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

Fair home of the red man! my lingering gaze
On thy ruin now rests, like the sun's fading rays;
'Tis the last that I give – like the dim orb of day,
My life shall go down, and my spirit away.

Loved home of the red man! I leave thee with pain,
The place where my kindred, my brothers were slain;
The graves of my fathers, whose wigwams were here;
The land where I hunted the swift-bounding deer.

No longer these hills and these valleys I roam,
No more are these mountains and forests my home,
No more, on the face of the beautiful tide,
Shall the red man's canoe in tranquillity glide.

The pale-face hath conquered – we faded away,
Like mist on the hills in the sun's burning ray,
Like the leaves of the forest our warriors have perished;
Our homes have been sacked by the stranger we cherished.

May the Great Spirit come in his terrible might,
And pour on the white man his mildew and blight
May his fruits be destroyed by the tempest and hail,
And the fire-bolts of heaven his dwellings assail.

May the beasts of the mountain his children devour,
And the pestilence seize him with death-dealing power;
May his warriors all perish and he in his gloom,
Like the hosts of the red men, be swept to the tomb.

Scarce had the wild notes of the chieftain's songDied mournful on the evening breeze away,
Ere down the precipice he plunged alongMid ragged cliffs that in his passage lay: All torn and mangled by the fearful fray,
Naught save the echo of his fall arose.The winds that still around that summit play,
The sporting rill that far beneath it flows,
Chant, where the Indian fell, their requiem o'er his woes.

DECAY AND ROME

Methinks I see, within yon wasted hall,
O'erhung with tapestry of ivy green,
The grim old king Decay, who rules the scene,
Throned on a crumbling column by the wall,
Beneath a ruined arch of ancient fame,
Mocking the desolation round about,
Blotting with his effacing fingers out
The inscription, razing off its hero's name —
And lo! the ancient mistress of the globe,
With claspéd hands, a statue of despair,
Sits abject at his feet, in fetters bound —
A thousand rents in her imperial robe,
Swordless and sceptreless, her golden hair
Dishevelled in the dust, for ages gathering round!

    R. H. S.

THE LITTLE CAP-MAKER.

OR LOVE'S MASQUERADE.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER

PART I

Fair Ursula sits alone in an apartment which seems fitted up for the reception of some goddess. She is not weeping, but her dark eyes are humid with tears. An air of melancholy rests on her young face, like a shadow on a rose-leaf, while her little hands are folded despairingly on her lap. The hem of her snowy robe sweeps the rich surface of the carpet, from out which one dainty little foot, in its fairy slipper of black satin, peeps forth, wantonly crushing the beautiful bouquet which has fallen from the hands of the unhappy fair one.

Every thing in this inviting apartment is arranged with the most exquisite taste and elegance. On tables of unique pattern are scattered the most costly gems of art and vertu– choice paintings adorn the walls – flowers, rare and beautiful, lift their heads proudly above the works of art which surround them, and in splendid Chinese cages, birds of gorgeous plumage have learned to caress the rosy lips of their young mistress, or perch triumphantly on her snowy finger. Here are books, too, and music – a harp – a piano – while through a half open door leading from a little recess over which a multaflora is taught to twine its graceful tendrils, a glimpse may be caught of rosy silken hangings shading the couch where the queen of this little realm nightly sinks to her innocent slumbers.

Eighteen summers have scarce kissed the brow of the fair maid, and already the canker worm of sorrow is preying upon her heart-strings. Poor thing, so young and yet so sad! What can have caused this sadness! Perhaps she loves one whose heart throbs not with answering kindness – perhaps loves one faithless to her beauty, or loves where cruel fate has interposed the barrier of a parent's frown!

No – her heart is as free and unfettered as the wind.

Ah! then perhaps her bosom friend, the chosen companion of her girlhood has proved unkind – some delightful project of pleasure perhaps frustrated, or, I dare say she has found herself eclipsed at Madame Raynor's soirée by some more brilliant belle – no, no, none of these surmises are true, plausible as they appear! Then what is it? Perhaps – but you will never guess, and you will laugh incredulously when I tell you that poor, poor dear darling Ursula weeps because – because —

She is an heiress!

That is it – yes, weeps because she is the uncontrolled mistress of one hundred thousand dollars in houses, lands and gold, bright gold!

Poor little dear – looking upon fortune as a serious mis-fortune, and even envying those whose daily toil can alone bring them the necessaries of life; for, have they friends – they are true friends – there is no selfishness in the bond which unites them – while she, unhappy child that she is, owes to her rank and riches her thousand friends and the crowd of satellites worshiping before her! What a foolish notion to enter her little head! True, it is foolish. Lovers, too, in plenty sigh at her feet, and in the soft moonlight the air is tremulous with sighs and music, as from beneath her window steals the soft serenade. But Ursula curls her lip disdainfully, and orders her maid to shut out the sweet sounds. Ever that hateful gold comes between her and her lovers, and then she wishes her lot was humble, that she might be loved for herself alone!

Do you wish a portrait of the unhappy little heiress? Behold her then:

A perfect little sylph, resting on the tiniest of feet, with hands so charming that you would feel an almost irresistible desire to fold them caressingly within your own – the rich complexion of a brunette with the bloom of Hebe on her cheek – her hair like burnished jet – eyes large, lustrous and black – but (alas that there should be a but!) poor Ursula had an unfortunate cast in her left eye – in others words she squinted – yes, absolutely squinted!

Dear, dear what a pity!

Yet stop, don't judge the little heiress too hastily, for after all it was not a bad squint – indeed, if you knew her, you would say it was really a becoming squint, such a roguish, knowing look did it give her! Nevertheless, it was a squint, and poor Ursula, notwithstanding the bewitching form and features her mirror threw back, fancied this a deformity which cast aside all her graces. And here again the gold jaundiced her imagination and whispered, "were it not for me what a horrible squint you would have in the straight forward eyes of the world!

When her parents died Ursula Lovel was but an infant, yet as tender and affectionate as parents had been the good uncle and aunt to whose love and guardianship she was bequeathed. They had no children, and gladly took the little orphan to their bosoms with pity and love – and Ursula required all their watchful care, for she was ever a feeble child, giving no indications of that sprightly beauty and perfect health she now exhibited. Then indeed the squint was truly a deformity, for her thin, sallow countenance only made it far more conspicuous.

People should be more guarded what they say before children. One good old lady by a careless remark instilled into the mind of little Ursula a jealousy and distrust, which, but for the good sense maturer years brought to bear against such early impressions, would have rendered her unhappy for life. Propped up by pillows, she sat at a small table amusing herself by building little card houses, and then seeing them tumble down with all the kings and queens of her little city, when she heard her name mentioned in accents of pity by an old lady who had come to pay her aunt a morning visit.

"She is very plain – is not she? What a great misfortune that her father should have left her so much money! Poor thing, it will only prove a curse to her, for if she lives she will doubtless become the prey of some fortune-hunter."

Now what was meant by "fortune-hunter" – whether some giant or horrid ogress – the little girl could not tell, but that it was some dreadful thing waiting to devour her because she had money, haunted her mind continually. She was a child of fine capacity, and at school generally ranked the highest in her class – how many times her envious mates would say: "Well, well, it is a fine thing to be rich – it is your money, Miss Lovel, makes you so much favored – our teachers are both deaf and blind to your foibles!" What wonder, then, poor Ursula began to distrust herself, and to impugn the kindness of her teachers and friends, who really loved her for her sweet disposition, and were proud of her scholarship.

But don't think that she has been hugging such unhappy thoughts to her bosom ever since, because you have just found her lamenting that she is an heiress!

You shall hear. As childhood passed, health bloomed on her cheek, and shed its invigorating influence over the mind, and it was only when something occurred to arouse the suspicion of early childhood that she indulged in such feelings. She was intelligent and accomplished. Sang like a bird, painted to nature, and danced like a fairy. But there was something more than all this which contributed to her happiness – it was the power of doing good – a power which she possessed, and, through the judgment of her aunt, practiced. This excellent woman had taught her that money was not given her to be all lavished on self – that it was her duty, and ought to be her delight, to loose her purse-strings to the cries of the poor, and to scatter its glittering contents through the homes of the needy. And this did Ursula do – and was rewarded by the blessing of those she had relieved, and the happy consciousness of having mitigated the sorrows of her fellow mortals.

But now this particular evening when you have seen little Ursula drooping under the weight of gold which Fortune it appears has so thanklessly showered upon her, she has met with an adventure which brings before her with all its tenacity the impression so early engendered. And now, as she sits there so sad and sorrowful, she is sighing to be loved for herself alone, and wishes her lot had been humble, that she might trust to professions, and not be forever reminded of that wealth which she fears will always mask the sincerity of those around her.