Thou wert nobly rear'd, oh heart of oak !

In the sound of the ocean roar,

Where the surging wave o'er the rough rock broke
And bellow'd along the shore—
And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice,
With the wind through spar and shroud,
To hear a sound like the forest voice,
When the blast was raging loud!

With snow-white sails, and streamer gay,
She sits like an ocean sprite,
Careering on her trackless way,

In sunshine or dark midnight:
Her course is laid with fearless skill,
For brave hearts man the helm ;
And the joyous winds her canvas fill—
Shall the wave the stout ship whelm!

On, on she goes, where icebergs roll,
Like floating cities by;

Where meteors flash by the northern pole,
And the merry dancers fly;

Where the glittering light is backward flung
From icy tower and dome,

And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung

With gems from the ocean foam.

On the Indian sea was her shadow cast,

As it lay like molten gold,

And her pendant shroud and towering mast

Seem'd twice on the waters told.

The idle canvas slowly swung

As the spicy breeze went by,

And strange, rare music around her rung
From the palm-tree growing nigh.

Oh, gallant ship, thou didst bear with thee
The gay and the breaking heart,
And weeping eyes look'd out to see
Thy white-spread sails depart
And when the rattling casement told
Of many a perill'd ship,

The anxious wife her babes would fold,
And pray with trembling lip.

The petrel wheeled in her stormy flight;
The wind piped shrill and high;
On the topmast sat a pale blue light,
That flickered not to the eye:

The black cloud came like a banner down,
And down came the shrieking blast;
The quivering ship on her beams is thrown,
And gone are helm and mast.

Helmless, but on before the gale,

She ploughs the deep-troughed wave:
A gurgling sound—a phrenzied wail-
And the ship hath found a grave.
And thus is the fate of the acorn told,
Which fell from the old oak tree,

And He of the Shell in the frosty mould
Preserved for its destiny.

SQUANDO, THE INDIAN SACHEM.

BY SEBA SMITH.

"Though they fall on a foe with a tiger's fangs,
And joy and exult in his keenest pangs;
The least act of kindness they never forget,

And the sin of ingratitude ne'er stained them yet." CLEAR-SIGHTED and impartial history will one day do justice to the memory of the original red men of this country. And when our great future historian shall arise and gird himself for the task, in turning over the bloody records of the almost innumerable conflicts between the red men and the white, since the latter found a foothold upon these shores, he will be surprised to find that the provocations for quarrels and hostilities in a large majority of cases came from the whites. It is not our purpose now to enter at all into the proof of this position; we are only about to glance at a single incident, as an illustration of our remark.

When Philip, the bold and heroic chief of the Wampanoags, was endeavoring to carry into execution his great design of exterminating all the whites by a general attack from the very numerous tribes throughout New England, there was a formidable tribe residing about the mouth of the Saco river in Maine, governed by a sachem, or chief, whose name was Squando. The chief had always lived

on terms of friendly intercourse with the English settlers in the neighborhood, and when the emisaries of Philip visited the Eastern tribes and endeavored to draw them into his plans, they could make no imsions whatever upon Squando. He turned a deaf ear to all their entreaties, coldly rejected their overtures, and bade them tell Philip, the hatchet had long been buried on the banks of the Saco, and no war-hoop should be allowed to disturb its quiet valley.

"The white man is my brother," said Squando; "we hunt in the same wood and paddle our canoes on the same waters. I sit down at his table and eat with him, side by side, and he comes to my wigwam and smokes the pipe of peace without fear. I carry him venison for food and the soft beaver skin for clothing, and he gives me blankets and hatchets, and whatever I want. Why should I raise the tomahawk against my white brother? The tree of peace is green above our heads; let it flourish, and no blight come upon it for ever. If Philip is a great chief, so is Squando; and let him beware how he crosses Squando's path. The tribes of the Saco, and the Presumpscut and the Androscoggin, and the Kennebec, all look up to Squando with fear and respect, and will not draw the bow while the arrows of Squando remain quiet in his quiver."

Year after year the messengers of Philip returned with the same answer from Squando-" the white man is my friend; I will not take up the hatchet against him.”

Squando was not only a powerful sachem, but he

exercised also the office of priest, or pow-wow, and the mysterious rites and privileges he practised helped to give him great influence over the neighboring tribes. Several years had passed, and the restless spirit of Philip had driven on his great enterprise with untiring assiduity. Many chiefs had joined in his league, frequent acts of hostility had been committed, and a dark and portentous cloud hung over the whole of New England, which threatened entire destruction to the white inhabitants. Still Squando remained the faithful friend of the whites, and kept the tribes around him in a peaceful attitude, till a cruel and unprovoked aggression upon his domestic happiness roused him to vengeance.

On a bright summer day in 1675, Lindoyah, the wife of Squando, paddled her white birch canoe on the bright waters of the Saco. Her infant, but a few months old, was sleeping on soft skins in the bottom of the canoe, while a light screen of green boughs, arched above it, sheltered it from the warm rays of the sun. It breathed sweetly the open air of heaven, and gently rolled to the slight rocking of the boat, as the careful paddle of the mother, with regular motion, touched the water. The joyous eyes of Lindoyah rested on her infant, with all a mother's devotion; and in a clear soft voice she sang

Sleep, baby, sleep;

Breathe the breath of morning;

Drink fragrance from the fresh blown flower,
Thy gentle brow adorning.