They mingle with the teeming earth,
Where fragrant wild-flowers bloom,
And a violet springs to joyous birth,
And flings a sweet perfume.

Thus man shall know another life,
Not shrouded o'er with gloom,

Where the soul's sweet bliss shall lull her strife,
As the violet's sweet perfume.

And a seraph there in robes of white,
He shall bask in the Eternal's ray,

And faintly reflect his holy light
In realms of endless day.

EDWARD C. MARSHALL

125. THE FLIGHT OF THE NUNDOWAGAS, OR SENECA INDIANS, FROM SENECA LAKE.

In the gloom of the wild, by the smooth silver lake,
Lo! the red men from sweet, silent slumbers awake.
What panic enshrouds the bronze features with fear,
Which nor sorrow or torment has soiled with a tear?
Why gather their trophies in phrensy, to haste,
With their loved ones bewailing, to flee o'er the waste?
Can the Indian forget his old braves' council-fires,
The proud seat of his nation, the graves of his sires?

Ah! yonder the pale faces, hastening in wrath,
And thirsting for vengeance, are scenting their path;
No fleeter the hounds for the startled deer run,
Nor more joyously course the swift steeds of the sun.
As the leaves of the forest, or sands of the tide,
Unnumbered they loom from the eastern hill side;
They wind through the thicket, approach the morass,
And soon to the home of the red men will pass.
Swift flee the dusk forms on the wings of the wind,
Nor leave at their castle one soul of their kind,
Save the chief, Guyanguahta, of locks hoary white,
Who would die at his birth-place, and scorned at their flight.
The breezes were flaunting his silvered hair,

His brawny arms tossed in wild rage through the air,
And proud was the taunting and bitter the sneer,
His aged lips uttered in tones shrill and clear:

"Away, craven-hearted, away!
I bid ye no longer to stay.
Away, and forget ye the fires

Of your braves, the great deeds of your sires,
The proud Nundowagas of old,

The fame of whose prowess so bold,
By Six-Nations exultingly sung,
To the far Montezumas has rung.
Away! and your sachem will sleep,
In the Good Spirit's home of the deep,
With the sprites of the emerald caves,
Far down 'neath the beautiful waves;
And his kinsmen's dishonor and flight,

Their blue covering shall shroud from his sight.'
He finished, and bowed in deep sorrow his head,
Then straight to the lake's pebbly margin he sped:
He loosed from its moorings his bounding canoe,
And silently stole to the lake's deepest blue;
While the watery elves the frail bark onward bore,
And merrily danced at the plash of his oar,
And laughingly sang him a fairy-like song,
As their loved Indian sachem they wafted along.

Ah! boldly he paddled, and free was the sweep
Of his soft-gliding bark to the midst of the deep,
And the soul of a brave proudly rushing to death,
Bade defiance in mutters deep throbbing his breast.
Afar to the fathomless* waters he flew,

Then stayed the swift flight of his fleeting canoe;
To the Manito uttered a heart-spoken prayer,
And plunged-his bent form deftly cleaving the air.
The old sachem has gone to his watery bed,
While far from their home his dark kinsmen have fled,
And sweetly he sleeps 'neath the beautiful wave,
By the Good Spirit soothed in his moss-cladden grave.
And oft on the lake, like a phantom bark, will float,
In the dim mist of evening, his light bounding boat;
And the elves break the ice with the wild dashing foam,
And a requiem sigh in the wintry wind's moan.

EDWARD C. MARSHALL

* Seneca Lake is supposed to be fathomless, and its Indian name, Canadesaga, signifies "the beautiful water."

126. IRON.

As, in lonely thought, I pondered
On the marvellous things of earth,
And, in fancy's dreaming, wondered

At their beauty, power, and worth,
Came, like words of prayer, the feeling-
Oh! that God would make me know,
Through the spirit's clear revealing,
What, of all his works below,
Is to man a boon the greatest,
Brightening on from age to age,
Serving truest, earliest, latest,

Through the world's long pilgrimage.

Soon vast mountains rose before me,

Shaggy, desolate, and lone,

Their scarred heads were threatening o'er me,
Their dark shadows round me thrown;
Then a voice, from out the mountains,
As an earthquake, shook the ground,
And, like frightened fawns, the fountains
Leaping, fled before the sound;
And the Anak oaks bowed lowly,
Quivering, aspen-like, with fear—
While the deep response came slowly,
Or it must have crushed mine ear.

Iron! Iron Iron !"-crashing,
Like the battle-axe and shield,
Or the sword on helmet clashing,
Through a bloody battle-field:
"Iron! Iron! Iron !"-rolling,

Like the far-off cannon's boom,
Or the death-knell, slowly tolling,
Through a dungeon's charnel gloom :
"Iron! Iron! Iron !"-swinging,
Like the summer winds at play,
Or as bells of Time were ringing
In the blest millennial day.

Then the clouds of ancient fable
Cleared away before mine eyes;

MRS. S. J. HALE.- W. T. BACON.

Truth could tread a footing stable
O'er the gulf of mysteries.

Words, the prophet bards had uttered,
Signs, the oracle foretold,

Spells, the weird-like Sibyl muttered,
Through the twilight days of old,
Rightly read, beneath the splendor,
Shining now on history's page,
All their faithful witness render-
All portend a better age.

Rugged strength and radiant beauty-
These were one in nature's plan;
Humble toil and heavenward duty—
These will form the perfect man!
Darkly was this doctrine taught us
By the gods of heathendom;
But the living light was brought us
When the gospel morn had come;
How the glorious change, expected,
Could be wrought, was then made free ;
Of the earthly, when perfected,
Rugged Iron forms the key!

While our faith in good grows stronger,
Means of greater good increase;
Iron, slave of war no longer,

Leads the onward march of peace;

Still new modes of service finding,
Ocean, earth, and air it moves,
And the distant nations binding,
Like the kindred tie it proves ;
With its Atlas-shoulder, sharing
Loads of human toil and care;
On its wing of lightning bearing
Thought's swift mission through the air!

397

MRS. S. J. HALL

127. ROME.

THE Coliseum's lonely walls still tower,
In all their massy strength, to greet the skies;

The Cæsars' hundred palaces of power
In undecayed magnificence still rise;
And towers, and tombs, and temples desolate,
Tell of the solemn grandeur of her state.

We walk amid those temples tottering;
Each foot-fall starts the young owl from her rest;
Where mantling vines round moldering arches cling,
To furnish forth the bat her dusky nest;

And every breeze that through the ruin strays,
Seems like the ghost of Rome's departed days.
Romans and Roman matrons wandered here;
Here blushed the cheek at its sweet beauty spoken.
Trembled the delicate hand, and sparkled clear
The bright drop in the eye, at love's fond token;
And children's voices woke these streets all day,
And echoed the light laugh of maidens gay.

Tempest and terror, war, and flood, and fire,
And cruelty, and guilt, and avarice,

These have been here, and wreaked their vengeance dire,
On pillared fane, and smouldering precipice;

Yet sits she still amid the solemn scene,

Queen of the hills, in majesty a queen.

Rome's greatness and Rome's grandeur may not be
The greatness and the grandeur that we prize;
Yet, though her soul was chained, her mind was free,
And power was there which men cannot despise :
She lifted her proud arm-each flag was furled;
And at her haughty beck, bowed down the world.
And with her, though a tyrant in her mood,
Was genius, learning, talent consecrate;
And though on land and sea her track was blood,
Yet intellectual greatness marked her state;
For while was heard the trumpet's deafening clang,
The forum thundered with the loud harangue.

W. T. BACON