No more how slowly moved the falling sun,
Nor looked to see the West with purple glow,
When he went proudly to his glorious rest.

Far other cares employed her mother mind:
With eager fondness watched she now her boy-
Guessed at his wants, and strove to satisfy
Them all-and watched the wanderings of his eyes;
And for the babblings of his little lips,
Shaped meanings full of love;

And when the gemlike stars in night's dark veil,
With softer brilliance than the orb of day,

Began to burn, she grieved to cease her toil
And place him on his couch of leaves, to sleep.

Amid such joys the Summer quickly sped,
And Autumn brought an end of joy-brought grief.
One morn, as thro' the leaves of many hues,
Upon their lodge, the early sunlight fell,
Arose a startling cry; and terrible-
Above the roar of rushing waters heard:
Soon, o'er the rocks, came one, with hasty feet,
To tell its meaning. Hard would be, that day,
The strife with countless foes, and wily art;
The Mengwe, brought by stealthy marches near,
Upon the plains, below the rocky gorge,
Held hideous council,-rousing in their breasts
Most fearful rage, and fiendlike thirst for blood:

Their murderous purpose plain, they sought, that day, Decisive victory, or death. And some,

With eager feet, flew, with the rising sun,

To spread along the startling news,

And call their fearless brethren to the field of war.

The fleeting hours seemed slow, till 'mong the trees Innumerable dusky forms, in silent haste, Moved on to meet the foe. Glorying in strength, Her noble brothers went-cheering the marchAnd Oneontha sprang away, in pride, Fearlessly to swell the mass of moving life.

Soon all had passed; and, save the sullen roar Of waters, rose no sound; the birds of song, Whose tiny breasts at morn seemed full of joy, Were still, and warbled not.

Let us not look

Upon the field of blood, and count the streams
Which that day swelled the fearful crimson flood,
That from the ground, for speedy vengeance cries
To Heaven, but seek the mother, with her child,
And strive to feel a sympathy in wo.

Awhile in doubt she stood; and, wrapt in thought,
As passed from view the last departing form:
And so had stood; but on her wakeful ear,

There fell the prattlings of her little boy,
Who, on the sunny sward, to silence awed
So long, by the many moving forms, his voice
Now raised, and clapped his little hands for joy.
That voice recalled her from her thoughts of wo,
And in her bosom lit the lamp of hope.

An hour she passed in childlike play,
Upon the sward, beside her little one;
And thought, with sadness, of the time
When she, a child, before her father's lodge,
Upon the turf, with her sister, passed in play
The dreamy hours of Summer, and fondly looked
On him, and fed her hope.

An hour had passed

The fearful war-cry smote upon her ear-
More fearful made by echoing woods and rocks,
And her own fear. Nor ceased that cry to swell
And die away, with every fitful gust,

For hours. Then, for a time, it seemed more near,
And fainter grown. She clasped her frightened boy
Unto her breast the while, and feared to hope.

So passed the day, in agony of thought, Till lengthening shadows warned of coming night. Then rose a cry of triumph,- -more near it cameAnd nearer still-'twas the Mengwe's hateful cry; An answering shout of bold defiance rose, Hurled back with all the fierceness of despairThat shout she knew,-her brothers' voices there Were heard-and his-the father of her boy.

But nearer çame the cries, and louder grew The sound of strife-and then, with aching eyes, Their weary forms she saw, with backward steps, Retreating 'mong the rocks-and following near, With desperate haste, came on the maddened foe. They stood upon the bank-they saw her griefThey saw her, frantic with her fear, enfold More closely in her arms, her cherished boy, As if to shield him from the cruel knife;They saw—and quickly turned, by pity moved, And felt their breasts with newer prowess swell.

Once more arose the cry of hot pursuitOnce more they sprang to meet the toils of war; And, filled with giant energy, they fought Unflinchingly. She saw the foemen fall, As, one by one, the blows, resistless, smote Them to the earth,-but, one by one, alas! She saw her brothers fall among their slain;And he alone, 'gainst fearful odds, still fought Unscathed, till one, a man of mighty frame, Alone remained. Awhile they stood-silent, And looked upon each other fearfully, With glaring eyes. Then Oneontha turned, With hasty glance, and sought once more to nerve His wearied arm, and feel his courage rise ;An instant turned-the scene that met his view Roused all the man-the father, in his heart; And, like a lion wakened in his lair, He forward sprang-fiercely impetuous, And, with mad energy, dashed him to earth; Then-as the panther, when she sees approach The hardy hunter, to her helpless young, Her bloody fangs displayed-upon him springs,So leaped upon him, careless of his strength,

And heeding not the knife, upraised to stay
In death the angry beatings of his heart.

The weapon missed its deadly aim, but tore
His naked flesh, and reeked with following blood.
Conoosa saw-she felt the bleeding wound-
Saw them upon the hard and pointed rocks,
In fierce contortions, writhe for mastery-
Then fell, a lifeless form, and holding still
Her boy in close embrace, forgot her wo.

Hours passed-and she awoke, as if from sleep;
Thro' parted leaves the lonely stars looked down
With pitying glances, from the clear blue vault
Of Heaven; around her hung the shades of night;
The cold and pitiless wind, with biting blasts,
Swept fiercely round her unprotected form,
And clogged her blood with frosty chains; the roar
Of waters still arose; all else was hushed
In awful silence. Thoughts of all her wo,
With fleeting shadows of her past delight,
In misty dimness passed before her mind,

And seemed a fearful dream. Wearied with thought
She closed her languid eyes and fell asleep-
Nor woke till crept again the early light

Upon the island, and among the leaves

From tuneful throats the feathered songsters raised
Their morning hymns. Then on the bank she saw-
Sad proof of boundless loss!-a fearful sight-
The senseless form of those who yestermorn,
So full of life, moved on to meet the foe.

Borne by her frail canoe, she reached the spot,
And gazed, with awful throbbings of her heart,
And saw the end of all her cherished hopes.
She sank beside him, where he lay outstretched,
And in the fondness of her frightened love,
Hung o'er him, heedless of the hateful form

That held him clinched in the stern embrace of hate,

And wept hot tears of grief too deep for cure.

Beside him then she drew her brothers' forms

With fainting strength, and bathed them with her tears,
Then o'er the three, and o'er their last slain foe,

With gathered fragments of enduring rock,
From day to day, she piled a common tomb.

One morning rose the lone and wretched one
From her sad rest, unblessed with balmy sleep,-
Arose to find fresh cause for grief, and know
The sorrows which a child-reft mother feels:
Stretched on his leafy couch, she found her boy
Silent, and cold, and motionless in death.

No gushing tears-no cry of agony

No wildness of despair told to the sense,

That this last blow, which fell with withering force
Upon her mangled heart-strings, moved afresh

The tide of grief. Calmly she saw the tie,

The last that held her bound to hateful life,

Thus severed. Her mother hands hollowed a grave,
And placed within its bed, the little form,

Oft fondled; then o'er it formed, with gathered boughs, Rude shelter, and upraised a stony pile

To mark its couch, and foil the beasts of prey.

She was alone-no human form was near,

None, since that day had come, of friends or foes,
To break her solitude-she was alone

And sad; in strong relief, 'gainst whelming wo,
Came bright winged thoughts of former happiness,
And, hovering, bade her with confiding faith,
Behold her loved ones richly blest, and free
To rove at will beneath the cloudless sky,
Or chase, in shady groves, the bounding deer,
Or urge their barks upon the broad expanse
Of crystal waves, in the "island of the blest."

Beholding them thus blest, she longed to share
Their pure delight, and in their sunny home
To dwell forever, mingling in their love:
Then burning thought displayed the shining path—
Opened for those alone of fearless heart

To tread-by which to reach that blest abode.

Her parted lips breathe the wild song of death,
Unfaltering; and from her eyes shines forth
A noble light, and beams in every glance-
No frenzied fire, but the light of earnest hope:
In trembling haste, she decks her wasted form
With simple gauds, her store of savage wealth:-
Next, with unflinching hand, the slender blade
She dips, and glides o'er darkly yawning depths,
With graceful swiftness and unbending course;-
Then guides to swift destruction her frail bark,
With vigorous strokes urged on to swifter speed,
And seeks, in the mad waters, death and a grave.
The trembling thing, as conscious of its doom,
On either hand, from perilous contact turns,
With rugged rocks, and holds a devious way
Unharmed awhile; and o'er the angry sound
Of tumult raising waters, comes the song
Of death, in fainter accents, scarcely heard,
Till rings a thrilling shriek-its last wild note-
And all is over.

The parted waters seize
The victim, hurried to their lowest depths,
And close-nor leave a trace to mark her grave.

The Smithsonian Bequest.

AMONG the many whom the world has been pleased to call great, the number of those who have been of any lasting benefit to it, has indeed been small; while the pages of history teem with the names of heroes, who, amid the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war," entailing countless miseries on mankind, have become renowned. And thus, we are so accustomed to view greatness in connection with display and excitement, that we are almost unwilling to acknowledge its existence without these. The devastation of kingdoms, the overthrowing of thrones, revolutions, and other extraordinary events, seem to be the only occasions upon which its possession can be made to appear. And acts of men, which work slowly and silently, from however high motives they may proceed, or fraught with however important results they may be, elicit little admiration for themselves, or praise for their authors. Under this class, we have often supposed, might be included the donations of those institutions, which have been established in this and other lands, for the promotion of the happiness of mankind, through the blessings of knowledge. Their influence acts silently, slowly, yet continually, and beneficially; and while we reap their advantages, we are too little mindful of our benefactors. Yet the endowment of any such institution, however narrow its sphere of influence, exhibits a character of mind in the donor worthy of our praise; and when we see an individual breaking through the trammels of prejudice, natural and educational, and embracing all mankind under a broad benevolence, what is wanting, that we should hesitate to bestow our admiration on his greatness? Such, we feel, is the character of him whose noble legacy to our country, is the subject upon which we would offer a few remarks.

James Smithson, who died at Genoa, in the year 1829, was a gentleman, who, while fortune had poured her treasures into his lap, was imbued with a public spirit, and displayed a wide philanthropy, such as the world has seldom beheld. Claiming noble parentage, and possessing wealth, yet economical in his habits, through life he devoted his attention to the acquisition of knowledge, giving much of his time to researches in physical and experimental science, to which his attention had first been directed, in the halls of "old Oxford." Thus having drunk deeply at the "Pierian spring," and wishing that the blessings, which he had so largely shared, might be offered to all, at his death, he bequeathed to the United States government, more than half a million of dollars, for the purpose, as expressed in his will, of founding an institution at Washington, for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men"-an object, which it is to be hoped, our government will continue to carry out as faithfully, as it was nobly conceived.

That one, who had been born in the very metropolis of England, who had been educated at Oxford, who had associated with the no