LETTERS FROM MISS LUCY LEE TO MRS. KATE KING.
Cincinnati, Ohio, June 4.
Dear Kate,—Here we are, all safe and sound. Mother has arranged her furniture, and set her new house in order. Father has entered on the duties of his office, and I am fast forming a circle of elegant acquaintances. I fancy we shall be very happy in this fine city. Father and mother seem delighted with every thing; and as I brought my whole heart with me, I shall have no cause for home-sickness. Some very wise people have said that I am destitute of a heart, but I do not put any faith in such sayings; and yet a heart is no very desirable possession, if one may be allowed to judge from what one sees of its demonstrations—it invariably makes a woman a fool, and a man ridiculous. For instance, there is Harry Brown, who was moping, and sighing, and rhyming, on my account, during the last six months of my stay in our dear native city—did he not make himself supremely ridiculous? I could laugh at his folly, but for a feeling of contempt, that turns mirth to bitterness. I received yesterday a dolorous letter from aunt Alice, accusing me of having broken his heart, and rendered him miserable for life, and all that. But, dear Kate, I don’t believe in broken-hearts. There was Fred Gay, who used to “worship” me, when I was a baby of fourteen. I do not know why it was, but I felt an insuperable aversion to him. I was miserable in his company, and my very hand shrunk instinctively from his touch; yet as he visited at our house, common politeness obliged me to treat him civilly, which was all the encouragement I ever gave him. At length he found opportunity to propose. I, of course, rejected him at once; but he was resolved not to take no for his answer, he pleaded, and promised, and lamented, and wept, and said he was undone forever, and took the most solemn oath that he would never, never marry any other woman living. Well, I did pity him very much, but I could not say him yes; yet I wept myself sick on his account, and was verily afraid that I had done wrong. So I made a confidant of my dear mother, and she said to me, you have done right, Lucy; never marry a man whom you do not love. Still I was troubled, and felt that if he was, indeed, undone, I should never know happiness. Well, what followed? Why, in less than a year, he married that old, ugly, ill-natured, Ann Bear; and I had the consolation of knowing that such a woman had consoled him for my loss. Next came Charles Grant. I did like Charley; but after a while I heard that he said he would win me if possible, but if he could not get me, there was one he could have. So, on inquiry, I found that he had been paying very particular attentions to Miss May for a long time, and that they were said to be engaged. I told him what I had heard. He denied any affection for her, said he had given no occasion for such reports, either to her or others, and protested all manner of fine things to me. However, I did not credit his avowals, and dismissed him; and, lo! in three weeks he became the husband of Miss May. This affair also gave me much pain. Then there was Robert Austin; I did think that he would win me. I had a real regard for him, but one evening as we sat together, he playfully bade me kiss him. I refused. He insisted earnestly that I should do it. I told him seriously that I would never kiss any man except my husband. Instead of respecting this resolve, he became the more importunate. I still refused, and at length he told me, in a pet, that such stubbornness was a lovely sample of my disposition. I was hurt and offended—and so we parted. He huffed a long time; and when he thought that he had punished me sufficiently, he came and asked me, in the most smiling and affectionate manner, if I would not give him a right to that exclusive kiss. But I had seen too much of his tyrannical nature to put my neck into his yoke; so I was forced to endure his lamentations and reproaches. By this time I was branded a coquette. Now, Kate, was not that unjust? Should I have married Fred, disliking him as I did? If I had been as weak as many such young girls are, and sacrificed myself out of pity to him, should we not both have been inevitably miserable? And what would have shielded my heart in after years from that sympathy with a congenial mind, which, under such circumstances, might have led to guilt and ruin? When I permitted the attentions of Charles Grant, I did not know that I was allowing him to wrong one to whom his faith was plighted, if not by word, by the stronger language of actions. Yet if I had become his wife, the voice of the world would have laid the blame on me, and Ellen May would have cursed me as a traitor. I did sincerely purpose to become Mrs. Robert Austin, but he gave me a specimen of his temper too soon for his own peace; for it does seem that he is still unhappy. As for Harry, though the censors say I coqueted with him, I declare I am innocent. I never gave him any encouragement, unless it be so to treat a visiter at your father’s house with decent civility. What can a young lady do? Must she say to every gentleman that calls on her, don’t presume to fall in love with me, for I do not know as I shall like you on further acquaintance? The world is a fool on the subject of coquetry. I am sick to death of all the ridiculous cant, and milk-and-water stories about coquettes. After all, what does it amount to? Simply that a young lady is attractive, and much admired; that she has sense enough to discriminate between good and evil, and firmness of character sufficient to enable her to reject those whom she cannot love, however worthy; and those she can love when they prove themselves unworthy. If a young lady is so destitute of all attractions, as to have no expectation of ever finding a lover, she may possibly fall into the arms of the first man who professes to love her, with a yes, and thank you, too; and she is a woman with a heart, and no coquette. Now don’t get angry, though you did accept the first offer, that first offer was every way worthy of acceptance—and your heart felt it to be so. If such had been my fortune, I should not have been a coquette either. Aunt Alice exhorts me not to resume my old business of breaking hearts here in my new location. We shall see. I certainly will not hunt, or trap, or angle for them, neither will I immure myself like a Turkish maiden, nor put on repulsive airs to frighten them; nor will I promise to accept the first or second offer that I may receive. I have grown too old a bird to be decoyed by chaff. I shall not marry lightly, for I do not think that a single life is so much to be dreaded. On the contrary, I must receive an equivalent for the careless freedom of girlhood, and the friends from whom I must be severed, as well as a balance for the inevitable sorrows, and fears, and pains, and humiliations of woman’s lot. Now I am free, my own mistress, and many are happy to do me homage. If I become a wife, I accept a master, whom it must be my study to please. I must not only defer to all his opinions and wishes, but I must make this deference my pleasure; and for the homage of the scores who now kneel at my feet, I must be content to receive the commendation of “well done, good and faithful servant.” Knowing all this, my husband, if I have one, must be one whom I can love and honor. Now if I am pleased with a gentleman’s exterior, I shall not attribute to him all mental excellence, and so take him on trust, but shall endeavor to become thoroughly acquainted with him. If this acquaintance shall develop qualities which I cannot approve of, I shall certainly dismiss him; and if this is coquetry why I am a determined coquette. I am not seeking perfection, but I will have truth, honor, a good temper, and real love. When these offer, I shall be found weak, and like another man (woman.) I know, dear Kate, that you will laugh at all this, and shake your wise head, with your old remark—a woman’s love makes any man perfect. But now I must say good-by, and write myself
Your loving,
Lucy Lee.
Cincinnati, Sept. 9.
Kate, Dear Kate!—I almost begin to think that I really have no heart. Here is a gentleman who, to all that I require in a husband, adds a very handsome and commanding person, a high and acknowledged genius, and a large fortune; and yet, Kate, I do not love him. He attached himself to me, on our very first acquaintance, and still continues his assiduities. My father is anxious to call him son, and all my friends urge me to accept him. I have received several magnificent presents from him. I could not reject them without rejecting him; and, indeed, I would like to be his wife, if I could but love him. Aunt Alice says I am a fool; that not one woman in a hundred loves her husband before marriage. Ah, Kate, if it is so, no wonder there is so much domestic misery and conjugal infidelity in the world. I do not understand how woman can endure her lot, unsupported by love; and, certainly, it is not wonderful that man should seek elsewhere the sunshine of affectionate sympathy, which is not his at home. Kate, I am half inclined to become Mrs. Melwin, but when I think seriously about it, my very heart shudders. Oh, Kate! there is a yearning for something which I have not found, a sympathy that could draw me into its very heart, with all my feelings and failings undisguised, and fearless of reproach. To stand at the altar, fearing that he to whom you pledge your vows will discover the perjury of your heart—for is it not perjury to promise to love one whom you feel you cannot love? And yet, perhaps, my notions of love are all romance, never to be realized. Perhaps I love Mr. Melwin as well as I can ever love any man. Perhaps I had best accept his hand. Ah, me! what shall I do? I wish I could know myself. With him I certainly should have no cause of sorrow which did not spring from my own bosom. I am almost resolved to accept him. Do advise me, my dear, wise Kate, and save me from all these distracting doubts, and the fears of self-reproach, that now torment almost to distraction.
Your poor, wavering,
Lucy Lee.
Cincinnati, Jan. —.
Kate! Kate!—I have a heart, a warm, confiding, loving heart! Strange that it has slept so long. But it is awake now. I have met one at whose feet I am willing to lay down the sceptre of my pride, for whose love I am ready to forego all my girlhood’s treasures. He loves me, and I shall be his wife. Ah! dear Kate, if you could know how I am tormented now, when my heart is so happy. Father calls me a fool, an unaccountable simpleton; mother sighs whenever her eyes rest on me, and she calls me a perverse child. My friends ridicule me; and Mr. Melwin—oh, Kate! I wish he had never seen me—I believe he takes a malicious pleasure in upbraiding me whenever he can find opportunity. I tell him honestly that I could not be his, because I could not love him. Then he asks why I coqueted with him? Coqueted! Now is not that provoking. I endured his attentions, because he was every way an excellent man, and I thought that if I could learn to love him, I should be most happy as his wife. How did I know that I could never love him until I tested my feeling by being much in his society? It does seem that the world is resolved to take from woman her only prerogative—that of choosing whom she will serve. Kate, love! am I not right? Since woman, on her wedding-day, loses her identity, and is thenceforth merged—name, honor, fame, fortune, every thing in him to whom she plights herself—does it not become her to be cautious to whom she thus resigns herself. Since our only freedom is this privilege of choosing a husband, should we not be suffered to exercise it? And yet if we reject one, two, or three suitors, we are heartless, and coquettes. If there were more such coquettes in the world, there would be infinitely less misery. I am of Aunt Alice’s opinion, that most girls marry before they know any thing of love. You will see a vain child, just from boarding-school, tricked out in all the pride of fashion, and introduced to the world at some splendid ball or party. Of course, she is flattered, and admired, and complimented—she has made a splendid début. Presently some gentleman pays her marked attentions. She is flattered by his preference. She has imbibed the prevalent opinion that the end of all woman’s duties and aspirations is an eligible marriage. Her admirer is an unexceptionable man. She will accept him; and then, oh, how she will queen it as a bride, at the head of a splendid establishment. Her friends encourage her, applaud her choice, and she is married. Afterward, her husband discovers with astonishment, that in place of a meek, loving woman, he has got a selfish, arrogant, proud, and petulant child to manage as he best may. But then she never was a coquette! But to return. When I asked Mr. Melwin if he could desire me to give him my hand without love, he invariably replies, if you could not love me, why did you not tell me so, before I had centered in you all my hopes, and braided you in every strand of my future life! Dear me! how could I tell him before I knew it myself? I did wish to love him, and try to love him; and if I had been a silly child of fifteen, should doubtless have laid the foundation of our future misery by becoming his—shall I say wife? But, you will ask, who and what is the man of my choice? He is Horace Glynn, a young lawyer, scarcely older than myself, and, of course, unknown to fame or worldly honor. I will not say that he is handsome, and he is not rich; but he has genius, a lofty sense of honor, and unblemished character, and a heart full of all the sweet and gentle sympathies. More than all, he loves me, just as I always longed to be beloved. I feel that my pulse can echo his; that all my feelings and opinions blend and flow in the current of his. In short, that I am ready to resign my own will, and yield him a cheerful deference, and forsaking all that my young heart has known, or loved, follow him, and minister to him until death. I am so thankful that I did not marry until I felt this sweet devotion. The world will say—“Well, Lucy Lee, like all other incorrigible coquettes, has, after rejecting half a dozen excellent offers, thrown herself away upon a poor young fellow, infinitely beneath her other suitors.” But I shall be blest with a whole heart happiness, and home will be my world. Oh, Kate! am I not happy!
Lucy Lee.
JENNY LOW.
———
BY C. M. JOHNSON.
———
When first I pressed thy cheek, love,
’Twas in the month of May,
You chidingly rebuked me,
Yet bid me longer stay—
And gave me back my kiss, love,
Before I went away.
And when I met thee last, love,
Beneath the trysting-tree,
Before I went away, love,
Beyond the roaring sea,
That dewy kiss at parting
Was a priceless gem to me.
They wrote me of thy death, love,
How could it ever be!
And that those lips in dying
Were whispering for me—
The very lips that I had pressed
Beneath the trysting-tree.
O! all the wealth I’ve hoarded
I’d freely give away,
Could I that day live o’er again,
In the pleasant month of May;
And could I but renew that kiss
I’d give my life away.
AN INDIAN LEGEND.
The Indian race is rapidly becoming extinct; even now some tribes that once numbered their thousand warriors no longer exist, and those that still have a name are degraded and debased both in mind and body, and are fast vanishing away, “like snow-wreaths in a thaw.” Not three centuries have elapsed since the white man landed on our shores, and begged as a gift, or bought for a trifle, from the rightful owners of the soil, a small tract of land; and now he owns it all, and noble cities and thriving villages stand on the loved hunting-grounds and burial-places of the red man. In a few years more the race will have passed away, and the place that once knew them will know them no more forever.
Yet we shall never forget them, for our country is full of monuments to their memory; we have Indian names for our towns, villages and rivers—and there are Indian legends attached to almost every high hill, every dark, dismal cave, or bold, bare rock. These legends are always thrilling, and often painfully so, for they show vividly the strongly marked characteristics of the Indian race, their endurance and contempt of hardship, their stoical indifference to suffering and death, their lasting remembrance of kindness received, and, above all, their deadly revenge of injuries.
In the present county of La Salle, and state of Illinois, there is a rock some forty or fifty feet high, standing out boldly from the bank of the Illinois river. The summit is level, perfectly destitute of vegetation, and is attained only by a narrow and difficult foot-path. In that prairie land, the rock is very notable, as being the only elevation for miles around; its bold, jagged and nearly perpendicular lines on the river-side seem to swell its height and increase its frightfulness, while the dull gray color of the rock itself, and its scathed appearance, contrast strangely with the “smoothness and sheen” of the river and the verdant prairie.
That rock was, in days long gone by, the scene of an Indian tribe’s extinction, and is called in reference to the event, the “Starved Rock;” and the white settlers of that region believe and tell the legend as it has been gathered from Indian tradition.
In the vicinity of “Starved Rock”—so the legend runs—there once lived two small tribes of Indians, the Coriaks and Pinxies. They were friendly toward each other, and often leagued together for mutual defence, or to destroy some common foe. On the return of the warriors of both tribes from an expedition in which they had proved victorious, and had taken an unusual number of prisoners, a feast was given by the Coriaks, to celebrate the event; and the braves of each tribe met to dance about their victims, to throw with unerring aim their sharp-pointed arrows into their defenceless bodies, and to drown the death-song of expiring foes in unearthly shouts and loud boasts of their own bloody deeds. At this feast Canabo, one of the Pinxie braves, saw and loved the beautiful Anacaona, who was to be the wife of Wyamoke, a chief of her own (the Coriak) tribe, as soon as he had with his own hand obtained deer-skins enough to furnish his wigwam, and a sufficient number of scalps to ornament his girdle.
Anacaona, or the “Golden Flower,” as her name signified, was tall, graceful and dignified—her dark, brilliant eyes were shaded by drooping lids and long silken lashes—her long, black, glossy hair fell over her smooth neck and shoulders; indeed the stream that flowed past her wigwam door never reflected from its bright bosom so lovely an object as it did when the “Golden Flower” looked in its depths and dressed her hair. Canabo joined in the feast, the wild song and the dance, but he thought only of the beautiful Anacaona; his keen eye soon detected the love glances that passed between her and Wyamoke—he saw the color deepen in her cheek when that brave approached—he saw that her eye flashed and her head was thrown back with pride when he sang of the victims he had slain, and the captives he had made; and there sprung up in his heart, and grew side by side, the deadly night-shade of hate and the sweet flower of love—hate, never ending hate, of his rival; and love, deep and wild, for the Indian girl.
Canabo felt that it would be in vain to try and win away her love with daring deeds or soft winning words, for Wyamoke was bold and brave as himself, and his voice was gentle and sweet as the sighing wind when he spoke to Anacaona, and called her his wild rose-bud, or his gentle fawn.
The feast was ended, and Canabo, who with true Indian cunning had refrained from the mention or exhibition of his love or his hate, returned with his tribe to their own camp.
It was the close of a beautiful summer day when Anacaona left her lodge, and with stealthy steps took her way through the tangled wood; now and then she paused in a listening altitude, as if she expected to hear some other sound than the humming of the insects or the singing of the birds. At last a slight sound reached her ear—it was as if a withered branch broke beneath the tread of a foot. Her own loved Wyamoke had been absent three days—he was to return that night. Anacaona was sure it was her lover’s step, and with a wild silvery laugh that rung through the forest, and which the echoes caught up and repeated, she bounded forth to meet him. It was indeed a step she heard, and soon, alas! too soon, she was clasped, not in the arms of Wyamoke, but in those of the wily Canabo. Instantly he placed one hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, and raised her lightly in his arms, and picking his way carefully, stepping only on things that revealed no foot-print, till he gained the bank of the river, he removed the blanket from the now insensible girl, and threw it into the stream, and then stepping into the water himself, commenced walking rapidly but cautiously up the river. The next morning Anacaona’s blanket was found, but there were no traces of her, and her lover and tribe mourned her as dead. Canabo reached his own camp late at night—no one saw him come in—no one knew aught about the girl he had brought with him save his brother, whom he had trusted with his secret. He placed Anacaona in his lodge, and though he would not force her to be his wife, he kept her alone day after day, in hopes she would weary of her solitude and consent. At length the autumn hunting season came on, and Canabo, as chief of his tribe, was obliged to accompany them to the hunt; and after giving his brother strict charge to guard the young girl with his life, he departed.
All was quiet and still in that Indian camp—the smoke curled gracefully but slowly up from the almost extinguished fires of those who remained to guard the village of the Pinxies; some few children were playing about, and one or two old squaws were weaving baskets beside their huts, but there was only one man visible, and he might easily have been mistaken for a statue, so motionless did he lie stretched out before the door of one of the principal lodges of the camp. The clear note of a whippowil sounded through the wood, and the Indian moved—again it sounded, and he half rose from his recumbent posture; it sounded nearer and clearer and the young Indian sprung to his feet, just as the laughing face of a girl peered out from the side of the lodge. She was slight and childlike in her form, and her hair, which was fastened back with a wreath of bright red flowers, fell almost to her feet; she held her bow and arrows in one hand, and in the other a dead bird. She called him in a sweet, musical voice to come and see the bird, but he pointed to the door of the lodge before which he stood, and shook his head. Nainee was vexed, and turning her back to him, she began to shoot her arrows at every thing she saw, and finally tossing her little head, and throwing back her hair, she moved away; but curiosity conquered pride, and just as her lover began to wish he had detained her, she returned, and taking a flower from her hair, pressed it to her lips and threw it on the ground before her lover. He moved from his post to get the flower, and as he bent down, Nainee placing her hand on his shoulder, bounded by him, and ere the astonished Indian could prevent her, she had lifted the skin that served for a door, and passed into the lodge. A low laugh escaped from the Indian; he knew that Nainee could be trusted; that the secret was still safe—and he was pleased with her daring and cunning; she could hit a bird on the wing—she could outrun the deer, and now she had cunningly foiled him. “Yes, Nainee was indeed worthy of a brave Indian’s love.”
Anacaona was reclining on a pile of furs, her face buried in her hands, and so engrossed in her own sad thoughts that she was unconscious of the entrance of the visiter, until Nainee uttered an exclamation of surprise. She looked up—the sight of her beautiful face filled Nainee with jealousy, and her eyes flashed with unnatural brilliancy; but Anacaona sprung up eagerly, and leading her to the place she had vacated, compelled her to be seated. Then she told her who she was, and the story of her capture, and begged her in soft, plaintive tones to aid her, and restore her to her lover and her tribe. All jealousy vanished from Nainee’s heart, as she listened, and throwing her arms about Anacaona’s neck, when she had ended the story, she promised to help her, and kindly kissing her hand, drew aside the deer-skin door and in a moment stood without at the Indian’s side. But he seemed not to heed her presence, and she threw herself down beside him, and taking some long grass in her hand, she commenced braiding it together, while the words of an impromptu song burst from her lips. She sang of Anacaona’s desolate home—of her broken-hearted mother and brave lover who mourned her loss—of the lone captive girl who longed to look once more on the greenwood, and whose proud spirit pined to be free. Nainee paused a moment to note the effect, and then commenced a low recitation of the former noble bearing and brave deeds of Canabo: He had been called “magnanimous,” and his name was the “Eagle,” but, alas! he had wronged his friend, disgraced his tribe, and had, like the hawk, stolen a dove from its nest; then, turning suddenly to the young Indian, Nainee raising her voice said,
“You will save Canabo—send the girl away—bid her swear by the Great Spirit never to tell where she has been, and let her go to her own people. Canabo will soon forget her, and you will have kept your brother from dishonor.”
But the Indian was true, and would not betray his trust.
The shadows of evening gathered thick about that Indian camp, and the rippling of the river, and the occasional bark of some watchful dog, were all the sounds that were heard, as Nainee took her way to Anacaona’s lodge. Soon the two beautiful girls, followed by the young Indian, were walking side by side along the banks of the Illinois, the moon and the bright stars lighting their way. Anacaona knew that the same stream flowed past her own loved home, and she broke off a branch from one of the trees near by, and throwing it upon the water, bade it take her farewell to her lover. It was late ere they returned. Nainee had brought some bark and paints—these she gave to Anacaona to amuse herself with, and promising to come again the next evening, she took her leave. All the next day Anacaona busily employed herself in making a small bark canoe, on the bottom of which she painted a rude picture of herself, with her hands bound, in token of her captivity; and on the side there was an eagle’s feather, the badge of Canabo’s tribe. At night she went forth again to walk, and under her blanket was hid the little canoe. She watched the moon, and when a cloud shut out its light, she bent down to the river, as if to bathe her face, and slid her canoe into the stream; her heart beat almost audibly—she feared the Indian might see and get it, and then, she knew, her only hope of escape would be blighted; but he did not notice it, and soon it was carried so far down by the current that in the pale moonlight it could not be seen.
On their return, Nainee entered the lodge, and told Anacaona that she would come the next night and engage the Indian’s attention, and while thus engaged, Anacaona could push aside a log of the lodge that was loose, and escape—“The heart of the Golden Flower is strong,” said Nainee, “and to her the night and the lone woods have no terrors; her heart, too, is true and kind, and she will not seek revenge, or cause harm to fall on Nainee’s tribe.”
Anacaona pressed the girl to her bosom, and vowed for her sake to remember only the kindness and forget the wrong. Love, deep and pure, for each other had sprung up in their hearts, and they grieved that they were to part—but they were Indian girls, and no tears were shed, no words wasted; the deep waters of the heart were troubled, but the surface was calm and unruffled, and seemingly unmoved they parted forever.
The next night Anacaona made her escape, and for hours she fled, following the banks of the river. As morning began to dawn, the weary girl threw herself down on the grass, and fell asleep. She knew not how long she slept, but when she awoke, it was with a cry of terror, for the wild whoops of the Indians were ringing in her ears, and she knew that the tribe of her captor were on her track. She listened a moment, but there were no friendly sounds mingling with the savage yell. She looked around, but there was no aid, no refuge near—and on she fled. A huge rock was before her; she saw at a glance that the ascent was difficult, but nothing daunted the fearless girl, and up its steep and rugged side she pushed. The horrid yells of the savages fell more and more distinctly on her ear, and when she reached the summit of the rock, they were close behind. There was no escape, and Anacaona stretching out her arms to heaven, uttered a shriek of despair, and leaped off into the foaming river beneath. Alas! for the unfortunate Anacaona! Had she delayed one moment, she would have heard her father’s and her lover’s loud cry. Her little canoe had fulfilled its mission, and the wild wood was full of armed braves thronging to deliver or avenge her. Wyamoke and his tribe from afar had seen Anacaona’s fatal leap, and all the fierce passions of their nature were stirred within them. Canabo and his warriors were between them and the rock, and were driven up on to it with terrible slaughter. The Coriaks posted themselves at its base in force, and for days and days besieged their foes. Every sortie was successfully opposed, and individual attempts at escape foiled. Cooped up on that rock, starvation stared the Pinxies in the face—despair reigned among them; some of the warriors, resolving both to end their lives and take revenge, rushed down the rock—notwithstanding their efforts they were slain; others sang their death-song, and threw themselves off into the river and perished; others, with Indian calmness, laid themselves down to die of starvation.
On the evening of the fourth day, a young Indian girl came to Wyamoke. She told him she had been kind to Anacaona, and assisted her to escape, and in return she only asked to join her lover on the rock. Way was made for her to pass, and Nainee wound her way up the difficult path, amid the dead and dying of her tribe. Her young lover saw her coming, and met her. They looked over the sad scene and talked mournfully together, she leading him toward the edge of the rock; the brave hesitated a moment—then clasping her in his arms, leaped off into the stream; and the two beautiful Indian girls, Nainee and Anacaona, slept beneath the same bright waters.
Days passed away, and one by one Canabo’s tribe, parched by thirst, wasted by famine, or self-destroyed passed into the spirit-land, till none were left but one old man. He, the last of his tribe, as the Coriaks crowded up the rock to finish their work of revenge, raised his shout of boasting and defiance, and died. No remnant of the tribe was left, even their name is lost, except in the terrible tradition that commemorates their extinction at Starved Rock.
M.
LINES FOR MUSIC.
In golden dreams my night goes by,
And sweet the life of sleep to me;
For, moon-like ’mid the starry sky,
My brightest dream is still of thee.
And as the moonlight stirs the deeps
Of ocean with her gentle sway,
So to thy glance my spirit leaps,
And thrills beneath the trembling ray.
G. G. F.
THE LAY OF THE WIND.
———
BY LILIAS.
———
I rove at my pleasure, all gayly and free,
O’er the wide spreading land and the loud roaring sea,
I’m at home ’mid the bright sunny bowers of the South,
And at home on the wild frozen wastes of the North;
While I whisper sweet things to the flowers in their bloom,
And breathe a sad strain round the aisle and the tomb.
When Winter all sternly comes forth from his cave,
To still the glad streamlet and fetter the wave,
I howl, as the tempest sweeps by in its wrath,
Or scatter the snow from the icy king’s path,
And chant, in the midnight all lonely and still,
A dirge for the fallen, by valley and hill.
And Spring, lovely maiden! Oh what would she be
Without her mild breezes on land and on sea?
And what would awaken the sweet-scented flowers
To burst in their beauty in lone forest bowers?
Did I not bend o’er them and joyfully sing—
“A loved one is coming, the maiden is Spring.”
Gay Summer, bright Summer, all joyous and fair,
Gives life to the desert, perfume to the air,
But the rays of her sun are too scorching and bright,
The lovely flowers languish and droop ere the night:
Then stealing at twilight from out my lone cave,
I wander along o’er the cool starry wave,
To fan Flora’s gems with my magical wing,
And low, while the dew-drops are falling, to sing.
Then hie me away to a child in its dreams,
And whisper of fountains and cool running streams.
When Autumn steals on, clad in purple and gold,
The mountains and woods in his robe to enfold,
And flowers, as they gaze on the dull, paling sky,
Grow weary of life and so bow them to die;
When forest-leaves gently are falling to earth,
And gay singing waters forgetting their mirth,
O’er vale and o’er upland I breathe a sad lay,
For the fair and the lovely all passing away.
My hours are ne’er stolen by sorrow or sleep,
When weary of forests I fly to the deep;
My course is to-day amid sunshine and bloom,
To-morrow, it may be with tempests and gloom;
But though I ne’er linger, I’m joyous and free,
If sighing ’mid blossoms, or sweeping the sea,
For my way is right on through the long-coming years,
And I turn not aside for your hopes or your fears.
ECHO.
———
BY JOHN S. MOORE.
———
Sweet Echo, dweller in cavernous mountains,
Amid dark forests by abounding fountains,
Much loved that self-adoring boy,
The fair son of Cephisus,
And chased his footsteps with consuming joy,
Crying aloud “Narcissus!”
But vain were all her cries and all her wooing;
The youth replied not to the nymph pursuing,
But fled from her desiring gaze,
Filling her heart with anguish;
Then, like a flower scorched by the sun’s hot rays,
Echo began to languish.
Afar, in deepest solitudes reclining,
She hid her from the woodland maids, repining,
Wasting the day with idle plaint—
With unavailing sorrow,
And every day her beauty grew more faint,
More pale by every morrow.
At last, out-worn by grief and passion violent,
Sweet Echo died within her grottoes silent,
Leaving her story unto fame.—
Her voice will never perish;
The prattling rocks still rattle with her name,
The hills her memory cherish.
SONNET TO ——.
WRITTEN AFTER A MIDNIGHT WALK.
———
BY R. H. BACON.
———
An arrow tipped with solar fire should write
Upon the tablet of a cloudless sky
Its burning characters, so that the bright
And glowing fancies of my soul could lie
Faintly portrayed before thee, were the high,
Unwonted thoughts that thrill my wondering heart
Fitly expressed. Alas! I have no art
To body forth emotion; nor to lay
Upon the edge of words a fringe of fire:
Day turns to night, and night gives place to day.
While I am baffled in my vain desire!
Yet, haunted by the memory of the moon
And mystic stars that walk night’s gentle noon,
I string again my long-neglected lyre.
THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;
OR, ROSE BUDD.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
Travelers must be content. As You Like It.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.
———
[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]
(Continued from page 145.)