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Still shall one voice be heard, above
The dreadful "music of the spheres!"
The voice of one whose song is love,
Embalm'd by sorrow's saddest tears.

PART V.

THE fourth day found the dark tribe brooding o'er
Their chieftain's body, chieftain now no more!
As fire half-quench'd, some faint spark lives,
Glimmers, half dies, and then revives,
Revives to kindle far and wide,
And spread with devastating stride;
So glimmered, so revived, so spread
The mourners' rage around the dead!
Their quivers o'er their shoulders flung,
Up rose the aged and the young;
And swore, as tenants of the wood,
By all their hearts held dear or good,
That, ere another sun should rise,
Their slaughtered foes should glut their eyes.
They swore revenge and bloodshed too,
As their slain chieftain's rightful due,
They swore that blood should freely flow
For their poor, lost Chicomico!

'T was evening: all was fair and still;
The orb of night now sparkling on the rill;
Now glittering o'er the fern, and water-brake,
Cast its broad eye-beam o'er the lake !
Far through the forest, where no footpath lay,
Old Montonoc pursued his onward way;
The fair-haired stranger hung upon his arm,
Shook at each noise, and trembled with alarm;
"Well do I know the woodland way,
For I have tracked it many a day,

When mountain bear or wilder deer
Have called me to this forest drear.
Fear'st thou with Montonoc to stray,
Why wand'rest thou so far away,
From friends, from safety, and from home,
To war, and weariness, and gloom?
Thou must not hope, as yet, to bear
Free from disguise that form so dear;
It must not, and it will not be,
Till, buried in the dark Monee,
The last of yonder tribe of blood,
Lies weltering in the sable flood!
But rest thee on this fresh green seat,
And I will trace his wandering feet;
Warn him to watch the lurking foe,
Whose bloody breasts for vengeance glow;
Then rest thee here; within yon dell
I saw his form, and knew him well!"

Thus spoke the prophet of the wood,
As near the stranger maid he stood.

"Then go," she cried, half-faltering, "go!
Bid him beware the bloody foe!
But give me, ere we part," she cried,
" Yon blood-stained death-blade from your side;
Perhaps this arm, though weak, may find
Strength, in the hour of deep distress;
Go! my preserver, and my friend,

May heaven thy steps and efforts bless!"

Cautious and swift the Indian went;
His head was raised, his bow was bent,
And as he on, like wild-deer, sped,
So light, so silent, was his tread,
That scarce a leaf was heard to move,
Of flower below, or branch above!

Where Rathmond, with a heart of woe,
Had gazed on lost Chicomico,
There, on that spot, the prophet's eye
Mark'd the young warrior's farewell sigh.
"Why lingerest thou here, Young Eagle," he cried,
"The foe 'neath the fern, and the dark hazel hide!
Blood, blood! be our war-cry, for vengeance is theirs!
Their arrows are winged by despair and by fears!
When the last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe,
Hath plunged him beneath the deep waters below,
Thy heart shall possess all it wishes for here,
Unchilled by a sigh, unbedewed by a tear!
But till then, cold and vacant thy bosom shall be,
And the idol to which thou hast bended thy knee,
Shall mark thee, and love thee, in peril and woe,
Yet till then that dear being thou never shalt know!"

"What meanest thou, prophet of the eagle-eye,
By thy mysterious prophecy?
Well knowest thou that yon bloody chief
Doomed her to death, and me to grief!
That round that form, the wild flames rolled
And wafted far her angel soul!
Why didst thou not arrest the brand?
For, prophet, fate was in thy hand."

"'T is well," the Indian calmly said,
"Tis well," and bowed to earth his head;
* But," he exclaimed, with eye less grave,
"I left a skiff on yonder wave-
Say, dark-eyed Eagle, dost thou know
Aught of the dire, blood-thirsty foe ?"

"No, Montonoc! no foe was she,
Who plunged adown the swift Monee.
Chicomico is cold and damp!

The wave her couch-the moon her lamp;

But mark! adown the foaming stream
The barks beneath the moon's pale beam!
What bode they? or of weal, or woe?
Do they betoken friend or foe?
Perchance to rouse the wildwood deer
The Indian hunters landed there."

Back they retraced their steps, till from the hill
A female shriek rang loud, distinct, and shrill !
Both start, both stop, and Montonoc's dark eye
Flashed like a meteor of the northern sky.
But hark! what cry of savage joy is there,
Borne through the forest on the midnight air?

It is the foe!-the band of blood-hounds came,
Who erst had lit the Chieftain's funeral flame!
Revenge and death around their arrows gleam,
And murder shudders 'neath the moon's pale beam!
The fiercest warrior of their tribe, their chief,
Sage in the council, bloody in the strife,

High towered dark Wompaw's snowy plume in air,
Waved on the breeze, and shone a beacon there!
Old Ompahaw, with brow of fire,
And bosom burning high with ire
And sparkling eye, and burning brand,
Which gleamed athwart both lake and strand,
Still echoed back the lengthened yell
Which startled wildwood, rock, and dell!
And more were there, so dread, so wild,
Nature might shudder at her child,
And curse the hand that e'er had made
So dark a stain, so deep a shade!

On, on they flew, with lengthened stride
But, ah! the victims, where are they?-
Naught but the lake lies open wide,
And the broad bosom of the bay!

کے

But, ah! 't is well; - that shrill shriek toll'd
The death-knell of their chief once more!
Yes, Rathmond, yes, the deed was bold,

That stretched yon white plume on the shore !

Safe crouch'd 'neath fern-bush, dark and low,
Rathmond had truly bent his bow,
And Montonoc, with steady eye,
From 'mid the oak's arms broad and high,
Took aim as sure; his arrows sped,
And many a bloody foe is dead!
Wide tumult spreads! - afar they fly,
Each rustling brake, which meets the eye,
Seems shrouding still some warrior there,
With bloody brand and eye of fire.
Slow dropping from his safe retreat,
The prophet glides to Rathmond's seat;
Then raised loud yells of various tone,
Such as are given at victory won,
And Rathmond joined, till long and high,
Rang the loud chorus to the sky!
Hark! o'er the rocks, the shrieks are answered wild
Can it be Echo, Nature's darling child?
No-'t is a whoop of horror and despair,
Which knows no sympathy, which sheds no tear!

Lo! on yon cliff, which frowns above the wave,
Mark the stern warriors hovering o'er their grave!
'Tis done: the sullen bosom of the bay
Opens and closes o'er its sinking prey!

One hollow splashing, as the waters part,
Sad welcome of the victim to his bed,
One mournful, shuddering echo, and the heart
Turns, chilled, at length, from scenes of death and

dread!

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