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WHEN the summer harvest was gather'd in,
And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin,
And the ploughshare was in its furrow left,
Where the stubble land had been lately cleft,
An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow,
Look'd down where the valley lay stretch'd below.
He was a stranger there, and all that day
Had been out on the hills, a perilous way,
But the foot of the deer was far and fleet,
And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet,
And bitter feelings passed o'er him then,
As he stood by the populous haunts of men.
The winds of autumn came over the woods,
As the sun stole out from their solitudes,
The moss was white on the maple's trunk,
And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk,
And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red
Where the tree's wither'd leaves round it shed.
The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
And the sickle cut down the yellow corn,-
The mower sung loud by the meadow side,
Where the mists of evening were spreading wide,
And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.
Then the hunter turned away from that scene,
Where the home of his fathers once had been,
And heard by the distant and measured stroke,
That the woodman hew'd down the giant oak,
And burning thoughts flashed over his mind
Of the white man's faith, and love unkind.
The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white,-
A footstep was heard in the rustling brake,
Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake,
And a mourning voice and a plunge from shore;
And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.
When years had pass'd on, by that still lake-side The fisher look'd down through the silver tide, And there, on the smooth yellow sand display'd, A skeleton wasted and white was laid,
And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.
My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me,
Where billows clasp the worn sea-side.
My plumage bears the crimson blush, When ocean by the sun is kiss'd! When fades the evening's purple flush, My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.
Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe O'er living myriads in their sleep.
They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem,
Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown
The glorious dwellings made for them.
At night upon my storm-drench'd wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shatter'd thing
Had pass'd away and left no mark.
And when the wind and storm had done,
A ship, that had rode out the gale,
Sunk down-without a signal gun,
And none was left to tell the tale.
I saw the pomp of day depart,-
The cloud resign its golden crown,
When to the ocean's beating heart,
The sailor's wasted corse went down.
Peace be to those whose graves are made
Beneath the bright and silver sea!
Peace that their relics there were laid
With no vain pride and pageantry.
THE pilgrim fathers—where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er,
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray,
As they break along the shore;
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,
When the May-Flower moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.
The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide;
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride.
But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale,
When the heavens looked dark, is gone ;— As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud, Is seen, and then withdrawn.