The patriarchs of nature, wandered free;
While every form of being spake to them
Of the Great Spirit that pervaded all,

And curbed their fiery nature with a law
Written in light upon the shadowy soil-
Bowing their sturdy hearts in reverence,
Before the Great Unseen, yet ever FELT

The very site where villages and towns,
As if called forth by magic, have uprisen-
Where now the anvils echo-hammers clank—
The hum of voices in the stirring mart,
And roar of dashing wheels, create a din
That almost rivals the old cataract-

As if its thunder had grown tired and hoarse,

In striving to be heard above the din,

Two centuries gone, was one unbroken wild,
Where the fierce wolf, the panther, and the snake,
A forest aristocracy-scarce feared
The monarch, man-and shared his common lot,
To hunger-plunder from the weak, and slay-
To wake a sudden terror-then lie down,
To be unnamed-unknown-for ever more.
A foot-fall broke the silence, as along
Pawtucket's bank an Indian warrior passed.
Awed by the solemn stillness he had paused,
In deep reflecting mood. A nobler brow
Ne'er won allegiance from Roman hosts,
Than his black plume half shaded; nor a form
Of kinglier bearing, moulded perfectly,
E'er flashed on day-dreams of Praxiteles.
The mantle that o'er one broad shoulder hung,
Was broidered with such trophies as are worn
By sachems only. Ghastly rows of teeth
Glistened amid the wampum. On the edge
A lace of woven scalp-locks was inwrought,
Where the soft glossy brown of white man's hair
Mingled with Indian tresses, dark and harsh.
The wampum belt, of various hues inwrought,
Graced well his manly bosom; and below,
His taper limbs met the rich moccasin.
He was a sachem-ay, he was a king-
Such as in days of chivalry had made

His name sound through the nations, with a spell
To wake spontaneous homage. His whole mien
Gave forth an utterance of conscious power;
And like unsheathing swords his glances woke.
Proud, fiercely vengeful, his keen flash of ire
Might curb the haughtiest spirit; yet, at times,

That eye would melt in liquid tenderness,
Soft as the glances of the young gazelle.

He passed the cataract; and, turning off,
Sought fitting place of rest. Embosom'd deep
In dreamy depths of forest solitude,

A lovely bower invited. High above,

Round elm, and ash, and spreading linden tree,
O'er whose green heads the wing of centuries
Had flown, and left their freshness, the wild grape
Hung her luxuriant tresses, like a tie

Of purest friendship, twining noble hearts.

The haughtiest bowed their foreheads to her thrall-
The strongest sported with the silken mesh,
And tossed the clinging tendrils playfully,
Like proud men yielding to the power of love,
Nor thought of breaking e'er so sweet a bond.
High over head the arch of living green
Scarce gave admission to the potent beams
Of sunshine from the zenith; but there came
A few intruding rays of purest light,
All softened to such tender lucidness,

Among the infinite shades of loveliest green,
As hushed the senses like an anodyne.

But, soft! What spell enchains the warrior's eye,
Arresting his free limbs? Is yon canoe,
Flower-wreathed, and delicate as fairy bark,
Just yielding to the water's gentle sway,
With motion silent as the watcher's step,
So dread an object, that the chieftain's lip

Is blanched to marble? What wild errand drew
His devious step along that rugged track?
Did the fair bark, as it danced o'er the waves,
Buoyant as down on ether, win the chief
To be a boy, and chase a butterfly?

There lives the magic spell!-nor wonder thou,
On yonder mossy bank, reclining soft,

She sleeps-the radiant creature! There she lies
Amid the silence of that lonely wood!
But innocence is her effectual guard-

Her own unspotted purity a shield.

Ah! doth the starry light of ardent eyes

That watch so fondly o'er her pleasant sleep,
Tinge the soft shadows of her maiden dream,
That her bright lip is wreathing into smiles,
All eloquent with love and rosy joy?

The forest carinine of the dying year,
When frost hath kissed the maple, could not vie
With the rich bloom that melted through her cheek;
Her hair was dark as thunder-spirit's wing-

And as the light wind touched the glossy length,
Thinning its manes, the rich jet would stir,
And hover around her with a changing shade,
As darkness hovereth around the morning star!
One broidered moccasin was flung aside;
And nestled in the velvet moss, a foot
That fairest maiden would be proud to own.
See! he is bending o'er her with such love,
Such deep devotion of the inmost soul-
As bendeth pride to beauty-kneeling down
In his deep happiness to catch her breath,
Lest she, perchance, should murmur in her sleep,
And he should lose the music!

"O, how fair!
She sleeps!-Pawtucket, hush thy waves to sleep!
Towattin,* stay thy murmuring; or just breathe
In sweetest accents on her dreaming ear,

How her true warrior loves!"-he whispered low,

In broken, rapturous murmurs of delight.

Towattin was the Narragansett name for the south wind; and, like all the other winds and agents of the Divine Power, was supposed to be a living spirit.

VOL. II.-17

"Pleasant as summer to the child of frost,
Soft as the rain in spring-time, pure as dew,
Mishannock rise!-I hear thy bounding step-
Its echo is the music of my dreams;
Thy airy figure hovers round my way,
Graceful as stirring woods, or waving corn,
Making the shadows pleasanter than day!
Thou comest, as on flashing wings of light,
Like morning to the darkness. In the wood,
Upon the angry waters, on the hills,
Beside the council-fire, or in the fight,
Thy image, though uncalled, is ever nigh!
It liveth in my dreams-I wake and see!
Look forth, Mishannock !-Rise, sweet morning-star!"
Suddenly springing up, and shaking back

Her luxury of hair, she looked around.
One moment, as she met the beaming eyes
Of him she loved, her downcast glances fell
In maiden bashfulness, unstudied, sweet,

And her bright cheek grew brighter-then she sprang
Into his outstretched arms without a fear;
True to her own pure nature, dreaming not

Of fetters cold propriety must wear.

The quick, spontaneous blushes cast a veil
Of soft attraction o'er her artless joy;
For while the splendor of her beauty flung
A spell upon the senses, modesty
Hallow'd the fire of passion, and enwrought
A stronger, holier, more enduring tie,
As, with her tender arms entwining his,
She blent low words with her caresses sweet.
"And it was thou, my dearest-only thou-
Watching above my slumber? Singing birdst
Were busy in my dreams. A spirit fierce
Went quick before me, with a terrible form,
Like those we see at midnight, when pale fear
Mouldeth the darkness into phantom shapes,
With gleaming eyes that shoot their glances forth,
In search of evil;-yet 'twas only thou!"

He answered with caresses; yet again,

Half-chiding-all in love-she whispered low:

66

Why cam'st thou not last evening? The pale stars
Grew tired of watching, and forsook the sky,

Before Mishannock's eye was veiled in sleep.'
"Thy chief was like the pinioned eagle, held
By the hard bonds of duty."

66 'It is well.
But, tell me, chieftain, wilt thou go to-day
To the great sachem's wigwam?"

66

"Not to-day

And yet, Mishannock, soon the time will come.'
Nay, deem me not impatient; but a load
Presseth upon my bosom, that would have
No secret for a father."

"Hush, my love!

There is not in my soul one lingering thought
To wrong thy sachem father. Now, my own,
Sing the sweet song I love. I listen, sweet.
Come, sing to me, until my bosom feels
The liquid tenderness through all its chords,
Waking sweet images of hope and love.
Sowhannien hath no richer melody—
Towattin's sweetest murmurs lose themselves
In the clear stream of thy bewildering voice."
Graceful in maiden modesty, she turned
Her eyes away from his, and thus complied.

Mishannock was the morning-star. Pet names were in great use among the Indians, as well as others, expressive of some peculiarity of person or of character.

A tattler, or liar, in the figurative language of the Indians, was called a singing-bird-a term which was of frequent use. This was the name of the south-west wind.

SONG.

"Come out, my love, in the holy night;

For the clouds are wearing their robes of light,
And far away, through the deep blue sky,
Each star looks down like a loving eye.
O come, and I'll tell what I cannot say
In the open light of the garish day-
How much I love thee-come away!
"Come, dearest, come! for the tender flowers
Are asleep in all their dewy bowers;
And they cannot whisper of our love,
To the earth below, or the stars above-
Nor the idle winds hear what we say,
As through the breathing wood we stray,
But our hearts only-come away!

"Come out, my love! for the night-bird's song
In a flood of sweetness, pours along

Through the listening valley, where the rose
Blushing with love and rapture glows;
O'er the conscious waters the star-beams play,
And night is only a softer day-

O come, beloved! come away!

"Come out, my love, to the forest bower,

Where the moon looks down with a holy power;

And sweetest love, like the tendriled vine,

Shall round our inmost hearts entwine.

O come, and each thrilling, starry ray,
And all the stirring leaves will say,

I love thee-love thee-come away!

Through life, thus hand in hand we'll go;

And when, at the last, thy broken bow

Lieth down with thee to its final rest,

I shall hear thee call from the sweet south-west;

O then my struggling tears I'll stay,

And with rapture the tender call obey-
To the land of souls, come-come away

She ceased, and long they sat together there,
Silent, but voiceful-for each throbbing heart
Uttered its hidden music; all the chords
Responsive, as if swept by angel hands,

Thrilled with their sweet vibrations, folding them
In one close-mantling robe of harmony.

Unknown they loved each other-if unknown
Such true and tender hearts may ever be,

With sweet affection for interpreter,

Clinging so close between them, with a light

For their young trusting natures, whence they saw
Into the clear depths of each other's soul,

With keener penetration than the eye

Of cold-browed caution ever learned in years.
She only knew that he was brave and strong-
That his dark eye was strangely beautiful—
His mind was noble-and his arm had saved
Her life from the fierce Rapids. He but knew

He loved her-doated on her-ay, that each
Was folded in the other's inmost soul-

Then what were names to them? Could such a thought

Amid the flow of rapturous feeling come?

They knew that they had met-should meet again,

So long as heaven had stars, or earth had woods

And how could fond affection sigh for more?

And love grew ever stronger as they met,

To breathe their raptures 'neath the same sweet star.
By the still lake, or in the shadowy wood,

They ranged for hours together, hand in hand;

Or sat beside some clear melodious stream,

And listened to its music, wildly sweet

As the unfinished story of their loves.

All pleasant things grew pleasanter. The moon
Ever bent down with blessing; and her light
Shone round them, like the sweet approving smile
Of a sweet sister who knew all their love.
The stars were thrilling with a holier power,
Poets of their affection, uttering

The infinite music of their conscious hearts.
The zephyrs sang of love; and all the birds
Chanted their raptures, as they breathed their own.
When strong winds swept along the mighty wood,
From the wild rush of leaves, a melody

Touched their responsive breasts. When storms awoke,
And Paumpagussett* wore his foamy crest,
Tossing his angry waves from rock to rock,
And lashing with his billows the pale strand,
With breathless awe they stood upon the shore,
Or simply bowed to the dark god of storms.
And in the depth of forest solitude,
When not a wind was breathing, or a leaf
At the fond zephyr's kiss grew tremulous,
The very silence was a melody,

Filling their conscious hearts with tender joy.

There is no spot upon this shaded earth
Where love's bright pinion ever feels the sun;
An hour of his glad morning may be fair,
But soon-or later-surely comes the cloud-
And oft the tempest-to the fairest skies.
Who hath not felt, in hour of purest bliss,
The heavy presage of some future ill,
As if the wing of evil spirit hung,
Oppressing with its weight the upper air-
Hovering to scatter mildew, o'er the buds
Of hope and joy we feel may never bloom,
Though they are bursting with their fulness now-
Too far away to be distinctly seen-

Yet chilling the glad sunshine. Then we know
That murky wing will lower; the conscious soul
Responds to its monition, while the eye
Beholdeth only beauty. So that girl-
Beloved-young-lovely-and unsorrowing

As spring-tide warblers-felt the coming change;
And tears, that came she knew not why, unless
With the sweet hope of being kissed away,
Gushed from her tender eyes. He spoke to soothe;
But soundt of booming gun that moment woke,
And his fond speech arrested.

"Hark! they come !
The Yengees! Oh, my father!" Forth she sprang
Like that proud sachem's arrow. Her canoe
Shot down the placid stream-and she was gone.
He spoke no word of parting-scarcely breathed-
Till, winding where the foliage seemed to meet
O'er the still waters, bark and voyager

Were lost amid the greenness. Then he turned
And bounded through the forest like a deer.

*The Narragansetts called the god of the sea Paumpagussett. It was a practice with them, as with most other tribes, to conciliate evil, or angry spirits, by worship and sacrifice.

"On the 24th of June, in the morning, one of the inhabitants of Rehoboth was fired upon by a party of Indians, and the hilt of his sword shot off. The same day several were killed at Swansey."HUTCHINSON.

"At length, a party of them expressed their feelings so intolerably, soon after the execution of their countrymen, [alluding to the three Pokanoket Indians, who were hanged for the supposed murder of the rebel Sassamon,] that an Englishman at Swansey discharged his musket at one of them, and wounded him. This affair took place June 24, 1675-a day memorable in American history, as the commencement of Philip's War."-THATCHER'S INDIAN BIOGRAPHY.