XIII. THE FALL OF TECUMSEH.

[Statesman. New-York.]

THIS highly intellectual savage, appropriately styled "king of the woods," was no less distinguished for his acts of humanity than heroism. He fell in the bloody charge at Moravian town, during the late war.

WHAT heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam,
To the war blast indignantly tramping,

Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam,
The steel-bit impatiently champing?

"Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein,
Conducting the free and the fearless-

Ah! see them rush forward with wild disdain,
Through paths unfrequented and cheerless,
Free the mountains had echoed the charge of death,
Announcing that chivalrous sally,

The savage was heard with untrembling breath,
To pour his response from the valley.

One moment and nought but the bugle was heard,
And nought but the war-whoop given-

The next--and the sky seemed convulsively stirred,
As if by the lightning riven..

The din of the steed-and the sabred stroke,
The blood-stifled gasp of the dying,

Were screen'd by the curling sulphur-smoke;
That upward went wildly flying.

Mid the mist that hung over the field of blood,
The chief of the horsemen contended,
His rowells were bathed in the purple flood,
That fast from his charger descended.

That steed reeled and fell in the van of the fight,
But the rider repressed not his daring,
'Till met by a savage, whose rank and might,
Borrowed proof from the plume he was wearin

The moment was fearful-a mightier foe,

Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him--
But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow,
And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him.

'Tis done--the fierce onset of strife subsides,
The thunder of tumult that causes,

And victory's heraid exultingly rides,
To tell that the massacre pauses.

O ne'er may the nations again be curst,
With conflict so dark and appalling,
Foe grappled with foe till the life-blood burst,
From their agonized bosoms in falling.

Gloom, silence and solitude, rest on the spot,
Where the hopes of the red man perished,
But the fame of the hero, who fell, shall not,
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished.

He fought in defence of his kindred and king,
With a spirit most loving and loyal,

And long shall the Indian warrior sing,
The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal.

The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye,
In his arm, slept the force of the thunder,
But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by,
And left the freed captive to wonder.

Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps,
With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him,

And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps
By the mound where his followers bore him.

XIV. GEEHALF. AN INDIAN Lament.
[Statesman. N. Y.]

THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore,
As sweetly and gaily as ever before ;

For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie-
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly.

The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright,

And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light,

As it ever reflected, or ever expressed,

When my skies were the bluest-my dreams were the best. The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night,

Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light,

And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track,

For they know that their mates are expecting them back. Each bird and each beast-it is blest in degree,

All nature is cheerful-all happy, but me.

I will go to my tent and lie down in despair-
I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair;
I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows,
And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes;
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed,
For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead;
But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay ;
The steel of the white man hath swept them away.

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore,

I will toss with disdain to the storm beaten shore ;
Its charms I no longer obey, or invoke-

Its spirit hath left me-its spell is now broke ;
I will raise up my voice to the source of the light,
I will dream on the wings of the blue bird at night,
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves,
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves,
And will take a new Manito-such as shall seem,
To be kind and propitious in every dream.

Oh! then I shall banish these cankering sighs,
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes;
I shall wash from my face every cloud-coloured stain,
Red! red, shall alone on my visage remain.

I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow,
By night and by day I will follow the foe;
No lake shall repress me-no mountain oppose,
His blood can alone give my spirit repose.

They came to my cabin, when heaven was black,
I heard not their coming-I know not their track,
But I saw by the light of their blazing fusees,
They were people engendered beyond the big seas:
My wife and my children-oh spare me the tale-
For who is there left that is kin to GEEHALE!

XV.

THE SNOW-STORM.*

[Eastern Argus. Portland]

THE cold winds swept the mountain's h eight,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wander'd with her child.
As through the drifted snows she press'd
The babe was sleeping on her breast.
And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,

* In the month of December, 1821, a Mr. Blake, with his wife and an infant, were passing over the Green mountain, near the town of Arlington, Vt. in a sleigh with one horse. The drifting snow rendered it impossible for the horse to proceed; Mr. Blake set off on foot in search of assistance, and perished in the storm, before he could reach a human dwelling. The mother alarmed (as is supposed) at his long absence, went in quest of him with the infant in her arms. She was found in the morning, dead, a short distance from the sleigh. The child was wrapped in her cloak, and survived the perils of the cold and the storm.

And deeper grew the drifts of snow

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone-
O God, she cried, in accents wild,

If I must perish, save my child.

She stript her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapt the vest,
And smiled, to think her babe was warm,
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed.

At dawn, a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil-
The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale-
He moved the robe from off the child;
The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

XVI. BRADDOCK'S DEFEAT.
[Chronicle. Reading.]

THE host moved exulting, the fortress was near,
And the forest around them waved, lonely and drear;
'Twas the home of the savage, defenceless and lorn,
And they thought on his prowess, and laughed him to scorn :
But ghastly they gazed when his yelling accurst,
The war-cry of death, from that wilderness burst,
When an enemy's presence alone they could tell,
By the flash, and the shout, and the warrior that fell.
From his rocks, and his fastnesses, tangled and green,
There his fury was felt, and his prowess was seen,
For the rude chieftain shewed, though untutored in art,
That the fortress of freedom is fixed in the heart.

With the rushing of ocean, the might of a flood,
The veterans of Albion advanced in the wood;
Like the scattering of water, when dashed into spray,
The strength of the Briton was melted away.

As gleams the light rainbow, that waters spray on,
So bright from the battle-mist Washington shone,
And protected each band, that fled scattered and fast,
Like a fleet broken cloud, when the tempest is past.
Though fast fell around him his brethren in arms,
Though maddening and wild, rose the battle's alarms,
Yet the hero undauntedly stood on the field,

For the arm of Jehovah was Washington's shield.

F

XVII. THE CHAIR OF THE INDIAN KING

[Mirror. Connecticut.]

In the neighbourhood of Mohegan, is a rude recess, environed by rocks, which still retains the name of “the chair of Uncas." When the fort of that king was besieged by the Narragansetts, and his people perishing with famine, he took measures to inform the English of their danger, and was found seated in this rocky chair, anxiously watching the river, on the night when those supplies arrived, which rescued his tribe from destruction. These were conveyed in a large canoe from Saybrook, under cover of darkness, by an enterprising man, of the name of Leffingwell, to whom Uncas, as a proof of his gratitude, gave a large tract of land, comprising nearly the whole of Norwich.

THE monarch sat on his rocky throne,

Before him, the waters lay;

His guards, were shapeless columns of stone,
Their lofty helmets with moss o'ergrown,
And their spears of the braken grey.

His lamps were the fickle stars that beamed
Through the veil of their midnight shroud,
And the reddening flashes that fitfully gleamed
When the distant fires of the war-dance streamed
Where his foes in frantic revel screamed

'Neath their canopy of cloud.

Say! why was his glance so restless and keen
As it fell on the waveless tide?

And why, mid the gloom of that silent scene
Did the sigh heave his warlike bosom's screen
And bow that front of pride?

Behind him his leagured forces lay

Withering in famine's blight,

And he knew, with the blush of the morning ray,
That Philip would summon his fierce array

On the core of the warrior's heart to prey,

And quench a nation's light.

It comes! it comes !--that misty speck
Which over the waters moves!

It boasts no sail, nor mast, nor deck,
Yet dearer to him was that nameless wreck
Than the maid to him who loves.