The sable wing of Death is spread,
And Vengeance, with his dooming eye,
And sharp, unsparing blade, is nigh—
Soon, soon from the gloom of its scabbard to dart
And drink the last drop of his recreant heart!
Enough of prating!- on the hill,
The tall old evergreens are still,
And the south wind no longer weaves
Gay roundelay amid the leaves,
Or flies the dreaming wave to curl,
By moonlight changed to liquid pearl—
No rustling whisper, from the reeds
That fringe yon marshy bay, proceeds,
And in primeval groves around
There is a transient death of sound.
The howling beast of prey hath made
His meal of carnage in the shade,
And sought long since his dark retreat,
Crackling the brush beneath his feet.
I, too, must find a rugged bed,
For the mid hour of night hath fled-
Throughout my frame I slowly feel
A drowsy, numbing torpor steal,
And as we march by morning light,
Our limbs require repose-GOOD NIGHT!
END OF CANTO FIRST.
If hallowed by Love's presence bright, a home
Far in the wild is more to be desired
Than gorgeous chambers of a royal dome,
Where restless hearts, by envy ever fired,
Throb in proud breast, where joyance hath expired;
Mine be the hut, if there Affection dwells,
Though meanly be its occupants attired;
For the blind Deity hath wondrous spells That fill with golden light Earth's worst receptacles.
The rosy pencillings of Dawn
On a pleasant sky were clearly drawn,
And changed the clouds of the Orient grew
From dull gray tint to a golden hue.
The distant top of the wooded height
Was edged with a rim of tender light,
And thicket, fountain, rock and tree
From cloudless sun a radiance drank,
While washed the rapid Genesee,
With reddened wave, the crumbling bank.
The clasping vine on the river shore,
Twined round the ponderous sycamore;
And near, in strange confusion piled,
Lay fallen giants of the wild,
Decaying marks of ages flown,
By the fierce tornado overblown;
On the
brink thick willows grew,
And gloom on the passing current threw,
While pensile boughs hung down to lave
Their pale green leaves in the gurgling wave;
On the long unbroken ridge above,
The walnut, oak and maple spread
Their knotted, barky arms, and wove
A dark pavilion overhead:
Beyond, encircled by the grove,
A glade lay basking in the light,
Like an emerald gem in the locks of night,
And the fresh and unpolluted earth
To flowers of an hundred hues
Such haunt the dreaming bards of old
Chose for the fay his court to hold,
From din of crowded mart afar,
When the moon was in her diamond car;
And a being of celestial mien
Was moving on its carpet green,
Bright as the Fabled Fairy-queen :-
But her cheek with sorrowing was pale,
Nor could the breath of morning dry,
Or the vivid beam of day exhale
The tear-drop in her dark blue eye.
A zone of brilliant damask graced
Her delicate and rounded waist,
Confining, in its clasping fold,
Her bodice by a brooch of gold.
The comb amid her auburn curls
Was beautiful with studding pearls,
And the costly texture of her dress
Was passing strange in a wilderness.
The proud bird of the cliff had shed,
To grace the bonnet on her head,
The richest plumage of its wings;
And, magnet of admiring eyes,
She would have borne the dazzling prize Of beauty, in the hall of kings.
Contrasting with her paler charms, White neck, fair cheek and snowy arms,
An Indian maiden by her side
Moved with an air of native pride,
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