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And friend to more than human friendship just

Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!

XXX.

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace,-imagining her lot was cast

In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?

No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

XXXI.

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,—
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth

Of one dear pledge;-but shall there, then, be none,
In future times-no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, e'en while life's last pulses run,

A sweetness in the cup of death to be,

Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!"

XXXII.

Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seemed to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand

She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah! heart where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,—

Of them that stood encircling his despair,

He heard some friendly words;-but knew not what they

were.

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For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between,
'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been.
Touched by the music, and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:-
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen
To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud-
While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

XXXIV.

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth;
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid

His face on earth;-him watched in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide; but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation's name!

Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!

XXXV.

"And I could weep ;"-the Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus began:

"But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son!

Or bow this head in woe;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death),

Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy!

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy !—

XXXVI.

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given

By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight!—

XXXVII.

"To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?—
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers!
Unheard their clock repeats its hours !---
Cold is the hearth within their bowers !—
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,

Would sound like voices from the dead!

XXXVIII.

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed; And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

Ah! there in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp-for there

The silence dwells of my despair!

XXXIX.

"But hark, the trump!-to-morrow thou
In glory's fire shall dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears;
Amidst the clouds that round us roll,
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst—
From Outalissi's soul;-

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief."

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'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung,
And lights were o'er the Helvetian mountains flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form,
That high in Heaven's vermilion wheeled and soared,
Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared
From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin; 36
Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between,
And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green :
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across

The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss.37
Earth's features so harmoniously were linked,
She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.

A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb.

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