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'Twas the blessing of love: oh it twined round his heart,
I had long loved the white man—I gave him my hand,
The men of my nation when passing, would say,
"Lo, the friend of the white man!" and pass on their way
I thought to have built me my tent on their plain,
And peacefully cultured my little domain.
But woe to the hand which the strong link can sever,
And make Logan the foe of the white man forever!
When I sat in the shade of mine own Alder tree,
But the angel of Death was abroad on the blast,
And over the flock of my bosom he passed:
I had not the power his pinions to stay,
And with one fatal flap they were hurried away:
At the voice of destruction they sank in the flood,
And the waves of Kanawa were red with their blood.
Revenge was my watchword! for it I have fought,
I have sent forth my wrath for the souls of the slain,
Not one! not a creature on earth owns a part,
In the life-drops that flow from his agonised heart:
No one comes to succour and pity his state;
No one comes to sigh o'er the gloom of his fate.
Desolation sits brooding upon his hearth stone,
And Logan the Mingo is left all alone!
Yes I wander alone, like the deer on the hill,
And a thousand wild fancies my dark bosom thrill.
Like the light breeze that wafts the brown autumn leaf hither,
So Logan goes forth, and no mortal knows whither.
A spirit comes over the mountain afar—
Like the lovely mild glow of the evening star,
Her robe is of white, and is streaming behind,
And she comes floating slow o'er the wings of the wind.
It is she,—my companion in love, it is she!
And the bright angel group round her bosom I see!
The whisper of breezes ! she calls me away!
C. W. Thomson.
Providence, which has ends innumerable to answer, in the conduct of the physical and intellectual, as of the moral world, sometimes permits the great discoverers fully to enjoy their fame; sometimes to catch but a glimpse of the extent of their achievements; and sometimes sends them dejected and heart broken to the grave, unconscious of the importance of their own discoveries, and not merely undervalued by their contemporaries, but by themselves. It is plain that Copernicus, like his great contemporary, Columbus, though fully conscious of the boldness and the novelty of his doctrine, saw but a part of the changes it was to effect in science. After harboring in his bosom for long, long years, that pernicious heresy,—the solar system,—he died on the day of the appearance of his book from the press. The closing scene of his life, with a little help from the imagination, would furnish a noble subject for an artist. For thirty-five years he has revolved and matured in his mind, his system of the heavens. A natural mildness of disposition, bordering on timidity, a reluctance to encounter controversy, and a dread of persecution, have led him to withhold his works from the press ; and to make known his system but to a few confidential disciples and friends. At length he draws near his end; he is seventy-three years of age, and he yields his work on "the Revolutions of the heavenly orbs" to his friends for publication. The day at last has come, on which it is to be ushered into the world. It is the twenty-fourth of May, 1543. On that day,—the effect no doubt of the intense excitement of Jiis mind, operating upon an exhausted frame,—an effusion of blood brings him to the gates of the grave. His last hour has come; he lies stretched upon the couch, from which he will never rise, in his apartment at the Canonry at Frauenberg, East Prussia.
The beams of the setting sun glance through the gothic win
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dows of his chamber: near his bed-side is the armillary sphere, which he has contrived to represent the theory of his heavens, —his picture painted by himself, the amusement of bis earlier years, hangs before him ; beneath it his Astrolabe and other imperfect astronomical instruments ; and around him are gathered his sorrowing disciples. The door of the apartment opens;— the eye of the departing sage is turned to see who enters; it is a friend, who brings him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. He knows that in that book he contradicts all that had ever been distictly taught by former philosophers :—he knows that he has rebelled against the sway of Ptolemy, which the scientific world had acknowledged for a thousand years;— he knows that the popular mind will be shocked by his innovations ; he knows that the attempt will be made to press even religion into the service against him; but he knows that his book is true. He is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth, as his dying bequest to the world. He bids the friend, who has brought it, place himself between the window and his bed-side, that the sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and he may behold it once, before his eyes grow dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, and expires.—But no, he is not wholly gone! A smile lights upon his dying countenance; a beam of returning intelligence kindles in his eye ;—his lips move ;—and the friend, who leans over him, can hear him, faintly murmer the beautiful sentiments, which the Christian lyrist, of a later age, has so finely expressed in verse:
"Ye golden lamps of heaven! farewell, with all your feeble light,
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, pale empress of the night!
And thou, refulgent orb of day, in brighter flames arrayed,
My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no more demands thy aid.
Ye stars, are but the shining dust of my divine abode,
The pavement of those heavenly courts, where I shall reign with God."
Not in the solitude
Only in savage wood
Or only hear his voice
Even here do I behold
Through the great city rolled
Choking the ways that wind
Thy golden sunshine comes
And lights their inner homes:
And givest them the stores
Thy spirit is around,
And this eternal sound,
Like the resounding sea,
And when the hours of rest,
Flushing its billowy breast,
It breathes of Him who keeps