English

WOMAN .

Sir , for the love of God, some small relief
To a poor woman!

TRAVELLER .

Whither are you bound?
'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs,
No house for miles around us, and the way
Dreary and wild. The evening wind already
Makes one's teeth chatter; and the very Sun,
Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds,
Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night!

WOMAN .

Ay, Sir,

JANE .

Harry ! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round
The fire, and Grandmamma, perhaps, will tell us
One of her stories.

HARRY .

Ay — dear Grandmamma!
A pretty story! something dismal Saw;
A bloody murder.

JANE .

Or about a ghost.

GRANDMOTHER .

Nay, nay, I should but frighten ye. You know

STRANGER .

Old friend! why, you seem bent on parish duty,
Breaking the highway stones, — and 'tis a task
Somewhat too hard, methinks, for age like yours!

OLD MAN .

Why, yes! for one with such a weight of years
Upon his back! — I've lived here, man and boy,
In this same parish, well nigh the full age
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten.
I can remember, sixty years ago,
The beautifying of this mansion here,

Now go to the battle, my Boy!
Dear child of my son,
There is strength in thine arm,
There is hope in thy heart,
Thou art ripe for the labors of war.
Thy Sire was a stripling like thee
When he went to the first of his fields.

2.

He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd
Before him his trophies were borne,
These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the ram
Have rusted their raven locks.

't was the voice of my husband that came on the gale;
His unappeased Spirit in anger complains;
Rest, rest, Ollanahta, be still!
The day of revenge is at hand.

The stake is made ready, the captives shall die;
To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear;
To-morrow thy widow shall wield
The knife and the fire; — be at rest!

The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course, —
The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow, —
I will think, Ollanahta! of thee,
Will remember the days of our love.

DURING A THUNDER-STORM .

The storm-cloud grows deeper above,
Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky;
Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss,
They come to the war of the winds.

The Souls of the Strangers are there,
In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven;
Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill
Is red with their weapons of fire.

Hark! hark! in the howl of the wind
The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums;
The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight

1.

Rest in peace, my Father, rest!
With danger and toil have I borne thy corpse
From the Stranger's field of death.
I bless thee, O Wife of the Sun,
For veiling thy beams with a cloud,
While at the pious task
Thy votary toil'd in fear.
Thou badest the clouds of night
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man;
But didst thou not see my toil,
And put on the darkness to aid,

1.

Brother , thou wert strong in youth!
Brother, thou wert brave in war!
Unhappy man was he
For whom thou hadst sharpen'd the tomahawk's edge!
Unhappy man was he
On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight
And he who from thy hand
Received the calumet,
Blest Heaven, and slept in peace.

2.

When the Evil Spirits seized thee,
Brother, we were sad at heart:

THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA'S HAIR, AND HER ANGER .

O H ! be the day accurst that gave me birth!
Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise!
Fall on me, Mountains! and thou merciful Earth
Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes!

Let universal Chaos now return,
Now let the central fires their prison burst,
And EARTH , and HEAVEN , and AIR , and OCEAN burn —
For Delia FROWNS — SHE FROWNS , and I am curst .

ELEGY III.

THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR .

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright ,
Not spotless merely from the touch remains,
But issues forth more pure , more milky white .

The rose-pomatum that the F RISEUR spreads
Sometimes with honor'd fingers for my fair
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,