tears, my father, but hot blood
That fills the warrior's eyes;

For every drop that falls, a mighty flood
Our foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawn

Begins of that last day
Whose red light ushers in the fatal fray,

Such as shall bring us back old victories,
Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn,

Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom,

Where all may read the doom, But none shall dream the horrid history! I do not weer—I do not shrink-I cry For the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee, No other thought I see! My hope is strong within, my limbs are free.

My arms would strike the foe-my feet would fly, Where now he rides triumphant in his sway

And though within my soul a sorrow deep Makes thought a horror haunting memory,

I do not, will not weep!”

Then swore he-and he called the tree whose growth

Of past and solemn centuries made it wear

An ancient, god-like air,
To register his deep and passionate oath.

Hate to the last be swore_ wild revenge,

Such as no chance can chonge,

Vowed he before those during witnesses, Rocks, waters and old trees.

And, in that midnight hour, No sound from nature broke, No sound save that he spoke,

No sound from spirits hushed and listening nigh! His was an oath of power

A prince's pledge for vengeance to his race

To twice two hundred years of royalty-
That still the unbroken sceptre should have sway,
While yet one subject warrior might obey,

Or one great soul avenge a realm's disgrace!
It was the pledge of vengeance, for long years,

Borne by his trampled people as a dower Of bitterness and tears ;

Homes rifled, hopes defeated, feelings torn

By a fierce conqueror's scorn; The national gods o’erthrown-ireasure and blood, Once boundless as the flvod,

That 'neath his fixed and unforgiving eye

Crept onward silently;
Scattered and squandered wantonly, by bands,
Leaguered in shame, the scum of foreign lands,

Sent forth to lengthen out their infamy,
With the wild banquet of a pampered mood.
Even as he swore, his eye

Grew kindled with a fierce and flaming blight, Red-lowering like the sky,

When, heralding the tempest in his might,
The muttering clouds march forth and form on high,
With sable banners and grim majesty.
Beneath his frowning brow a shaft of fire,
That told the lurking ire,
Shot ever forth, ouiflashing through the gloom
It could not well illume,
Making the swarthy cheeks on which it fell
Seem trenched with scarred lines of hate and hell.

Then heaved his breast with all the deep delight
The warrior finds in promise of the fight,

Who seeks for vengeance in his victory.
For, in the sudden silence in the air,
He knew how gracious was the audience there :
He heard the wings unfolding at the close,

And the soft voice that cheered him once before
Now into utterance rose :
One whispered word,

One parting tone,
And then a fragrant flight of wings was heard

And she was gone, was gone

Yet was he not alone! not all alone!
Thus, having sworn--the old and witnessing tree
Bent down, and in his branches registered
Each dark and passionate word;
And on the rocks, trenched in their shapeless sides,
The Icrrible oath abides;
And the dark waters, muttering to their waves,
Bore to their secret mansions and dim caves

The low of death they heard.
Thus were the dead appeased—the listening dead-

For, as the warrior paused, a cold breath came,

Wrapping with ice his frame,
A cold hand pressing on his heart and head ;

Entranced and motionless,
Upon the earth he lies,

While a dread picture of the land's distress
Rose up before his eyes.
First came old Hilluah's shadow, with the ring

About his brow, the sceptre in his hand,

Ensigns of glorious and supreme command,
Proofs of the conqueror, honored in the king.
“Ilenovar! Ilenovar!” he cried :
Vainly the chief replied ;-
IIe strove to rise for homage, but in vain-
The deathlike spell was on him like a chain,
And his clogged tongue, that still he strove to teach,
Denied all answering speech!
The monarch bade him mark
The clotted blood that, dark,
Distained his royal bosom, and that found
Its way, still issuing, from a mortal wound,

Ghastly and gaping wide, upon his thrvat!
The shadow passed- another took his place,
of the same royal race;
The noble Yumuri, the only son
Of the old monarch, heir to his high throne,
Cut off by cunning ir: his youthful pride ;
There was the murderer's gash, and the red lide
Still pouring from his side;

And round his neck the mark of bloody hands, That strangled the brave sufferer while he strove

Against their clashing brands.
Not with unmoistened eyes did the chief note

His noble cousin, precious to his love,
Brother of one more precious to his thought,

With whom and her, three happy hearts in one,
He grew together in their joys and fears-
And not till sundered knew the taste of tears;

Salt, bitter tears, but shed by one alone,
Him the survivor, the avenger-he
Who vainly shades his eyes that still must see!
Long troops came after of his slaughtered race,

Each in his habit, even as he died :
The big sweat trickled down the warrior's face,
Yet could he move no limb, in that deep trance,
Nor turn away his glance!
They melt again to cloud-at last they fade ;

He breathes, that sad spectator,-they are gone;

He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon,
A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid,
Graceful as evening light, and with an eye
Intelligent with beauty, like the sky,
And wooing as the shade,

Bends o'er him silently!
With one sweet hand she lists the streaming hair,

That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully, While with the other she directs his gaze, All desperate with amaze, Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear! What sees he there? Buried within her bosom doth his eye The deadly steel descry; The blood stream clotted round it-the sweet life Shed by the cruel knife The keen blade guided to the pure white breast, By its own kindred hand, declares the rest! Smiling upon the deed, she smiles on him, And in that smile the lovely share grows dim. His trance is gone-his heart Hath no more fear! in one wild start He bursts the spell that bound him, with a cry That rings in the far sky; He does not fear to rouec his enemy! The hollow rocks reply; He shouts, and wildly, with a desperate voice, As if he did rejoice That death had done his worst; And in his very desperation blessed,

He felt that life could never more be cursed ;

And from its gross remains he still inight wrest

A something, not a joy, but needful to his breast ! His hope is in the thought that he shall gain Sweet vengeance for the slainFor her, the sole, the one More dear to him than daylight or the sun, That perished to be pure! No more! no more! Hath that stern mourner language! But the vow,

Late breathed before those spectre witnesses,
His secret spirit muliers o'er and o'er,
As 't were the very life of him and his-
Dear to his memory,

needful to him now!
A moment and his right hand grasped his brow-
Then, bending to the waters, his canoe,
Like some etherial thing that mocks the view,
Glides silent from the shore.

'Twas to a dark and solitary glen,

Amid New England's scenery wild and bold, A lonely spot scarce visited by men,

Where high the frowning hills their summits hold,

And stand, the storm-bear battlements of oldReturned at evening from the fruitless chase,

Weary and sad, and pierced with autumn's cold
And laid him mournful in his rocky place,
The grief-worn warrior chief-last of his once proud race.
He wrapt his mantle round his manly form,

And sighed as on his cavern floor he lay;
His bosom heaved with passion's varying storm,

While he to melancholy thoughts gave way,

And mused on deeds of many a by-gone day.
Scenes of the past before his vison rose-

The fearless clans o’er whom he once held'sway,
The bloody battle-field and vanquished foes,
His wide extended rule, which few had dared oppose.
He sees again his glad and peaceful home,

His warlike sons and cherished daughters dear;
Together o'er his hunting-grounds they roam,

Together they their honored sire revere;

But trickles down his check the burning tear,
As fades the spectral vision from his eye:

Low at his shrine he bows with listening ear,
And up to the Great Spirit sends a cry,
To bear him to his rest, and bid his sorrows die.
Tired of the lonely world he longs to go

And join his kindred and the warrior band,
Where fruits for him in rich luxuriance grow,

Nor comes the pale-face to that spirit-land:

Ere he departs for aye, he fain would stand Again upon his favorite rock and gaze

O'er the wide realm where once he held command, Where oft he hunted in his younger days, Where, in the joyful dance, he sang victorious lays. Up the bold height with trembling step he passed,

And gained the fearful eminence he sought; As on surrounding scenes his eye was cast,

His troubled spirit racked with frenzied thought,

And urged by ruin on his empire brought, He uttered curses on the pale-faced throng,

With whom in vain his scattered warriors fought And on the sighing breeze that swept along, He poured the fiery words that filled his vengeful song: Fair home of the red man! my lingering gaze On thy ruin now rests, like the sun's fading rays; 'T is the last that I give-like the dim orb of day, My life shall go down, and my spirit away. Loved home of the red man! I leave thee with pain, The place where my kindred, my brothers were slain; The graves of my fathers, whose wigwams were here; The land where I hunted the swift-bounding deer. No longer these hills and these valleys I roam, No more are these mountains and forests my home, No more, on the face of the beautiful tide, Shall the red man's canoe in tranquillity glide. The pale-face hath conquered—we faded away, Like mist on the hills in the sun's burning ray, Like the leaves of the forest our warriors have perished; Our homes have been sacked by the stranger we cherished. May the Great Spirit come in his terrible mighi, And pour on the white man his mildew and blight May his fruits be destroyed by the tempest and hail, And the fire-bolts of heaven his dwellings assail. May the beasts of the mountain his children devour, And the pestilence seize him with death-dealing power ; May his warriors all perish, and he in his gloom, Like the hosts of the red men, be swept to the lomb.

Scarce had the wild notes of the chieftain's song

Died mournful on the evening breeze away, Ere down the precipice he plunged along

Mid ragged cliffs that in his passage lay:

All torn and mangled by the fearful fray, Naught save the echo of his fall arose.

The winds that still around that summit play, The sporting rill that far beneath it flows, Chant, where the Indian fell, thelr requiem o'er his woes

METHINKS I

see,
within

yon

wasted hall, O'erhung with tapestry of ivy green,

The grim old king Decay, who rules the scene, Throned on a crumbling column by the wall, Beneath a ruined arch of ancient fame,

Mocking the desolation round about,
Blotting with his effacing fingers our

The inscription, razing off its hero's nameAnd lo! the ancient mistress of the globe, With clasped hands, a statue of despair,

Sits abject at his feet, in fellers boundA thousand renis in her imperial robe,

Swordless and sceptreless, her golden hair Dishevelled in the dust, for ages gathering round !

R, HS