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ABOVE tall western hills, the light of day Shot far the splendours of his golden ray ; Bright from the storm with tenfold grace he smiled, The tumult softened, and the world grew mild. With pomp transcendent, robed in heavenly dyes, Arched the clear rainbow round the orient skies; Its changeless form, its hues of beam divine, -Fair type of truth and beauty's—endless shine Around the expanse, with thousand splendours rare; Gay clouds sailed wanton through the kindling air; From shade to shade, unnumbered tinctures blend; Unnumbered forms of wond'rous light extend : In pride stupendous, glittering walls aspire, Graced with bright domes, and crowned with towers of fire, On cliffs cliffs burn; o'er mountains mountains roll: A burst of glory spreads from pole to pole: Rapt with the splendour, every songster sings, Tops the high bough, and claps his glistening wings;



With new-born green, reviving nature blooms,
And sweeter fragrance freshening air perfumes.

Far south the storm withdrew its troubled reign ;
Descending twilight dimmed the dusky plain;
Black night arose; her curtains hid the ground:
Less roared, and less, the thunder's solemn sound;
The bended lightning shot a brighter stream,
Or wrapped all heaven in one wide, mantling flame;
By turns, o'er plains, and woods, and mountains, spread
Faint, yellow glimmerings, and a deeper shade.

From parting clouds, the moon outbreaking shone,
And sate, sole empress, on her silver throne;
In clear, full beauty, round all nature smiled,
And claimed o'er heaven and earth, dominion mild ;
With humbler glory, stars her court attend,
And blessed, and unioned, silent lustre blend.



A voice upon the prairies,

A cry of woman's wo,
That mingleth with the autumn blast

All fitfully and low;
It is a mother's wailing;

Hath earth another tone
Like that with which a mother mourns

Her lost, her only one ?

Pale faces gather round her,

They marked the storm swell high That rends and wrecks the tossing soul,

But their cold, blue eyes are dry. Pale faces gaze upon her,

As the wild winds caught her moan, But she was an Indian mother,

So she wept her tears alone.




Long o'er that wasted idol,

She watched and toiled, and prayed,
Though every dreary dawn revealed

Some ravage Death had made,
Till the fleshless sinews started,

And hope no opiate gave,
And hoarse, and hollow grew her voice,

An echo from the grave.

She was a gentle creature,

Of raven eye and tress,
And dovelike were the tones that breathed

Her bosom's tenderness,
Save when some quick emotion,

The warm blood strongly sent,
To revel in her olive-cheek

So richly eloquent.

I said Consumption smote her,

And the healer's art was vain,
But she was an Indian maiden,

So none deplored her pain ;
None, save that widowed mother,

Who now by her open tomb,
Is writhing like the smitten wretch

Whom judgment marks for doom.



Alas! that lowly cabin,

That bed beside the wall,
That seat beneath the mantling vine,

They're lone and empty all.
What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn

That ripeneth on the plain?
Since she for whom the board was spread

Must ne'er return again.

Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden,

Nor let thy murmuring shade
Grieve that those pale-browed ones with

Thy burial rite surveyed;
There's many a king whose funeral

A black-robed realm shall see,
For whom no tear of grief is shed

Like that which falls for thee.

Yea, rest thee, forest maiden!

Beneath thy native tree!
The proud may boast their little day,

Then sink to dust like thee:
But there's many a one whose funeral

With nodding plumes may be,
Whom nature nor affection mourn,

As here they mourn for thee.

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