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 song
Died mournful on the evening breeze away,
Ere down the precipice he plunged along
Mid 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.