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But ah! like some sad spectre lingering near,
A form still hovers o'er the scene of woe; -
Does it await its hour of vengeance here,
Watching the cold forms weltering below?

The morn was dawning slowly in the east,
A few faint gleams of light were bursting through,
When the dread warriors sought the lake's calm

breast,

And sullen sunk amid its waters blue!

That rude, wild phantom hovering there,
Poised on the precipice mid-way in air,
Like some stern spirit of the dead,
Rising indignant from its bed,
Was Ompahaw! alone, he stood,
Gazing on Heaven, on hill, and wood!
His eye was wilder than the eagle's glare;
Its glance was triumph, mingled with despair!
Far floated on the breeze his plumes of red,
Waving in warlike pride around his head;
His bow was aimless, bent within his hand;
His scalping-knife was gleaming in its band;
And his gay dress, bedecked for battle's storm,
Was wildly fluttering round his warrior-form!

"Farewell!" he cried, "this aged hand
Draws the last bow-string of our band!"
He spoke, and, sudden as the lightning's glance,
The dart, one moment, o'er the waters danced;
Like comet's blaze, like shooting star,
It whirled across the waters far!

The dark lake sparkled, as the arrow fell,
Foaming, death's herald, a last, bright farewell!
Then from his belt his tomahawk he tore,
" Man shall ne'er stain thy blade again with gore!"

Then raised on high his arm, and wildly sung
The death-song of his tribe, till nature rung!

THE DEATH-SONG.

"The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe

Falls not by the hand of the bloody foe But they fled to the Heaven of peace in the west, The Great Spirit called, and they flew to be blessed!

"From the dark rock's frowning brow They flew to the deep below;

They feared not, for the Heaven of peace in the west Was smiling them welcome, sweet welcome to rest!

"The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe

Now plunges him 'mid the deep waters below!
I come, Great Spirit, take me to thy rest!
Lo! my freed soul is winged towards the west!"

'Tis past! the rude, wild sons of Nature sleep,
Calm, undisturbed, amid the waters deep!
'Tis past! the deed is done, the tribe has gone!
Not one is left to mourn it, no, not one!

The last of all that tribe of blood
Lies weltering in the sable flood!
Oh! where is yonder fair-haired maid?
Say, whither hath the lone one strayed?
'Mid the wild tumult of the strife,
Where fled she from the scalping-knife?
Angels around her spread their arm,
And shrouded her from fear and harm!
But oh! what shriek rang shrill and clear,
And echoed still in Rathmond's ear?
Why should he note that voice, that scream?
Was it his fancy, or a dream?

Or was it-hope illumed his eye,
And pointed to the prophecy!

"But no!-'t were madness to return
To those bright scenes of joy," he cried,

"Her bones are whitening in the sun,
Her ashes scattered far and wide!"

But where is Montonoc? alone,
Rathmond is musing on the strand;
Say, whither has the prophet gone?

Why does young Rathmond heedless stand?

Oh! he is picturing to his vacant breast
Those scenes of joy, those moments doubly blessed,
Which youthful hope had promised should be his,
When all was light, and love, and cloudless bliss!
Oh! he was sighing o'er the dreary waste,

Left in that bosom, which had loved so well!
Oh! he was wishing for some place of rest,
Some gloomy cavern, or some lonely cell!

But, ah! the voice of Montonoc is heard,
Loud as the notes of yonder gloomy bird
"Eagle!" he cried, "the fatal charm hath passed!
The blood-red tribe have darkly sunk at last!
And, warrior, now I yield unto thy power
The latest trophy of my life's last hour!
Deal with him as thou wilt, for he is thine!
But mark! 't was I who gave, for he was mine!
Adieu! I go!" - He closed his fiery eye,
And his stern spirit flew to heaven on high!

The prisoner sighed, and mutely gazed awhile
Upon the fallen prophet's brow of toil,
Then towards the warrior turned, dropped the dark

hood,

And, lo! Cordelia before Rathmond stood!

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

10*

(121)

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