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THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.
BY J. G. WHITTIER.
An Indian girl, and the last of the Red Indians, or Boothicks, recently died at St. John's, Newfoundland. Her tribe, the abori gines of Newfoundland, never held intercourse with any other tribe, or with the Europeans around them.
The moons of Autumn wax and wane ;- the hollow
sound of floods Is borne upon the mournful wind; and broadly on the
woods The changes of the changeful leaves—those painted
flowers of frost Before the round and yellow sun, how beautiful, are
tossed ! The morning breaketh with the same broad pencilling of
sky, And blushes through its golden clouds, as the great sun
goes by; And evening lingers in the west, more beautiful than
dreams That whisper of the Spirit Land—its wilderness and
A little time - another moon— the forests will be sad; The streams will mourn the pleasant light that made
their journey glad; The moon will fanitly lighten up, the sunlight glisten
cold, And wane into the western sky, without its autumn
·gold : And yet I weep not for the sign of Desolation near, The ruin of my Hunter-race may only ask a tear: The wailing streams will laugh again,—the naked trees
put on The beauty of their summer-green, beneath the summer
sun; The morning clouds will yet again their crimson dra
peries fold, The star of sunset smile once more, a diamond set in
gold! But never for the forest path, or for the mountain's
breath, The mighty of our race shall leave the Hunting-ground
I know the tale my fathers told — the legend of our
fameThe glory of our spotless race, before the “ Pale ones”
came; When, asking fellowship with none, by turns the foe of all, With Ocean rearing up around its dark eternal wall,
Companionless and terrible, our warriors stood alone, And from the Big Lake to the sea, the green earth was
Where are they now ?- Around the changed and stran
ger-peopled isle A thousand graves are strewn beneath the mournful
autumn's smile; The bow of strength is buried with the calumet and
spear, And the spent arrow slumbereth, forgetful of the deer ; The last canoe is rotting by the lake it glided o'er, When dark-eyed maidens sweetly sang its welcome from
the shore : The foot-prints of the Hunter-race froin all the hills
are gone,Their offering to the Spirit Land hath left the altar
stone; The ashes of the Council-fire have no abiding token, The song of War hath died away– the Pow-wah's
charm is broken ;The startling war-whoop cometh not upon the loud,
clear air,The ancient woods are vanishing—the Pale ones gather
And who is left to mourn for this ?-A solitary one, Whose life is waning into death, like yonder sinking
A broken reed - a blighted flower -- that lingereth still
behind, To mourn its faded sisterhood, and wrestle with the
wind. Lo! from the Spirit Land I hear the music of the blest; The holy faces of the loved are beaming from the west; A Voice is on the autumnal wind-it calleth me away! Ere the cheek hath lost its freshness, and the raven tress
is gray :Ere the weight of years hath bowed me, or the sunny
eye is dim, The Father of my People is calling me to him!
Haverhill, Massachusetts, Nov. 1829.
I saw thee declining — but sickness and woe
I gazed on thy features, still mournful, yet dear,
THE GLEN OF GLANGOOLE.
BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART.
The hills are all around ine-in a dell
These shadowy steeps that lift on either hand