SUMMER WIND.

Ir is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing. The plants around Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scorching heat and dazzling light

Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,—

Their bases on the mountains-their white tops
Shining in the far ether-fire the air

With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie

Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now

Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!

Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS

FATHERS.

Ir is the spot I came to seek,—

My fathers' ancient burial-place

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot-I know it well

Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river-side;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide,-
The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot washere,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.

I like it not-I would the plain

Lay in its tall old groves again.

The sheep are on the slopes around,

The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,

Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed, Their summits in the golden light,

Their trunks in grateful shade, And herds of deer, that bounding go O'er hills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, And the gray chief and gifted seer Worshipped the god of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high

On clods that hid the warrior's breast,

And scattered in the furrows lie

The weapons of his rest;

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah, little thought the strong and brave
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth-
Or the young wife, that weeping gave

Her first-born to the earth,

That the pale race, who waste us now, Among their bones should guide the plough.

They waste us-ay—like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go

Towards the setting day,

Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind; Their race may vanish hence, like mine, And leave no trace behind,

Save ruins o'er the region spread,

And the white stones above the dead.