Were chaste Diana's; when she came
To Tempe's vale, with quivered reed,
Bent low, and hounds of heavenly breed,
To rouse the sylvan game.
Far from her wonted haunts, the maid,
Intent upon her sport, had strayed,
And wearied, turned to trace again.
Her homeward course across the plain;
Just as the din, so wild and drear,
Of that gay hunt-from hound and horn,
On Echo's thousand voices borne-
Burst on her unaccustomed ear.
No fear that maid's firm bosom knew;
But, trembling, her companions drew
Close to her side, with anxious haste,
As o'er them swept that fearful blast:
Nor greater had their terror been, (7)
If from his dark abodes, unseen,
Offended Areskou had hurled
His voice, in thunder, o'er the world.
Short space had they for palsied fright, And shorter still for needful flight:
For scarce those chilling sounds were heard, When, dashing through the copse, appeared Horsemen and hounds, in wide array, Toiling along their weary way.
Flight then was idle; to abide
Their coming, worse; unseen, to hide
Within some wild bower's friendly shades,
The last, sad refuge of the maids.
This Reta did, and Arzilade;
But ESCALALA, who obeyed
The impulse of a sterner mind,
Lingered, a moment's space behind,
With nicer ken to scan the hunt;
Prompted perhaps-as maids are wontBy curiosity, to view
Sight so enticing and so new.
How often, in the little span
Of fleeting life allowed to man,
One moment's indiscretion throws
O'er all his future life, the gloom
Of unappeased regret, which knows
No solace but the tomb:
Casting, with heedless haste away,
The peace which life may ne'er repay!
Thus was it then; for Ruric spied
The maid, and to his comrades cried:
"Gallants! our chase is done: the brute
That caused our long and fierce pursuit,
May live till Odin's self be dead,
Ere I toil more his blood to shed.
For see! to grace our sylvan spoils,
Yon lovely doe awaits my toils:
Upon her, lads! but harm her not;
For fate has cast her happy lot,
At Scania's royal court to shine
My slave-perchance my concubine!"
Swift as the twinkling of an eye, They seized her; for she scorned to fly. Silent she stood: the dark, cold feeling Of nerveless desperation, stole
Its icy torpor o'er her soul;
With its unholy touch congealing
E'en the short, sharp, instinctive cry
Which nature prompts, in agony.
One instant, and that feeling passed;
It was too feminine, to last
In such a bosom, formed to be
The very home of energy.
But tears, of bitter ire and shame,
Coursing each other's footsteps, came
From her bright eyes, as fast and free
As from some tempest-shaken tree
The sallow leaves; when autumn's chill
Has nipt them, on the lonely hill.
And though she scorned the clamorous flow
Of words, which lightens common woe;
Yet the high, ireful thoughts, which broke
Through her expressive features, spoke
More eloquently than the tongue,.
On which enraptured Athens hung;
Denouncing vengeance deep and dread—
Vengeance too deadly, dark and strong
To retribute a human wrong-
On each presumptuous mortal's head,
Who dared, thus boldly, to invade
The freedom of an Indian maid.
Little did Ruric ken or care
If it were vengeance or despair
Which flushed her cheek, and lent her eye
That glance, so haughty, fierce and high.
He saw, indeed, her deep distress;
But then he saw her loveliness,
And pity and compassion strove
In vain, with pride, desire and love.
Securely on his steed, he placed
'The maid; and with his ready train,
Through the dark forest, lightly traced
His homeward way, along the plain.
NEAR the umbrageous, fair retreat
Where Wabash and Ohio meet-
Wide-spreading to the sunny ray
Its verdant lawn—a prairie lay;
Whose rank grass, waving to the wind
In unrepressed luxuriance-twined
With fern and blushing wild-flowers-made
A mimic forest; in whose shade,
Delighted with its leafy screen,
Deep, silent haunts, and bowers of
green,
The feathered songsters of the grove
Warbled their notes of joy and love,
Central amid this wilderness
Of nature's dainties, this excess
Of vegetable fragrance, stood
A dark and venerable wood;
Whose depths of cypress, mixed with pines,
And canopied with arching vines,
Seemed like some hallowed hermitage
By nature reared; where sainted sage
Might find a home which taste approved
And musing contemplation loved.
There-studious still, as well became
A chief, of such unsullied fame
That e'en his peaceful home should be
A pattern of security-
Had Warredondo fixed the seat
Of empire; that obscure retreat
He chose to honor with his court;
And thither, when affairs of state
Required decision or debate,
Algonquin sachems would resort
To light their council fires and hold
Communion: there his warriors bold,
A braver and a hardier host
Than haughty Rome could ever boast,
Assembled; with that willing zeal,.
That martial pride, that purpose high,
Stainless to live and fearless die,
Which only free-born bosoms feel.
O, 'tis a godlike task, to be
The leader of the brave and free!
To be elected by the voice
Of equals, to assume the sway
O'er equals, whose free wills obey
The man of their unbiassed choice;
is worth ten thousand blood stained thrones
Oftyrants-purchased with the groans
Of dying subjects, and retained
By baseness, as by terror gained.
And Warredondo-when he stood
Amid that dark embowering wood,
The chosen leader of the throng
Of daring hearts and willing hands
That swept its cherished haunts among
And panted for his high commands-
Was nobler far, in reason's eye,
And worthier of his dignity,
Than Ammon's self-created son,
The mad-brained king of Macedon;
When-like a demon in his wrath,
With curses clustering round his path-
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