"We gathered round him in the dewy hour
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree;
From his clear voice, at first, the words of power
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue,
And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head
Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung-
Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead?
It is enough!-he sank upon my breast—
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest.

"We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We reared this cross in token where he lay,

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died; Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.

“But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone; The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast."

Then spake the wanderer forth with kindling eye, "Son of the wilderness, despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,

And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot! Heaven darkly works; yet where the seed hath been, There shall the fruitage, glowing, yet be seen.

"Hope on, hope ever! by the sudden springing
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long;
And by the bursts of free triumphant singing,
After cold silent months, the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains,
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains.

"Deem not the words of light that here were spoken, But as a lovely song to leave no trace,

Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race;

And fading mists the better path disclose,
And the wide desert blossom as the rose."

F. HEMANS.

XVII

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

Chained in the market-place he stood,

A man of giant frame,

Amid the gathering multitude

That shrunk to hear his name.

All stern of look and strong of limb,
His dark eye on the ground,
And silently they gazed on him,
As on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought,
He was a captive now;

Yet pride, that fortune humbles not,
Was written on his brow.

The scars his dark broad bosom wore
Showed warrior true and brave;
A prince among his tribe before,
He could not be a slave.

Then to his conqueror he spake : "My brother is a king;

Unfix this necklace from my neck,

And take this bracelet ring,

And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands

With store of ivory from the plains,

And gold dust from the sands."

"Not for thy ivory or thy gold
Will I unbind thy chain;
That bloody hand shall never hold
A battle-spear again.

A price thy nation never gave

Shall yet be paid for thee:

For thou shalt be the Christian's slave

In lands beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade
To shred his locks away;

And one by one, each heavy braid
Before the victor lay.

Thick were the plaited locks and long,
And deftly hidden there

Shone many a wedge of gold among
The dark and crisped hair.

"Look-feast thy greedy eye with gold
Long kept for sorest need;
Take it thou askest sums untold,
And say that I am freed.

Take it my wife the long long day

Weeps by the cocoa-tree,

And my young

children leave their play

And ask in vain for me."

"I take thy gold, but I have made
Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa-shade
Thy wife will wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook
The captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look
Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken

crazed his brain;

At once his eye grew wild ;

He struggled fiercely with his chain,
Whispered, and wept, and smiled;

D

Yet wore not long those fatal bands,
And once, at shut of day,

They drew him forth upon the sands,
The foul hyæna's prey.

CULLEN BRYANT.

XVIII

THE HARP OF TARA.

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul had fled;

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The Harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes:

The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To prove that still she lives!

MOORE.