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Fair land! where every mountain dell, I turn me to the Athenian grove,
To old poetic legends given,

Where calm Cephissus loved to flow,
Of patriot-valor's deeds could tell,

While Plato drew from realms above Unnumbered as the stars of heaven; Fair Wisdom's self to dwell below. Land of the Muses' only home,

Where art thon, grove of Academe! The Muses' first and latest love,

Where thy pure waters river fair, Where Pindus and gray Helicon,

And where Ílissus' whispering stream ? And every stream and mountain-grove, Gone — numbered with the things that Recalls the voice of ages past;

were !
The warrior's meed, the poet's song, And gone is old 'Athena's' power,
The echoing trumpet's batile-blast,

The city of Minerva's sway,
The lay of love thy plains along: Where crumbling fane and roofless tower
Land of ihe olive and the vine,

Look lovely still, amid decay.
of sunny crag and dark blue skies, Or shall I stand on Lunium's brow,
Where roses with the bay entwine,

And gaze along the Ægean wave,
To form the wreath that never dies : Whose ihousand islands sleep below,
The wreath that hung around thy name,

Lull’d by the murmuring waters' lave?
Child of the Muse, Minerva's pride! Ah, God of Day! 'tis only thou
Still claims for thee the envied same,

Remain'st of all that once was fair;
The swelling wave of glory's tide : Thy beauteous isles are lonely now,
Land of the old poetic dream,

Yet still thou lov'st to linger there! Where erst Apollo loved to dwell,

Where is thy Dolos, Sun-God, where And poured along Thessalia's stream* Thy natal island of the seas The music of his golden shell;

Latona's wave-emerging lair,
Where from each height an Oread sung, The star-gem of the Cyclades?

Each tree a Dryad's native home, Thy shrine haiti sunk, and thou art lest,
While from her urn each Naiad fiung

God of the von 'e and vision old !
The crystal fountain's silvery foam : of fount, of song, and lyre berest,
Oh! where are we, and where art thon, Thy throne in dust, thy altar cold !

Beloved of heaven, fair freedom's pride!
In dust thy glorious banner low,

Thou of the vineyard and the vine,
And ive spear, lie side by side! Does Naxos* still thy presence own,
Oh! where is now that spirit free,

The verdant tendrils still entwine
When, as the turban'd slave came on, Around thy temple's once loved home?
The voice of old Thermopylæ

Child of the wave! fair beauty's queen,
Sent back the cry of Marathon?

Whom ocean gave to light above,
Lord of the lion-heart and name,t

While round thy brow were clustering seen
Awake! arouse thee from the tomb! The golden flowers of life and love;
Thy country calls from tower and plain, Say, does thine own Cythera'st dome
And glory's watch-fires, quenched in

With streaming incense greet no more,

No more the circumambieni foam

Make music with its rocky shore? Where, isle of Teucer, where are they

Lord of Olympus ! Ægis-king! Whose blood once crimsoned freedom's

Around whose calm majestic brow

The Phidiani curis hung clustering, wave, When down along Ægina's bay,

While ether bathed thy throne below: Proud Persia's myriads found a grave ?

God of the ratiling thunder-peal, Oh where, Citharon, s is the band

Of regal eye, and stern command, That kept Platea's field of fame,

Who mad'st the guilty rations feel And onward, for their native land,

The terrors of thy living brand; Drove tyrant-threat, and slavery's chain? Son of the banished lord of heaven, s Land of the brave! for thee no more

Thy father's hate, thy father's foe, The patriot-prayer shall rise to heaven, To whom the sceptre once was given, No more along ty rocky shore

O'er sunny skies, and earth below; The exulting victor's shout be given ;

Still high in air thy mountain soars, Gone is the lighining of thine eye,

Snow-diadem'd, of many a peak, il And gone the banner and the spear;

Still mid iis billowy foliage roars Around thy path dark shadows lie,

The warrior-blast from Ossa's steep. And strangers drop for thee the tear.

* Naxos was sacred to Bacchus. * The river • Amphysus.'

† Island of Cythera, near whichi Venus is said Leonidas, King of Sparta. The effigy of a

to have sprung from the sea, and wliere she had

a cel brated temple. lion was placed upon his tomb, in allusion to his name.

Phidias declared that he derived his model "Salamis.'

of the statue of Olympian Jove from the cele-
The field of Platca lay near the base of brated line of Homer.
Mount Citheron.

§ Saturu.
il IIo, vócipados O vprtolo.



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But where art thou, Etern al Jove!

Thy gushing waters still ascend, And where the altar and the fane,* And at them all of human kind That down along the Æliant grove

Still low the knee of homage bend; Graced Pisa's loved and sunny plain ? To thee the lonely scholar comes, All, all has vanished like a dream,

With care-dimmed eye, and pallid brow, The muses' lay, the poet's creed; And muses mid ihy ruined homes, No more the Naiad haunts the stream, Where all he loves is silent now.

No more a thousand victims bleed. To thee the patriot ever turns,
Gone are the Dorian melodies,

O glorious nurse of freedom's tree !
The incense-cloud, the choral strain, For on thy hallowed allar burns
And Delphi now neglected lies -

The watch-fire of the brave and free; Forever ceased Apollo's reign :

For thee e'en Beauty heaves the sigh, Yet, fairest mount of poet's dream,

For thee she drops the pensive tear Parnassus of the double peak,

Since with thee from her native sky, Still from thy rocks Castalia's stream She came to linger many a year. In prattling music loves to leap:

She came to Plato's hallowed grove, Still winds the bee his little horn,

And taught the lay of other spheres, O'er thy lone sides, Hymettus fair ; Where, baihed in fires of heavenly love, The crysial dew-drops of the morn, Our long-lost home* at length appears;

The mountain thyme, sull linger there; She came to breathe along ihe page, And still Alphéus loves to flow,

Where fancy's visions ever dwell, And join his bride s in western seas, Unscathed by time, undimmed by age, While still are heard thy whisperings low, The music that she loved so well.

O king of rivers ! to the breeze.ll Ah! land of beauty, and of love,

And now for thee, sweet land ! once more Of cave, and dell, and valley green, She oft recalls those happier days, And moss-grown fane, and haunted grove, When all around thy rocky shore

And golden skies, and crystal stream! The Sun of Freedom poured its rays. Ah! parent of a valiant line,

When hill, and stream, and tower, and Whose deeds shall live on history's scroll, town, Beyond the power of scathing time,

Freed from dark slavery's vassalage, While seas shall heave, and planets roll; Exchanged the blood-stained tyrant's Ah! nurse of earlier, happier years,

crown, Whose name comes franghi with every For freedom's holiest heritage. charm,

Farewell, a long farewell to thee, To call forth pity's scalding tears,

Land of the brave, and wise, and good! Or with heroic feelings warm !

Thy day-spring ne'er again may be, Eternal fountain of the mind,

T'hy sun bath set mid waves of blood.

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Oh what can compare to the peace of God, 'T is not like the peace of the fruitful land, When it cometh upon the heart,

When the valleys are thick with corn; Where once contending passions trod, That peace all hearts may understand, When it bids them all depart:

For of earthly things 't is born ; Oh! not the peace of the battle plain, But thou wouldst not call it peace, hadst When the day's hot fight is o'er ;

Before God's boly shrine, [knelt There war may madly rage again And that blessed calm in thy spirit felt In that heart it can rage no more.

That none can e'er define. 'Tis not like the peace to the ocean given, Turn not to earth, for its brightest joys When above the soft skies smile;

Beside his light are dim;
True, it may image the face of heaven, But there is a pleasure nought destroys,
And be gentle and calm awhile ;

And it flows alone from him.
But shall not the clouds again be hung Oh, be that peace within thy breast !
Above it, in gorgeous gloom,

Then shalt thou surely know,
And shall not many a life be flung That save his pure and holy rest,
Away on that stormy tomb ?

There is no true peace below.


* Temple of Jupiter, at Olympus. + Altis.

Doric mood, usually employed in parans. Arethusa in the island of Orty gia,off Syracuse.

Eurotas, now called Basili Potamo.

* Plato's doctrine of the 70 kalov, or eternal beauty, blended with his other doctrine of the immortality of the soul, and its return to earth from its dwelling ip the skies.


All persons who are in the least familiar with the early history of the West, know with what pure and untiring zeal the Catholic missionaries pursued the work of conversion among the savages. Before a Virginian had crossed the Blue Ridge, and while the Connecticut was still the extreme frontier of New-England, more than one man, whose youth had been passed among the warm valleys of Languedoc, had explored the wilds of Wisconsin, and caused the hymn of Christian praise to rise from the prairies of Illinois. The Catholic priest went even before the soldier and trader. From lake to lake, from river to river, the Jesuits pressed on, unresting, and with a power that no other Christians have exhibited, won to their faith the warlike Miamis, and the luxurious Illinois. For more than a hundred years did this work go forward. Of its temporary results we know little. The earliest of the published letters from the missionaries were written thirty years after La Salle's voyage down the Great River. But, were the family records of France laid before us, I cannot doubt that we should find there evidences of savage hate diminished, and savage cruelty prevented, through the labors of the brotherhood of Jesus. And yet it was upon these men that England charged the war of Pontiac! Though every motive for a desperate exertion existed on the part of the Indians the dread of annihilation, the love of their old homes and hunting-grounds, the reverence for their fathers' graves all that nerved Philip, and fired Tecumseh — yet to the Protestant English the readiest explanation was, that Catholics, that Jesuits, had poisoned the savage mind!

It was during this war - the war of extermination which the savages commenced as one man, on Michigan, Huron, Erie, and Ontario, along the frontiers, and among the quiet hollows of Pennsyl. vania and Virginia — that the incidents occurred which I am about to relate.

A chief of the Wyandots, which tribe had returned to its old home upon the Maumee, since the conclusion of the war between the Iroquois and Miami confederacy, instead of joining Pontiac, who commanded at the north, went with some of his warriors to the aid of the Shawanese, then living upon the Scioto. He was a man much resembling Logan, so celebrated ten years later — calm, stern; in peace kindly, but in war a true Indian ; of vast personal strength, and commanding energies, he led wherever he went. Many a mother, during the terrible summer of '63, started at the bowl of the watch-dog, and listening, thought she heard the dreaded voice of the Deep-river, as the Wyandot chief was called ; and many a mother did hear that voice. He had taken up the hatchet for extermination, and he spared not age, or sex, or beauty, or courage. Forty scalps, that autumn, stretched upon twigs, were drying in the air at his wigwam door.

Yet the Deep-river had spared one. in a narrow valley near the Green-briar, not far from the now fashionable White Sulphur Spring, dwelt a little family of four, who, when they heard in April of the peace that had been concluded between France and England, thanked

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God that their dangers were now over; that they might now sow and reap in safety. Four months passed by, and but one of the circle remained alive. He was a boy, about ien years old ; a true backwoodsman – bold, resolute, quick, and fearless. When the savages burst into his father's cabin, and the Wyandot chieftain, throwing open the door of their sleeping-room, buried his tomahawk in the old man's brain, the boy Emanuel had caught down a pistol from the shelf, and, standing upon the bed, dealt the Indian a blow across the eyes that he felt for weeks. His followers would have tortured the child, but the Deep-river said: “No! he is Indian ; he shall live.'

So the boy remained through the fall, among the many captives that thronged the Indian towns upon the Scioto, most of whom were afterward delivered up to Col. Bouquet; and early in the winter of '64 was taken by the Wyandot to his own country; for the chief saw that the efforts of the red men would be in vain. Fort Pitt had been relieved, and Pontiac had been foiled at Detroit. Dark and gloomy were the thoughts of both captor and captive, as they journeyed to the frozen home of the Wyandots.

While Emanuel had been among the other white children, he had not realized his losses, but when he reached the villages on the Maumee, and saw about him only the grim features of the warriors, the scowling squaws, and the dark faces of the Indian boys, he felt that he had indeed lost all he once clung to, and his buoyant spirit drooped at length. So one evening he came home, and sitting down at the feet of the Deep-river, who was musing bitterly over the embers, he said: Chief, I have no father; will you be my father ? The heart of the Indian was touched, and he determined to adopt as his own the son of the man he had murdered.

While the Wyandot warriors had been gone to the war, a new dweller had built his wigwam in their village. It was a Jesuit priest, named Du Quesne, a relative, I think, of the old governor. He was young, ardent, full of faith, and void of all worldliness. Upon the banks of the little Rhone-stream that sung by his father's door, he had read of the labors of the Catholics in China, India, and America, among the mountains of Mexico, and by the mighty lakes of Canada; and his quick spirit had been wrought to that point that crowns and kingdoms, wealih, power, and fame were as dust in the balance, against the sufferiugs and labors, the trials and glories, of a missionary. And now that he was amid those trials, he walked as one worthy of them; and so kindly, so loving, so true, were all his words and ways, that the young Wyandot women, who understood but one word in ten, came with their children and listened to him, as we listen to a sweet song in a foreign tongue.

But the Deep-river was no woman; and when he heard, at his return, of the hold Father Louis had taken on the affections of his people, he would almost have driven him from the village, had he not been French, the foe of his foe; for he felt as Red Jacket felt and said, in after years: ‘If you wish us well, keep away; do not disturb us; we like our religion, and do not want another.'

I have said that the Wyandot chief meant to adopt the boy Emanuel; and though the ceremonies of adoption were still delayed, he treated him as a son, and as a son expected him to fear and obey

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him. But the Virginia lad was little disposed, at times, to do any one's will but his own, and bis Indian father then punished him, Indian fashion broke a hole in the ice, and thrust him in. Such treatment brought on contests, and the contests produced ill-feeling. The young Long-knife, as his red play-mates called him, was hot and quick, and the Deep-river was one who would be obeyed.

Upon an occasion of this kind, the Wyandot, thinking he was ruining the boy by too great mildness, pulled forth a buffalo thong, and gave him a scourging, that went through muscles and bones to the soul itself. Noon came, and Emanuel was not in the wigwam. Night came, and still he was not in the wigwam. The chief needed to reflect but one moment, and his own feelings told him that the beaten child had left his lodge. The mind of the savage is like a nicely-poised weight, and for a while the Deep-river balanced between admiration and enmity; affection stronger than ever, and more deadly hate.

The boy had, as he supposed, left him full of the agony and impotence of boyish resentment. He had seen, while at play, another white face in the village, and went at once to the hut of the Jesuit. His story was soon made intelligible to one that read English as well as Father Louis did, and they slept, that night, side by side.

With the first dawning of day, the Wyandot chief was abroad. His mind balanced no longer. It was the part of a squaw to spare him as I did,' he said. The Great Spirit is angry; he would smell the blood of the Long-knife.' He stood for an instant in the centre of the Indian town; then, with unerring instinct, went straight to the Frenchman's door.

Emanuel lay upon the arm of his new protector, dreaming of that quiet vale upon the Green-briar, where he had chased butterflies with his sisters, and where the bones of those sisters now whitened in the rains of winter. Suddenly the dim light of morning broke through the opened door, and was hid again by the form of the Deep-river. He bent over the sleepers, and seeing it to be as he supposed, shook the priest by the arm.

• What want you ? said Du Quesne, alarmed, and half awake. The Wyandot pointed to the child, who, with pale cheek, but set teeth, drew back from his dreaded father. The Frenchman shrugged, and shook his head. • He is my son!' said the savage, sternly.

Those words drove fear from Emanuel's heart, for the night of his father's death was fresh before his mind. “It's a lie !' he said, 'you murdered my father you stole me !

•Shall I take him ?' said the Deep-river, calmly. • For what ?' asked the doubting priest. • Death !' was the brief, but all-comprehending answer. * Never! I will die myself sooner !' said the Jesuit, his clear eye dilating

* It is well!' and the chief turned on his heel as he spoke.

It lacks half an hour of full noon. The Indian children have left their sports on the frozen river, and stand silent about the door of the council-house. The warriors are met in judgment; the club,

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