No:-there, at midnight, the hoarse tiger growls :
There, the gaunt wolf sits on his rock and howls:
And there, in painted pomp, the yelling Indian prowls.
Round the bold front of yon projecting cliff,
Shoots, on white wings, the missionary's skiff,
And, walking steadily along the tide,

Seems, like a phantom, o'er the wave to glide,
Her light cymar unfolded to the breeze,

That breaks not, tho' it moves, the mirror of the seas.

Lo, at the stern, the priest of Jesus rears

14

His reverend front, plough'd by the share of years.
He takes his harp :-the spirits of the air
Breathe on his brow, and interweave his hair,
In silky flexure, with the sounding strings:-
And hark!--the holy missionary sings.
'Tis the Gregorian chant :—with him unites,
On either hand, his quire of neophytes,
While the boat cleaves its liquid path along,
And waters, woods, and winds protract the song.
Those unknown strains the forest war-whoop hush:
Huntsmen and warriors from their cabins rush,
Heed not the foe, that yells defiance nigh,
See not the deer, that dashes wildly by;

Drop from their hand the bow and rattling quiver,
Crowd to the shore, and plunge into the river,
Breast the green waves, the enchanted bark that toss,
Leap o'er her sides, and kneel before the cross.
Hear yon poetic pilgrim of the west,

Chant Music's praise, and to her power attest. 15

Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods,
Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods,
And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws;-
Who hangs the canvas where Atala glows,
On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded,
That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded ;-
Who, for the son of Outalissi, twines,
Beneath the shade of ever whispering pines,
A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss,
That Time already sprinkles on the cross,
Rais'd o'er the grave, where his young virgin sleeps,
And Superstition o'er her victim weeps ;-
Whom now, the silence of the dead surrounds,
Among Scioto's monumental mounds;
Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears
A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years,
To swell the mass, that Time and Ruin throw,
O'er chalky bones, that mouldering lie below,
By virtues unembalm'd, unstain'd by crimes,
Lost in those towering tombs of other times;
For where no bard has cherish'd Virtue's flame,
No ashes sleep in the warm sun of Fame.—
With sacred lore, this traveller beguiles

His
weary way, while o'er him Fancy smiles.
Whether he kneels in venerable groves,
Or through the wide and green savanna roves,
His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears
The faintest cadence of Idumea's airs.

16

Now, he recals the lamentable wail,
That pierc'd the shades of Rama's palmy vale,
When Murder struck, thron'd on an infant's bier,
A note, for Satan's, and for Herod's ear.
Now, on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood,
Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood,
The pilgrim stands; and o'er his memory rushes
The mingled tide of tears, and blood, that gushes
Along the valleys, where his childhood stray'd,
And round the temples where his fathers pray'd.
How fondly then, from all but Hope exil❜d,
To Zion's wo recurs Religion's child!
He sees the tear of Judah's captive daughters
Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters;
While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung,
Wrapp'd in the mist, that o'er the river hung,
Felt but the breeze, that wanton'd o'er the billow,
And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow.

And could not Music soothe the captive's wo?— But should that harp be strung for Judah's foe? While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, Balanc'd between a revery and a dream,

Backward he springs: and, through his bounding heart,
The cold and curdling poison seems to dart.
For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake,
Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake,
Just in the act, with greenly venom'd fangs,
To strike the foot, that heedless o'er him hangs.

Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides ;
His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides;
Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes,
And freezing poisons thicken on his gums;
His parch'd and hissing throat breathes hot and dry;
A spark of hell lies burning on his eye:
While, like a vapour, o'er his writhing rings,
Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings.
Soon as dumb Fear removes her icy fingers,
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers,
The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight,
Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight,
From his soft flute throws Music's air around,
And meets his foe, upon enchanted ground.
See! as the plaintive melody is flung,

The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue;
The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold
Throws changeful clouds of azure, green and gold:
A softer lustre twinkles in his eye;

His neck is burnished with a glossier dye;
His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight,
And his relaxing circles roll in light.—
Slowly the charm retires :—with waving sides,
Along its track the graceful listener glides ;
While Music throws her silver cloud around,
And bears her votary off, in magic folds of sound.
On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows,

And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws,

Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales,
Alone, at night,—the Italian boatman sails.

High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride,
Night's queen-he sees her image on that tide,
Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest
Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest;
Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar,
Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore;
Now, far before him, on a liquid bed
Of waveless water, rest her radiant head.
How mild the empire of that virgin queen!
How dark the mountain's shade! how still the scene!
Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep
On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep,
Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir
The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir,
Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver,
Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river.
Hark! 'tis a convent's bell :-its midnight chime,
For music measures even the march of Time :-
O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore,
Gray turrets rise:—the eye can catch no more.
The boatman, listening to the tolling bell,
Suspends his oar:-a low and solemn swell,
From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies,
Rolls through the air, and on the water dies.
What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night?
A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, rob'd in white,