ANGELINA.
BLUE-EYED child, with flaxen ringlets,
'Neath my window played, one day;
And its tiny song of gladness,
Sounded like an angel's lay.
Roses bright in beauty blossomed
Round the path the cherub trod
Yet it seemed that child was fairest,
Freshest from the hand of God.
Watched I her till hour of sunset
Told me of the coming night,
And the sun o'er rock and mountain
Shed its flood of golden light.
Yet she gambolled, though the dew-drops
Fell upon her thick and fast;
Fearing ill, I went and told her,—
Dearest child, the day hath past:
"Haste thee to thy home,—there waiting
Is thy parent, thee to bless."
Then she hasted from the play-ground,
To her mother's fond caress.
Stars shone forth in all their splendor,
And the moon with silver light
Rose in beauty, and presided
Queen o'er all the hosts of night.
Days had passed; I had not seen her,
Had not heard her merry laugh,
Nor those joyous tones that told me
Of the joy her spirit quaffed.
Vain I asked whence Angelina
Had departed,—none could tell;
Feared I then that sorrow gathered
O'er the child I loved so well.
Funeral train passed by my window,—
Banished were all thoughts of mirth;
And I asked of one who lingered,
"Who hath passed to heaven from earth?"
In his eye a tear-drop glistened,
As he, turning, to me said,
"Heaven now holds another angel,—
Little Angelina's dead!"
I could scarce believe the tidings,
Till I stood above her grave,
And beheld those flaxen ringlets,
That so late did buoyant wave,
Lie beside a face whose features
Still in death did sweetly smile
And methought angelic beauty
Lingered on her cheeks the while.
At the pensive hour of twilight,
Oft do angel-footsteps tread
Near her grave, and flowers in beauty
Blossom o'er the early dead;
And a simple marble tablet
Thence doth unassuming rise,
And these simple words are on it,—
"Here our Angelina lies."
Oft at night, when others slumber,
One bends o'er that holy spot;
And the tear-drops fall unnumbered
O'er her sad yet happy lot.
Friends, though oft they mourn her absence,
Do in meek submission bow;
For a voice from heaven is whispering,
"Angelina's happy now."
FAREWELL, MY NATIVE LAND.
Written for KAH-GE-GA-GAI-BOWH, a representative from the Northwest
Tribes of American Indians to the Peace Convention in Frankfort-on-the-
Maine, Germany; and recited by him on board the British steamship
Niagara, at the hour of sailing from Boston, July 10th, 1850.
THE day is brightening which we long have sought;
I see its early light and hail its dawn;
The gentle voice of Peace my ear hath caught,
And from my forest-home I greet the morn.
Here, now, I meet you with a brother's hand-
Bid you farewell-then speed me on my way
To join the white men in a foreign land,
And from the dawn bring on the bright noon-day.
Noon-day of Peace! O, glorious jubilee,
When all mankind are one, from sea to sea.
Farewell, my native land, rock, hill, and plain!
River and lake, and forest-home, adieu!
Months shall depart ere I shall tread again
Amid your scenes, and be once more with you.
I leave thee now; but wheresoe'er I go,
Whatever scenes of grandeur meet my eyes,
My heart can but one native country know,
And that the fairest land beneath the skies.
America! farewell, thou art that gem,
Brightest and fairest in earth's diadem.
Land where my fathers chased the fleeting deer;
Land whence the smoke of council-fires arose;
Land whose own warriors never knew a fear;
Land where the mighty Mississippi flows;
Land whose broad surface spreads from sea to sea;
Land where Niagara thunders forth God's praise;—
May Peace and Plenty henceforth dwell with thee,
And o'er thee War no more its banner raise!
Adieu, my native land,—hill, stream, and dell!
The hour hath come to part us,—fare thee well.
UNLEARNED TO LOVE.
HE hath unlearned to love; for once he loved
A being whom his soul almost adored,
And she proved faithless; turned in scorn upon
His heart's affections; to another gave
The love she once did pledge as all his own.
And now he doth not love. Within his heart
Hate dwells in sullen silence. His soul broods
Over its wrongs, over deluded hopes.
Fancy no more builds airy castles.
Amid the crowd he passes on alone.
The branches wave no more to please his eye,
And the wind singeth no sweet songs to him.
The murmuring brook but murmurs discontent,
And all his life is death since Love hath fled.
O, who shall count his sorrows? who shall make
An estimate of his deep, burning woes,
And place them all in order, rank on rank?
Language is weak to tell the heart's deep, wrongs.
We think, and muse, and in our endless thought
We strive to grasp, with all the mind's vast strength,
The undefinable extent of spirit grief,
And fail to accomplish the herculean task.
WHAT WAS IT?
IT was a low, black, miserable place;
Its roof was rotting; and above it hung
A cloud of murky vapor, sending down
Intolerable stench on all around.
The place was silent, save the creaking noise,
The steady motion of a dozen pumps,
That labored all the day, nor ceased at night.
Methought in it I heard a hundred groans;
Dropping of widows' tears, and cries of orphans;
Shrieks of some victim to the fiendish lust
Of men for gold; woe echoing woe,
And sighs, deep, long-drawn sighs of dark despair.
Around the place a dozen hovels stood,
Black with the smoke and steam that bathed them all;
Their windows had no glass, but rags and boards,
Torn hats and such-like, filled the paneless sash.
Beings, once men and women, in and out
Passed and repassed from darkness forth to light;
And children, ragged, dirty, and despised,
Clung to them. Children! heaven's early flowers,
In their spring-time of life, blighted and lost!
Children! those jewels of a parent's crown,
Crushed to the ground and crumbled to the dust.
Children! Heaven's representatives to man,
Made menial slaves to watch at Evil's gate,
And errand-boys to run at Sin's command.
I asked why thus it was; and one old man
Pushed up the visor of his cap, and said:
"That low, black building is the cause of all."
And would you know what 't was that wrought such ill,
And what the name of that low building was?
Go to thy neighbor, read to him these lines,
And if he does not tell thee right, at first,
Then come to me and you shall know its name.