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By William Cullen Bryant, the poet of America. Professor Wilson considered this to be one of his finest compositions.

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild

Mingled in harmony on Nature's face,

Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot

Fail not with weariness, for on their tops

The beauty and the majesty of earth,

Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget

The steep and toilsome way. There as thou stand'st,

The haunts of men below thee and around

The mountain summits, thy expanding heart

Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world

To which thou art translated, and partake

The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look

Upon the green and rolling forest tops,

And down into the secrets of the glens

And streams that with their bordering thickets strive

To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once,

Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds,

And swarming roads, and there on solitudes

That only hear the torrent, and the wind,

And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice

That seems a fragment of some mighty wall,

Built by the hand that fashion'd the old world,

To separate its nations, and thrown down

When the flood drown'd them. To the north, a path

Conducts you up the narrow battlement.

Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild

With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint,

And many a hanging crag. But, to the east,

Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs,—

Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear

Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark

With the thick moss of centuries, and there

Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt

Has splinter'd them. It is a fearful thing

To stand upon the beetling verge, and see

Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall,

Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base

Dash'd them in fragments, and to lay thine ear

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound

Of winds that struggle with the woods below,

Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene

Is lovely round; a beautiful river there

Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads,

The paradise he made unto himself,

Mining the soil for ages. On each side

The fields swell upward to the hills; beyond

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise

The mighty columns with which earth props heaven.

There is a tale about these reverend rocks,
A sad tradition of unhappy love,
And sorrows borne and ended, long ago,
When over these fair vales the savage sought
His game in the thick woods. There was a maid,
The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed,
With wealth of raven tresses, a light form,
And a gay heart. About her cabin-door
The wide old woods resounded with her song
And fairy laughter all the summer day.
She loved her cousin; such a love was deemed,
By the morality of those stern tribes,
Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long
Against her love, and reason'd with her heart,
As simple Indian maiden might. In vain.
Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step
Its lightness, and the gray-hair'd men that pass'd
Her dwelling wonder'd that they heard no more
The accustom'd song and laugh of her, whose looks
Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said,
Upon the winter of their age. She went
To weep where no eye saw, and was nut found
When all the merry girls were met to dance,
And all the hunters of the tribe were out:
Nor when they gather'd from the rustling husk
The shining ear; nor when, by the river's side,
They pull'd the grape and startled the wild shades
With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames
Would whisper to each other, as they saw
Her wasting form, and say "the girl will die."

One day into the bosom of a friend,
A playmate of her young and innocent years,

She pour'd her griefs. "Thou know'st, and thou alone."

She said, "for I have told thee, all my love,

And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life.

All night I weep in darkness, and the morn

Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed,

That has no business on the earth. I hate

The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once

I loved; the cheerful voices of my friends

Have an unnatural horror in my ear.

In dreams my mother, from the land of souls,

Calls me and chides me. All that look on me

Do seem to know my shame; I cannot bear

Their eyes; I cannot from my heart root out

The love that wrings it so, and I must die."

It was a summer morning and they went
To this old precipice. About the clifls
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins
Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe
Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deem'd,
Like worshippers of the elder time, that God
Doth walk on the high places and affect
The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on
The ornaments with which her father loved
To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl,
And bade her wear when stranger warriors came
To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down,
And sang, all day, old songs of love and death,
And deck'd the poor wan victim's hair with flowers,
And pray'd that safe and swift might be her way
To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief
Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red.
Beautiful lay the region of her tribe
Below her—waters resting in the embrace
Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades
Opening amid the leafy wilderness.
She gazed upon it long, and at the sight
Of her own village peeping through the trees,
And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof
Of him she loved with an unlawful love,
And came to die for, a warm gush of tears
Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low
And the hill shadows long, she threw herself

From the steep rock and perish'd. There was scooped

Upon the mountain's southern slope a grave:

And there they laid her, in the very garb

With which the maiden deck'd herself for death,

With the same withering wild flowers in her hair.

And o'er the mould that cover'd her, the tribe

Built up a simple monument, a cone

Of small loose stones. Thenceforward all who pass'd,

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone

In silence on the pile. It stands there yet.

And Indians from the distant west, who come

To visit where their father's bones are laid,

Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day

The mountain where the hapless maiden died

Is call'd the Mountain of the Monument.

By Edoar A. Poe.

Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—

A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,

All wreath'd with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!

A voice from out the future cries,
"On! on ! "—but o'er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of life is o'er!
No more—no more—no more—

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams
And were thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.


Extracted from a recent number of Household Words, where it appears anonymously.

Spare her at least; look, you have taken from me
The present, and I murmur not, nor moan;
The future, too, with all her glorious promise;
But do not leave me utterly alone.

Spare me the Past—for, see, she cannot harm you,
She lies so white and cold, wrapp'd in her shroud,
All, all my own! and trust me 1 will hide her
Within my soul, nor speak to her aloud.

I folded her soft hands upon her bosom
And strew'd my flowers upon her—they still live—
Sometimes I like to kiss her closed white eyelids,
And think of all the joy she used to give.

Cruel indeed it were to take her from me;
She sleeps, she will not wake—no fear—again.
And so I laid her, such a gentle burthen,
Quietly on my heart to still its pain.

I do not think the rosy smiling present,
Or the vague future, spite of all her charms,
Could ever rival her. You know you laid her,
Long years ago, then living, in my arms.

Leave her at least—while my tears fall upon her,
I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore;
As dear as ever to me—nay, it may be,
Even dearer still—since I have nothing more.

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