"His dress was common, but in the true Indian style. He became a great favorite among the boys, in whose sports he often participated. It was his custom in summer to sit beneath the great "elm tree" on the green, and, gathering the children around him, rehearse to them wild stories about the red men of the forest. Sometimes he would spend a whole day in whittling out bows and arrows for his youthful friends; and they in return would bestow on him various little presents, curious and rare. He had no particular abiding place. There were a dozen houses where he was perfectly at home. He seldom alluded to his tribe, and never ventured beyond the limits of the county. This was indeed unaccountable; but as he seemed to possess so amiable a disposition, no one could believe he had ever heen guilty of a crime. Rather than this, it was thought he had heen banished from his nation on account of some failure in war-like exploits-or some similar cause.

"Perhaps, again, he was an Indian philosopher or poet, who had unfortunately drawn upon himself the ill will of his people, by expressing some unpopular opinion. Sometimes he would enter the school-house, and listen attentively to the boys recite their lessons. A printed book he looked upon as a treasure, and when one was given him, considered it a sacred gift, though its contents he could not read. He would often enter the church on the sabbath, and in his seat near the pulpit, with his head resting upon both hands, would listen with an anxious gaze to the preacher's words. He always left the house in a pensive mood. To his mind the heaven of the Christian was utterly incomprehensible. Of all the truths which were read to him from the Bible, the most interesting and wonderful was the history of our Saviour. When listening to this, he would often clasp his hands in an ecstasy of delight, exclaiming "how good man! how good man!"

"On all occasions of festivity he was a welcome guest. Christmas and New-Years' were always happy days with him. The little girls invited him to their pic-nic parties. The boys on Saturday afternoon had him to keep tally when they were playing ball. He was always the leader of the nutting parties in autumn, and a participater in the sleigh rides of winter. In fact he was every where, and had a hand in almost every thing that transpired.

"About six weeks ago it was reported throughout the village that our old Indian friend was very sick, and at the point of death. This intelligence was no less unexpected than melancholy. He had so completely won the affection of every body, that it spread a universal gloom. In a few days he yielded up his spirit to his Father and his God. The next day was the Sabbath, and the one appointed for his burial. The sky was without a cloud, and the cool breeze, as it rustled among the leaves, brought health and refreshment to the body and soul of every one. The meadow lark and the woodland birds sung louder and sweeter than they were wont to do. A good man had died, and Nature, animate and inanimate, seemed anxious to pronounce his requiem. A larger funeral than his I have seldom seen. Old men and women, young men and maidens, and children with tearful eyes, followed the old Indian to his grave. It is situated in the north east corner of the burying-ground, in the shadow of two beautiful willows, that seem the guardians of his silent resting place."

Last evening, an hour before the sun had set, I stood beside the clay-cottage of my old Indian friend. Green is the grass, and many and beautiful the flowers that flourish above his grave. I plucked a gingle harebell and placed it in my bosom, and its sister flowers I watered with my tears. Those tears, which were not the offspring of corroding grief, but of a mournful joy, were the only tribute that 1 could pay to one whom I dearly loved;-who was born a benighted heathen, but died a Christian. The mildlybeaming and beautiful evening star had risen in the west,

ere I departed from the "Silent City;" but I felt that the flower I had plucked, though faded, would in after hours remind me of my friend, and I therefore came away in peace, repeating to myself these words: And I am glad that he has lived thus long, And glad that he has gone to his reward; Nor deem that kindly nature did him wrong, Softly to disengage the vital cord. When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye Dark with the mists of age, was his time to die. Bryant.

WINTER.

Season of rigor! when the conquering North
Pours down his lawless and barharian winds-
His flying legions thick with snowy plumes-
Cruel marauders, to lay waste our plains,
And rob the leafy harvest of the woods:
I love thy face- 'tis honest, and thy grasp
Of welcome, rough, but hearty, like a friend's:
Or if we deem thee foe, at least thou art
An open foe, that grantest ample time
To don our armor and prepare for strife.
Thou giv'st no cheating promise like the spring,
Capricious beauty, even in her smiles
Dealing the stab of treachery, but all
Thy stormy terrors frankly court the day;
And from thy front, severely stamped with truth,
We know we feel, we may depend on thee!
Trainer of manhood! nurse of energy!

I greet thy coming when luxurious suns
Have sapped my vigor, and the balmy airs
Of summer lapped me in inglorious ease;
And as the soldier, wearied of the sloth
And dull inaction of protracted peace,
Starts at the war-drum's summons--all alive-
And proud to wield his energies again,

So stirs my spirit when th' imperious North
First blows his roaring trumpet through the woods:
New-braced with muscles tense, and beating blood,
I leap to action, and with conscious pride
Redeemed, once more I feel myself a man!
Season of patience! when, subdued by fate,
Submissive Nature yields her to her doom
Unmurmuring-when plundered herb and flower,
Making the best of cheerless poverty,
Still bears with life-even in oppressing snows
Finding a mantle to repel the storm :
When every widowed tree that lonely sighs,
Of sun-of leafy offspring-all bereft,
Consents to trials it would vainly shun,
Nor yet despairs, but cases every bud
In shining mail, sure armor 'gainst the sharp
And glittering lances of assailing frost;
And patient bending to the tempest, waits
Till quickening suns shall set the prisoners free,
To burst, and revel in their new-born joy!
Hence let me learn-for Nature's simplest custom
Teaches some lesson to the human heart-
When joys-the traitors-flee, and wintry skies
With chill and gloom o'erpower me, stripped of friends
As forest-trces of leaves, forlorn and bare
To every biting blast-oh! let me learn
Like Nature's self to sway with every gale
Unbroke, and nursing in my patient heart
The vital spirit unsubdued and pure,
Wait the bright coming of immortal spring!
New York.

FLACCES

OCEAN MELODIES.

BY MRS. L J. PIERSON.

Ocean's eternal song!
With what a deep and soothing melody,
His ever-varying voice of solemn tones

Comes on the listening ear! In fancy's dreams,
When my young spirit own'd her regal sway,
Before Experience with her diamond pen
Had written "Falsehood!" on her magic glass,
Marring the glorious landscapes and bright heavens
Which it doth shadow forth; when life was fair
And earth a paradise, and innocence
Inscribed on all around me; when each sound
Became articulate of legends strange,

Of love, or wealth, or beauty: then I deem'd
That there were voices blended in the swell
Of Ocean's glorious lay, to which the waves
Beat time upon the strand; when the soft breeze
Slept on his bosom, breathing now and then
A balmy sigh as if it dream'd of love:

Or when the " mighty winds"-the "stormy winds"-
Dipp'd their strong pinions in the flashing flood,
And shouted, and rush'd onward, fitfully
Careering in their madness; lifting up

The waters on their plumes, and marching through
Between the rolling heaps; then with a whirl
Strike the dark shuddering summits with their wings,
Till they were white with foam, and bound away
Chaunting in wildly measur'd chorus still
Their hymn of majesty.

Oh! I have felt

My inmost spirit tremble, as the voice
Of many waters wrestling with the winds,
Came up from the deep sea, with many a lay
Of those who slumber in the far deep caves,
Where mysteries dwell which eye of living man
Has never search'd, and never shall explore.
Tis agony to think how many hearts,

Torn from the golden chain that clasps around
The dear domestic altar, are cast forth
Upon the desert, where the ocean-flood
Tramps over them forever.

Earth to earth!

Is Nature's burial law; but the deep seaThe living shudder, as they contemplate Its dread immensity, and fear to sleep In its mysterious bosom. But the dead! They go down calmly to the mermaid bow'rs Of beautiful cold sea-weed; to the cares Where lie the pearl-shells; to the coral banks Where bright-finn'd tribes are sporting; to the fields Of rank brown grasses, where Leviathan Gambols and feeds in freedom. There's no fear In those still bosoms, when the monstrous forms Of the dim deep float past them; not a thrill Vibrates along the nerve, as the cold slime Of the sea-serpent's skin touches the cheekNo eager avarice tempts the hand to clutch The masses of pure silver or bright gold the unspotted marble palaces; Nor ever brightens up the leaden eye, Beneath the glorious diamond-studded arch; Nor in the halls where sparkle every ray Of every flashing gem, or color'd stone, Or where the precious shells and amber lie, Like sandstones on a desert, valueless: They feel no joy amid the treasuries Of their eternal mansions; not a swell

That

pave

VOL. VII-26

Of pride inflates the breast, and lifts the face In scorn of earth, and yet not unto heaven; No awe bends down the brow, in reverence Of Him who builded these stupendous domes, And garnish'd them in glory.

Those that find

Their resting-places in the dungeon-cells,
At the foundations of the eternal walls

That base the mighty mountains, shudder not,
Nor weep, nor clasp their hands in wild despair,
At their perpetual banishment from light
And all companionship. They never call
On those who walk the sunny green-rob'd earth,
Those ocean dwellers; they have no regrets
For the society of friend, or love,

Or child, or parent. Every heart is still,
And every feature calm and passionless.
Their voices never mingle in the wail
That lives along the waters.

"Wilt thou return no more? my own, my faithful-hearted,
To the dear home where thy precious ones dwell?
We are so desolate, since thou, love, hast departed,
And left with our spirits the cold word, Farewell!
A long farewell.
"Thou wert too excellent, my early friend and lover;
How my fond heart priz'd thee no language can tell;
But our communion, love, so hallowed, is over,
Its sweet garland torn by that cold word, Farewell!
A long farewell.
"Thy first kiss of fondness I priz'd, a sacred treasure,
That on my young lip should in sanctity dwell;
Thy last kiss so sorrowful seal'd up the fount of pleasure,
And wrote on its margin the cold word, Farewell!
A long farewell.

Thy place is vacant now; thy home is void of gladness,
Tears in our eyes at thy name ever swell;
Our hearts are encircled by the heavy chain of sadness,
Whose adamant clasp is the cold word, Farewell!
A long farewell!

I garnish'd forth thy halls with all thy favorite flowers,
And treasur'd whatever I knew pleas'd thee well;
'Twas bliss to anticipate the rapture of the hours,
Whose joy-beam would banish the cold word, Farewell!
A long farewell.

"I saw the welcome ship, with glad white sails returning,
And every pulse throbb'd with fond hope's thrilling swell,
But to my trembling heart, with fond emotions burning,
She brought not my love, but his dying Farewell,
A long farewell!
"Thou wilt return no more! Thy home is 'neath the billow
That sings on the stern reef thine unceasing knell;
While I lament in widowhood upon my lonely pillow,
Or hear thee repeating the cold word, Farewell,
A long farewell!

"Faith comes like morning light, breaking over the dark

ocean,

Gilding the waves that so mournfully swell; Showing that fair land of love, where the divine emotion Can never be chill'd by the cold word, Farewell,

A long farewell!

"Where oceans of delight from the throne of grace are flowing,

Where the redeem'd in sweet fellowship dwell, Where death and parting never come, and souls with rap

ture glowing,

Bid sorrow and sighing and anguish, Farewell!

A long farewell!"

"Farewell!" "Farewell!" dwelt long upon the wave, And died, like broken weeping, on the shore. Then came another melody, and thus

It told its tale of sadness:

'In what fair grotto deep in the green sea,
Where rich festoons of sea-flow'rs darkly wave,
From trees of brilliant coral that inwreathe

Their priceless branches through the marble cave,Where rings, forever more, the solemn knell

Of tinkling waters in the tuneful shell,-
Where the fair sea-maids come in groups to weep,

Dost thou, my precious Isabella, sleep?

"Thou beautiful enchantment! Thou wert like
A delicately wrought transparency;
Through which all angel-forms of tenderness
Shone in the light of virgin purity.
Thy cheek was love's pure altar, where he laid,
With playful hand, his roses, pale and red;
While bathing in those liquid eyes of blue,
By full-fring'd curtains half conceal'd from view.
"Spring has no blossom fairer than thy form,
Winter no snow-wreath purer than thy mind;
The dew-drop trembling to the summer sun,

Is like thy smile, bright, transient, heaven-refinedBut ever o'er thy soul a shadow lay,

Still darkest when life wore the sunniest ray;
And ever, when with bliss thy heart beat high,
The swell subsided in a plaintive sigh.

"When I would whisper bliss, thou would'st reply, Hush! for I feel that all our hopes are vain; Some spirit whispers that I soon must die,

And every thrill of joy is mix'd with pain.'
At length thy drooping beauties shew'd too well
That life's fresh fountain had begun to fail;
And then we sought its freshness to renew
Beneath a sky of softer sun and dew.

"We journey'd with thee many a mournful day,
Till thou wert weary of the fruitless toil;
And meekly bade us homeward bend our way,
That thou might'st slumber in thy native soil.
I knelt, and clasp'd thee in a wild embrace,
Wrapping amid thy robes my anguish'd face;
Yet still thy snowy shoulder felt my tears,
And thine Eolian voice was in mine ears.

"I felt thy presence, and the veil of life

Was still between the coffin-scene and me;
And hope and skill maintain'd their anxious strife,
Contending strongly with stern destiny:
But when I saw thee dead, and felt the chill
Of thy white hand, so nerveless and so still,
Cold desolation wrapp'd his iron chain
Around my heart, and lock'd its pulse to pain.

"And then I saw that form-so fair, so pure,
So dear, so precious, cast into the sea!
Oh! God of mercy, how did I endure
The struggle of that dreadful agony?
Oh, peerless sleeper! down in the deep sea!
My joys are in that billowy world with thee;
And still my spirit lingers o'er the wave
That rolls between my bosom and thy grave."

Hark! A full chorus from the "mighty deep," Drowns every mournful plaint, and loud and high Peals forth its solemn anthem:

"Leaves of life's ephemeral tree,
Trembling to the blast;
Wherefore sigh so bitterly

That some are shaken from the spray,

And on my bosom cast?
Could they find a holier rest
Than on my unsullied breast?

"How soon your grief will pass away,
And ye from life depart;
What will it then avail your clay,
Whether the grass, or ocean spray,
Sigh o'er the broken heart?
Will earth lie lighter than the wave
Above the broken flow'ret's grave?

Weep not for those that are at rest,
Whose griefs and pains are o'er ;
Whether the earth's or ocean's breast
Be wrapp'd around the peaceful blest,
They will return no more!

Why would you wish them back again,
Where death, and sin, and sorrow reign?

"Forever 'blessed are the dead
Who die in Christ the Lord,'
Sweetly they rest, where'er their bed,
From all their labors, pains and dread-
And rich is their reward.

For all their works of love and faith
Attend them through the gates of death.
"The ocean shall give up her dead
In that tremendous day,

When Nature, all convuls'd with dread,
Shall be in wrapping fire array'd;

When heaven shall roll away;
And God appear upon his throne
To claim, and gather home His own.

"Joyful then, shall I restore

The forms consign'd to me;
Then, fleeing from the trembling shore,
Proclaim with one expiring roar,

There shall be no more sea!'

Then, not till then, my songs shall cease, In infinite, eternal peace.

"Then shall forms of love and light

Meet in heavenly bow'rs,

Where life's pure river, sweet and bright, Flows on in melody and light,

Amongst unfading flowers;

Where trees of healing verdure spread

Their glorious branches overhead:

"Where being emanates from God,
In beauty, love and bliss,
Flowing in one melodious flood,
Whose billows of beatitude,

The whole bright realm embrace.

Will any then regret the tears

That dew'd life's few and dreamy years?" Pennsylvania.

HISTORY OF THE ROMANCE.

The history of literature, as well as that of nations, presents an interesting field to the inquirer. In both cases, it is desirable to consider the causes which have imparted to each its peculiar character. The republic of letters, we believe, has witnessed no greater revolutions than those which have transpired in the domain of fiction. Like almost every thing, however, which has come down to us from the aged past, the origin of the Romance is involved in doubt and absurdity. Antiquarian research has contributed little else than to stir up the embers of tradition, in which the light of truth had long expired. "Men of learning," says D'Israeli, "have amused themselves with tracing the epocha of romance. In this search they have displayed more ingenuity than judgment. Some have fancied that it may have existed as far back as the time of Aristotle." The learned Fleury ascribes their origin to the Normans of France; and supposes that "these fictions, being originally written in the old Norman language, were entitled Normances; the name has since been altered to that of romances."

The most rational theory is that which finds an original in the old Fable. In ancient times, moral precepts were often delivered in the form of proverb or aphorism, and exemplified by fictitious narrative. Of this kind was Jotham's parable of the trees choosing a king; and such the apologue of the contention between the parts of the human body, by which Menenius Agrippa satisfied the