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Where friendly swords were, drawn nnd ban-
ners fleAv,
Ah! who niiild deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near?—yet there, with lust of mur-

d'rous deeds, Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambush'd foeman's eye — his volley

speeds, And Albert—Albert—falls! the dear old father bleeds!

And trane'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone. Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's

wound, These drops?—Oh, God! the life-blood is

her own! And welt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom

thrown— Weep not, oh love!—she cries, to see me

bleed; Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I

heed These wounds;—yet thee to leave is death,

is death indeed.

Clasp me a little longer, on the brink
Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat—

oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship

just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs—when I am

laid in dust!

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will

move, Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the

grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven; for ours was not like earthly

love. And must this parting be our very last? Nn! I shall love thee still, when death itself

is past.

Half could I bear, mcthinks, to lenve this

earth. And thee, more loved than nught beneath

>» the sun, If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then

be none, In future times—no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look resembling me?
Yet seems it, e'en while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,
Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding
thee !—

Mushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still

their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die! nnd still his

hand She presses to the heart no more that felt; A heart where once each fond affection

dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more

fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,— Of them that stood encircling bis despair He heard some friendly words;—but knew , not what they were.

For now, to mourn their judge and child,

arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between, 'Twns sung, how they were lovely in their

lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Tnuch'd by the music and the melting scene, Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd: Stern warriors, resting on their swords,

were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each muchloved shroud; While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.

Then mournfully the parting-bugle bid
Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and

truth; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrayc hid His face on earth ;—him watched in gloomy

ruth, His woodland guide; but words had none

to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name: Casting bis Indian mantle o'er the youth, He Matched, beneath its folds, each burst

that came Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering

frame!

And I could weep ;—th' Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus began;

But that I may not stnin with grief

The death-song of my father's son,

Or bow this head in woe;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!

To-morrow Arcouski's breath

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death)

Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy,

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

Rut thee, my flower, whose breath was given

By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,

To sec thee, on the battle's eve,

Lamenting, take a mournful leave

Of her who loved thee most:

She was the rain-bow to thy sight!

Thy sun—thy heaven—of lost delight!

To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of denth is hurled,

Ah! whither then with thee to fly,

Shall Outalissi roam the world?

Seek we thy once-loved home?

The hand is gone that cropt its flowers;

Unheard their clock repeats its hours!

Cold is the hearth within their bowers!

And should we thither roam,

Its echoes and its empty tread

Would sound like voices from the dead!

Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,

Whose streams my kindred nations quaffed.

And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desarl-serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each moulderingbone,

And stones themselves, to ruin grown.

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp,—for there

The silence dwells of my despair!

But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
E'en from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst;
He bids me dry the last—the first—
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief.

THEODRIC;

A DOMESTIC TALE.

\s sunset, and the Banz des Vaches was

sung. And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung, That gave the glacier-tops their richest

glow, And tinged the lakes like molten gold below. Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the

storm, Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's

form, That high in Heaven's vermilion wheel'd and

soar'd. Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd

and roar'd. From heighU brouzed by the bounding

bouquetin; Herds tinkling rnam'd the long-drawn vales

between, And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens

flourish'd green. Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air! The mountain bee was revelling in its glare, And roving with his minstrelsy across The scented wild weeds, and enamcll'd moss. Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd. She scem'd one great glad form, with life

instinct,

That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled

below Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. A Gothic church was near; the spot

aronnd Was beautiful, even though sepulchral

ground; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their

gloom, But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. Amidst them one of spotless marble shone— A maiden's grave — and 'twas inscribed

thereon. That young and loved she died whose dnst

was there: Yes, said my comrade, young she died,

and fair! Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness

played Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid: Her fingers witcli'd the chords they pass'd

along. And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song: Yet wooed, and worship'd ns she was, till few Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true, Thnt heart, the martyr of its fondnens.

burned And died of love that could not be returned.

Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling

Tines. As gay as ever the laburnum's pride Waves o'er each walk where she was wont

to glide,— And still the garden whence she graced her

brow, As lovely blooms, though trode by strangers

now. How oft from yonder window o'er the lake, Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake, Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, And rest enchanted on his nar to hear! Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and

bland, Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, Why had no gallant native youth the art To win so warm—so exquisite a heart? She, midst these rocks inspired with feelings

strong By mountain-freedom—music—fancy—song, Herself descended from the brave in arms, And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, Dreamt of heroic beings; hoped to find Some extant spirit of chivalric kind; And scorning wealth, looked cold even on the

claim Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame. Her younger brother, sixteen summers old, And much her likeness both in mind and

mould, Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine, And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine. Twas when, alas! our Empire's evil star Shed all the plagues,without the pride,of war; When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish

crossed Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. The youth wrote home the rout of many a

day; Yet still he said.and still with truth could say, One corps had ever made a valiant stand, — The corps in which he served,—Theodhic's

band. Hu fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by, Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory's sky; Vet once it shone, and veterans, when they

show Our fields of battle twenty years ago. Will tell you feats his small brigade performed, In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed. Time was, when songs were chanted to his

fame And soldiers loved the march that bore his

name; The zeal of martial hearts was at his call, And that Helvetian, Udolph's, most of all. 'Twas touching, when the storm of war

blew wild, To see a blooming boy,—almost a child,,— Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs. Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines,

And speed each task, and tell each message

clear, In scenes where war-train'd men were stunn'd

with fear. Tueodric praised him, and they wept for

joy

In yonder house,—when letters from the boy Thanked Heaven for life, and more, to use

his phrase, Than twenty lives—his own Commander's

praise. Then follow'd glowing pages, blazoning forth The fancied image of his Leader's worth, With such hyperboles of youthful style As made his parents dry their tears and smile: But differently far his words impressed A wond'ring sister's well-believing breast;— She caught th' illusion, blest Theodhic's

name, And wildly magnified his worth and fame; Rejoicing life's reality contained One, heretofore, her fancy had but feigned, Whose love could make her proud; and time

and chance To passion raised that day-dream of romance. Once, when with hasty charge of horse

and man Our arriere-guard had checked the Gallic

van, Theodric, visiting the outposts, found His Udolph wounded, weltering on the

ground:— Sore crushed,—half-swooning, half-upraised,

he lay, And bent his brow, fair boy! and grasped

the clay. His fate moved even the common soldier's

ruth— Thkodric micron I'd him; nor left the youth To vulgar hands, but brought him to his

tent And lent what aid a brother would have lent. Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the

smnrt The war-gazette's dread blood-roll niight

impart, lie wrote th' event to tlicm; and soon could

tell Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring

well; And last of all, prognosticating cure, Enclosed the leach's vouching signature. Their answers, on whose pages you might

note That tears hnd fallen, whilst trembling

fingers wrote, Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferr'd, Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word. Whose memory Time, they said, would never

blot; But which the giver had himself forgot.

In time, the stripling, vigorous and healed.

Resumed his barb and banner in the field.

And bore himself right soldier-like, till now

The third campaign had manlier bronzed

his brow; When peace, though hut a scanty pause for

hreath,— A curtain-drop between the acts of death,— A check in frantic war's unfinished game, Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief As with a son's or younger brother's grief: Kut journeying home, how rapt his spirits

rose! How light his footsteps crush'd St. Gothard's

snows! How dear seemed even the waste and wild

Shrcckhorn, Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as

in scorn Upon a downward world of pastoral charms; Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms, And fragrance from the mountain-herbage

blown, Blindfold his native hills he could have

known! His coming down yon lake,—his boat in

view Of windows where love's fluttering kerchief

flew,— The arms spread out for him—the tears

that burst,— ('Twas Julia's, 'twas his sister's met him

first) Their pride to see war's medal at his breast, And all their rapture's greeting, may be

guess'd. Ere long, his bosom triumph'd to unfold A gift he meant their gayest room to hold,— The picture of a friend in warlike dress; And who it was he first bade Julia guess. Yes, she replied, 'twas he methought in sleep, W hen you were wounded,told me not to weep. The painting long in that sweet mansion

drew Regards its living semblance little knew.

Meanwhile Throdric, who had years before Learnt England's tongue, and loved her

classic lore, A glad enthusiast now explored the land, Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand

in hand: Her women fair; her men robust for toil; Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil; Her towns, where civic independence flings The gnuntlet down to senates, courts, and

kings; Her works of art, resembling magic's powers; Her mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous

bowers,— These he had visited, with wonder's smile, And scarce endur'd to quit so fair an isle. But how our fates from unmomentous things May rise, like rivers out of little springs! A trivial chance postponed his parting day, And public tidings caused, in that delay. An English jubilee. 'Twas a glorious sight; At eve stupendous London, clad in light, Poured out triumphant multitudes to gaze; Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the

blaze;

Th' illumined atmosphere wag warm and

bland, And Beauty's groups, the fairest of the land. Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room, In open chariots passed with pearl and plume. Amidst them he remarked a lovelier mica Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyea

had seen: The throng detained her till he reined his

, steed,

And, ere the beauty passed, had time to read The motto and the arms her carriage bore. Led by that clue, he left not England's

shore Till he had known her: and to know her well Prolonged, exalted, bound, enchantment'*

spell; For with affections warm, intense, refined. She mixed such calm and holy strength of

mind. That, like heaven's image in the smiling

brook, Celestial peace was pictured in her look. Hers was the brow, in trials unperplexed. That cheered the sad and tranquillized the

vexed: She studied not the meanest to eclipse, And yet the wisest listened to her lips; She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill. But yet her voice had tones that swayed the

will. He sought—he won her—and resolved to

make His future home in England for her sake.

Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern To Cesar's Court commanded bis return, A season's space,—and on his Alpine way. He reach'd those bowers, that rang with

joy that day: The boy was half beside himself,—the sire, All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire. Of speedy parting would not hear him speak; And tears bedewed and brightened Julia's

cheek. Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, A month he promised with them to abide; As blithe he trode the mountain-sward as

they, And felt his joy make even the young more

gayHow jocund was their breakfast-parlour

fanned By yon blue water's breath,—their walks

how bland! Fair Julia seemed her brother's softened

sprite— A gem reflecting Nature's purest light,— And with her graceful wit there was inwrought A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought. That almost child-like to his kindness drew. And twin with Uoolph in his friendship grew. But did his thoughts to love one moment

range?— No! he who had loved Conkta.ncr could not

change!

Besides, till grief betrayed lier undesigned, Tit' unlikely thought could scarcely reach

his mind, That eyes so young on years like his should

beam Unwooed devotion back for pure esteem.

True she sang to his very soul, and brought Those trains before him of luxuriant thought, Which only Music's heaven-born art can

bring, To sweep across the mind with angel-wing. Once, as he smiled amidst that wak ing trance, She paused o'ercome: he thought it might

be chance, And, when his first suspicions dimly stole, Rebuked them back like phantoms from his

soul. But when he saw his caution gave her pain, And kindness brought suspense's rack again, Faith, honour, friendship bound him to

unmask Truths which her timid fondness feared tonsk. And yet with gracefully ingenuous power Her spirit met th' explanatory hour;— Even conscious beauty brightened in her

eyes, That told she knew their love no vulgar

prize; And pride, like that of one more womangrown, Enlarged her mien, enrich'd her voice's tone. Twas then she struck the keys, and music

made That mocked all skill her hand had e'er

displayed: Inspired and warbling, rapt from things

around, She looked the very Muse of magic sound, Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, Until the mind's eye saw them melt and glow. Her closing strain composed and calm she

played. And sang no words to give its pathos aid; But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened

swell, And like so many tears the trickling touches

fell. Of Co>sT.i M'K then she heard Tn Kodric speak, And steadfast smoothness still possessed her

cheek; But when he told her how he oft had planned Of old a journey to their mountain-land, That might have brought him hither years

before, Ah! then, she cried, you knew not England's

shore; And, had you come—And wherefore did

you notV Yes, he replied, it would have changed our

lot! Then burst her tears through pride's restraining bands And with her handkerchief and both her

hnnds, She hid her face and wept—Contrition stung Tbbodbic for the tears his words had wrung.

But no, she cried, unsny not what you 'vc

said, Nor grudge one prop on which my pride

is stayed; To think I could have merited your faith, Shall be my solace even unto death.— Julia, Thkodkic said,—with purposed look Of firmness—my reply deserved rebuke; But by your pure and sacred peace of mind. And by the dignity of womankind, Swear that when I am gone you '11 do your

best To chase this dream of fondness from your

breast. The abrupt appeal electrified her thought; She looked to Heaven, as if its aid she

■ought, Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek. And signified the vow she could not sprak. Ere long he communed with her mother

mild: Alas! she said, I warned—conjured my child, And grieved for this affection from the first, But like fatality it has been nursed; For when her fill'd eyes on your picture

fixed, And when your name in all she spoke was

mixed, 'Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind! Then each attempt a likelier choice to find Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve, And Udolpii's pride—perhaps her own—

believe That could she meet, she might enchant

even you. You came.—I augnred the event, 'tis true, But how was Udolph's mother to exclude The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude? And that unconscious you had cast a spell On Julia's peace, my pride refused to tell; Yet in my child's illusion I have seen, Believe me well, how blameless you have

been: Nor can it cancel, hnwsoe'cr it end. Our debt of friendship to our boy's best

friend.— At night he parted with the aged pair; At early morn rose Julia to prepare The last repast her hands for him should

make; And Unoi.pu to convoy him o'er the lake. The parting was to her such bitter grief, That of her own accord she made it brief; But, lingering at her window, long surveyed His boat's last glimpses melting into shade.

Tiikodric sped to Austria, and achieved His journey's object. Much was he relieved When Udolph's letters told that Julia's mind Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and

resigned. He took the Rhenish route to England, high Elate with hopes,—fulfilled their ecstasy, And interchanged with Constancies own

breath The sweet eternal vows tliat bound their faith.

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