Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXII No. 4, April 1848

Not with unmoistened eyes did the chief note
His noble cousin, precious to his love,
Brother of one more precious to his thought,
With whom and her, three happy hearts in one,
He grew together in their joys and fears —
And not till sundered knew the taste of tears;
Salt, bitter tears, but shed by one alone,
Him the survivor, the avenger – he
Who vainly shades his eyes that still must see!
Long troops came after of his slaughtered race,
Each in his habit, even as he died:
The big sweat trickled down the warrior's face,
Yet could he move no limb, in that deep trance,
Nor turn away his glance!

They melt again to cloud – at last they fade;
He breathes, that sad spectator, – they are gone;
He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon,
A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid,
Graceful as evening light, and with an eye
Intelligent with beauty, like the sky,
And wooing as the shade,
Bends o'er him silently!
With one sweet hand she lifts the streaming hair,
That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully,
While with the other she directs his gaze,
All desperate with amaze,
Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear!
What sees he there?
Buried within her bosom doth his eye
The deadly steel descry;
The blood stream clotted round it – the sweet life
Shed by the cruel knife! —
The keen blade guided to the pure white breast,
By its own kindred hand, declares the rest!
Smiling upon the deed, she smiles on him,
And in that smile the lovely shape grows dim.

His trance is gone – his heart
Hath no more fear! in one wild start
He bursts the spell that bound him, with a cry
That rings in the far sky;
He does not fear to rouse his enemy!
The hollow rocks reply;
He shouts, and wildly, with a desperate voice,
As if he did rejoice
That death had done his worst;
And in his very desperation blessed,
He felt that life could never more be cursed;
And from its gross remains he still might wrest
A something, not a joy, but needful to his breast!
His hope is in the thought that he shall gain
Sweet vengeance for the slain —
For her, the sole, the one
More dear to him than daylight or the sun,
That perished to be pure! No more! no more!
Hath that stern mourner language! But the vow,
Late breathed before those spectre witnesses,
His secret spirit mutters o'er and o'er,
As 't were the very life of him and his —
Dear to his memory, needful to him now!
A moment and his right hand grasped his brow-
Then, bending to the waters, his canoe,
Like some etherial thing that mocks the view,
Glides silent from the shore.

THE LAST OF HIS RACE.

BY S. DRYDEN PHELPS

'Twas to a dark and solitary glen,Amid New England's scenery wild and bold,
A lonely spot scarce visited by men,Where high the frowning hills their summits hold,And stand, the storm-beat battlements of old —
Returned at evening from the fruitless chase,Weary and sad, and pierced with autumn's cold
And laid him mournful in his rocky place,
The grief-worn warrior chief – last of his once proud race.

He wrapt his mantle round his manly form,And sighed as on his cavern floor he lay;
His bosom heaved with passion's varying storm,While he to melancholy thoughts gave way,And mused on deeds of many a by-gone day.
Scenes of the past before his vision rose – The fearless clans o'er whom he once held sway,
The bloody battle-field and vanquished foes,
His wide extended rule, which few had dared oppose.

He sees again his glad and peaceful home,His warlike sons and cherished daughters dear;
Together o'er his hunting-grounds they roam,Together they their honored sire revere;But trickles down his cheek the burning tear,
As fades the spectral vision from his eye: Low at his shrine he bows with listening ear,
And up to the Great Spirit sends a cry,
To bear him to his rest, and bid his sorrows die.

Tired of the lonely world he longs to goAnd join his kindred and the warrior band,
Where fruits for him in rich luxuriance grow,Nor comes the pale-face to that spirit-land: Ere he departs for aye, he fain would stand
Again upon his favorite rock and gazeO'er the wide realm where once he held command,
Where oft he hunted in his younger days,
Where, in the joyful dance, he sang victorious lays.

Up the bold height with trembling step he passed,And gained the fearful eminence he sought;
As on surrounding scenes his eye was cast,His troubled spirit racked with frenzied thought,And urged by ruin on his empire brought,
He uttered curses on the pale-faced throng,With whom in vain his scattered warriors fought
And on the sighing breeze that swept along,
He poured the fiery words that filled his vengeful song: