A MIDNIGHT CHANT FOR THE DYING

YEAR.

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth

In the wilderness alone,
'Vex not his ghost!''

'Tis the death-howl of the aged year!-through pine woods wild and vast,
It rideth on the pinion of the sounding mountain blast;
From valley and cold forest, and from icy ocean-shore,
I hear its mournful wailing, bient with the billows' roar ;
And far upon the summit of the storm-scarred promontory,
I see grim Winter's legions bursting through the cedars hoary!

They come with dismal chanting, and hollow-sounding dirges,
They pass unto the music of the sea's orchestral surges :
I see the gloomy warriors their snowy chargers mounting,
I hear the gibbering Storm-fiend his cold battalions counting:
Now creak, ye icy forests! - they are forming on the lea,
They are mounting on the mountain, and the surly-sounding sea!

Hark! heard ye not that distant roar?-'tis Winter's ghostly cry,
O'er the gray-haired Year that wrestleth with his dying agony!
He is passing to his slumber! Hist! the winds around him crowd,
And the eagle shrieks his death-song in the snowy mountain cloud :
He is passing to his sepulchre, upborne upon the form

Of the fiercely-spinning whirlwind, and the gloomy mountain storm!

They bear him to eternity, with wild and solemn moan!
And as they pass, the rocking woods make melancholy groan:
They are creaking on the mountain, and on the lonely shore,
In wild and angry concert with old Ocean's mighty roar;
And ever as they rattle their bare bones in the gale,

Dark Winter o'er the dying year howls out his midnight wail.

Then cometh from the wilderness, and from the stormy sky,
The voice of him who fighteth with his dying agony.

'Tis done! -wan Night now shudders through all her wild dominion,
And haggard Time upon the blast unfolds his awful pinion;

And, legion after legion, the winds, with mighty roar,

Go howling through the pine woods, and pass from hill and shore!

The year is in his sepulchre ! - approach, and view his bier!
Thou wilt not deem it idlesse to shed a parting tear;

For lo! here sleep the beautiful, they who, in life's sweet spring,
Were merry as the painted birds that mount on joyous wing;
Now they are gone for ever!-- behold them where they lie!
They of the pure and gentle heart, the bright and sunny eye!

They are gone! the loved and beautiful-oh! come they back no more
Speak, friends!-sweet friends, with ye I smiled, and sang in days of yore,
And will ye not return again? Hark! hark!-'t was but the sigh
Of cowled Winter sweeping through the cold and solemn sky;
They come not! nay, they come not! the loved are in the tomb
And I am here, a mourner, over youth and beauty's bloom.

I stand in the grim wilderness, and while the tempest's wail

Doth shake the leafless forest, and die along the vale,

I think of many a sylph-like form, and many a fair young brow,
All eloquent with beauty once, but cold and lifeless now:

I think of them while on the hills the mournful whirlwinds roar,
But the beautiful have vanished, and will return no more!

December 31, 1839.

VOL. XV.

6

H. W. R.

A LEAF FROM 'DOWN IN MAINE.'

'MUCH can they praise the trees so straight and hy;
The sayling pine; the cedar proud and tall;
The vine-propp elme; the poplar never dry;
The builder oake, sole king of forests all.'

FAERIE QUEENE,

BUT they will not believe, says my sketch-book, that the land of tall pines and cedars, rivalling in magnificence the goodly tree of Lebanon, can have aught else of interest within her borders.

Early in the autumn of 1839, lack of employment, desire of novelty, and a combination of those distempers of the mind which, according to the learned Teufelsdröck, render us terrestrial dreamers so restless, led me to seek amusement in exploring the wilds of Maine. Nor was I a little enticed to this excursion by the fame of the finny inhabitants of those northern waters, which, in imagination, I already felt in mid career of glorious nibbling' at the extremity of my fishing-rod.

Filled with anticipations of delightful sport, and withal a tinge of romance, at the idea of visiting so wild a region, I set out from the residence of a friend whom I was visiting, for the land of sayling pines,' and the waters said to be rife with gaily-speckled trout. My way led windingly over numerous hills and dales, which give a delightful diversity to the scenery of that part of Maine; but I was all unprepared for the grandeur of the landscape which met my gaze. From the summits of the higher ridges, the observer may behold, on every side, an almost endless variety of hill, and valley, and tiny lakes, glittering in the beautiful sunshine of autumn; and as I breathed the clear atmosphere of the mountains, and heard the ringing of my horse's hoofs upon the road, I could fancy each bush, with its gaily-tinted foliage, the plaid of some highland warrior, and that a single clarion blast might people the same with claymores flashing in the sunshine, or make the hills echo with the battle-cry of some warrior chief, whose will was law to all who dwelt in that wild land! Just as the sun was setting, I arrived at the foot of Moosehead Lake, and my time being limited, proposed to embark immediately for a more northern point. Procuring a boat and boatman, I set sail about two hours after my arrival, intending to ascend the lake twenty miles to Mount Kinnes.

It was a mild autumnal evening, with just air enough to waft us lazily along, scarce disturbing the glassy surface of the lake. The bright moonlight rendered the numerous islands but dimly visible; and as we moved gently onward, the stillness of the scene was broken by the mournful cry of the water-fowl, echoed and reechoed from isle to isle, then dying away in fainter echoes from the more distant shores, losing itself in solemn stillness, as we come within the dark shadow of some high promontory; and again awakened as we glide into the soft moonlit waters, making one feel that after all our disbelief in fairy tales, there may be such a place as faerie lond.' As morning came, our gentle breeze began to fail; the sails hung

loosely from the mast, and despite our impatience, we were forced to acknowledge that 'the wind bloweth where it listeth.'

My guide, though a man of few words, and those few of the purest Yankee dialect, had often listened to the traditions of the few wandering red-men who, during the hunting season, are still found in the vicinity of the lake; and while floating listlessly upon the water, deserted by the wind, and my most tempting offers unheeded by the fine trout which were ever and anon showing themselves above the water, as if in derision of my efforts to ensnare them, I gathered from him the incidents of the following story. In the mean time, the wind springing up, carried us merrily along toward the end of our voyage, and a few hours found us toiling up the steep ascent of Mount Kinnes.

About midway between the northern and southern extremes of the lake, this bold bluff' rises from its deepest waters to a height of near eight hundred feet above the surface, and is connected, by a narrow neck of land, with the eastern shore. On three sides, nothing is seen but solid flint, rising perpendicularly from the water, and making its summit inaccessible, except from one point. Near the top is a spring of water bubbling from a cleft in the rocks, and trickling, in a narrow thread, down its ragged side. From the highest peak, the whole lake, with its countless islands and projecting headlands, seems spread as a map at your feet; and as I gazed upon the scene, without a sound to disturb its solemn stillness, I remembered, with awe, that but a breath from Him whose existence was written on all around, and the mighty hills and rocks of adamant' which now filled me with admiration of their vastness, would vanish as a shadow from the face of the Almighty! Many miles to the southeast of the lake, in the country formerly peopled by the Penobscots, is Kataadn, one of the highest mountains of New-England. Seen from a distance, it appears surrounded by other mountains, rising apparently from its very base; but towering far above them, its lofty peak is often enveloped in clouds, while its lower neighbors are clearly visible to the eye; and from the mysterious grandeur of its appearance, the Indians of the country have ever looked upon it as the peculiar abode of the Great Spirit.

Nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, a tribe of the Abenakis Indians, called the Weeweenocks, who inhabited the eastern part of New-England, finding the vicinity of our 'pilgrim fathers' productive of misery to the tribe, proposed removing themselves to the river St. François, for the sake of French neighborhood and protection A portion of the tribe, averse to the proposed settlement at St. François, preferred the borders of this lake, which then abounded with moose and other game, and whose waters were alive with the choicest fish. The dispute ended in the removal of the greater part of the tribe, with their sachem, to St. François, while the remainder, numbering about a hundred warriors, followed one of their chiefs to the hunting-grounds in the vicinity of the lake. It happened, about the same time, that the Penobscots came on their annual hunt to its eastern shore; but the Weeweenocks, being a peaceable race, and withal the weaker party, avoided all cause of collision, until the untoward occurrence which destroyed the friendship of the tribes.

A son of Madockawando, sachem of the Penobscots, became enamored of a daughter of the Weeweenocks, who was already betrothed to a warrior of her own nation. The young Penobscot having, in a hunting excursion, wandered round the head of the lake to a mountain which rises boldly from its western shore, unfortunately met the young squaw whom he coveted, and sought by 'soft persuasion' to induce her to follow him; but she, spurning his princely person, so enraged him, that in his resentment, he killed her, and flung the body down a craggy precipice of the mountain. When the young warrior to whom she was betrothed learned the fate of his mistress, he became frantic with thirst for revenge; but the Weeweenocks were too weak to make war upon the Penobscots, and had no means of avenging the injury, without drawing destruction upon their own party.

Toward the close of the hunting season, the Penobscots prepared to move eastward; and as was their custom at the close of their annual hunt, they assembled for a solemn feast upon Mount Kinnes; where, in view of the great Kataadn, they were to eat and dance in honor of the good Spirit who watched over their hunting grounds, and peopled the waters with fish for the red-man. To this feast the Weeweenocks were invited; and stifling their resentment of the injury done to their tribe, they set off to attend it. At its close, and just as the Indians were about to descend the mountain, the young warrior whose mistress had been slain, no longer able to restrain his thirst for the blood of her murderer, fell upon him, and with a blow from his war-club laid him dead at his feet. A general fight ensued. The Weeweenocks, overpowered by the number of their enemies, were nearly all massacred. A few of their boldest warriors still remained, who, seeing no mode of retreat, rather than fall by the hands of their foes, leaped headlong down the ragged precipice, dashing themselves to atoms as they fell from crag to crag, down to the still waters of the lake. The Penobscots, awe-struck by the spectacle, hastily left the spot; and to this day, the miserable Indian whom you sometimes meet in its vicinity, cannot be prevailed upon to ascend the mountain, which he imagines haunted by the souls of the warriors slain in the presence of the Great Spirit of Kataadn.

As I stood by the little fountain which bubbles noiselessly from the rock, and looked again upon the quiet waters below, the very shrubs, as they rustled in the light breeze of the mountain, seemed to ask: Where now is that proud, though savage race, which once fished in thy waters, and struck the bounding deer upon thy banks?'

P. 8.

THE ALMIGHTY DOLLAR.'

THAT universal idol, GOLD, in homage each unites;
Without a temple, 'tis adored, and has no hypocrites:

Nay, more, Gold's warmest devotees strive most to hide their zeal,
And he that loves this idol most, would most that love conceal.

This idol has prerogatives peculiar and its own:
Unlike its brother idols, 't is nor block, nor wood, nor stone:
Yet it gives eyes unto the blind, and tongues unto the dumb;
And more: it makes the lynx a mole, and elocution - mum!

EACH season has its joys: December chill
Atones for his inhospitable blasts.

Nature is dreary; now the northern winds
Blow cruel from perpetual fields of snow,
And whistle at our doors; yet from within
Comes forth the voice of gladness; all is gay
With life and light, with laughter and with song.

The festive board breaks down with plenteous cheer;
And gratulations pour from every tongue,

While links are joined in Friendship's golden chain.
Let joy predominate, and happy thoughts!
Luxuriant fancy o'er the future roam,

And light the scene with her prismatic tints!
Yet let not SELF engross the generous heart,

But kind compassion mingle with our joy.

Remember those from whom unequal fate

Withholds her gifts - the humble, suffering poor!

PEROU ROU, OR THE BELLOWS-MENDER.*

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

MANY and strange are the incidents of my eventful history. Destined, by the obscurity of my birth, to spend my life in the humblest class of society, I owe my elevation above it to the malice of man. I am rich, the husband of an affectionate wife, and the happy father of a family; blessings which I have obtained, by having been the obedient instrument of the most cruel revenge. A passion which has caused the ruin and degradation of so many families, has proved the basis of mine.

I was born in a little hamlet, near the town of Montélimart, where my father, having struggled in vain through a long life to raise himself above indigence, was obliged in his old age to have recourse to the humble employment of bellows-mending, a trade he had learned in his youth, and which he taught me as soon as I was old enough to labor for my own support. For some time I was contented to work under his direction; until, finding, from my superior adroitness and ingenuity, that I could easily surpass him, I felt ambitious to exercise my abilities on a larger field. I made several excursions in the neighborhood of Montélimart, in which my success so raised my vanity, and encouraged my ambition, that I immediately collected

*IN the preface to Mr. BULWER's highly interesting play of 'The Lady of Lyons, or Love and Pride,' he makes the following remark: An indistinct recollection of a very pretty little tale called 'Perouse, or The Bellows-mender,' suggested the plot of this drama. The incidents are, however, greatly altered from those in 'Perouse,' and the characters entirely recast.' It struck me that I had some years since met with this tale in an old French magazine; and after some research, was fortunate in finding it. Upon a re-perusal, I was so much pleased with the beauty and simplicity of the little narrative, that I have ventured to make a literal translation of it for the KNICKERBOCKER, not doubting that its readers will cordially agree with Mr. BULWER in his admiration of it. It will be seen that Mr. BULWER's memory has been slightly inaccurate as to the name of the hero.

THE TRANSLATOR.