o the far off Spirit Shore.

And often when the night
Has drawn her shadowy veil,
And solemn stars look forth
Serenely pure and pale,
A spectre bark and form
May still be seen to glide,
In wondrous silence down
The Laughing Water's tide.
And mingling with the breath
Of low winds sweeping free,
The night-bird's fitful plaint,
And moaning forest tree,
Amid the lulling chime
Of waters falling there,
The death-song floats again
Upon the laden air.

THE LAST OF THE RED MEN.

Travellers in Mexico have found the form of a serpent invariably
pictured over the doorways of the Indian Temples, and on the
interior walls, the impression of a red hand.

The superstitions attached to the phenomena of the thunderstorm and
Aurora Borealis, alluded to in the poem, are well authenticated.

I saw him in vision,--the last of that race
Who were destined to vanish before the Pale-face,
As the dews of the evening from mountain and dale,
When the thirsty young Morning withdraws her dark veil;
Alone with the Past and the Future's chill breath,
Like a soul that has entered the valley of Death.

He stood where of old from the Fane of the Sun,
While cycles unnumbered their centuries run,
Never quenched, never fading, and mocking at Time,
Blazed the fire sacerdotal far o'er the fair clime;
Where the temples o'ershadowed the Mexican plain,
And the hosts of the Aztec were conquered and slain;
Where the Red Hand still glows on pilaster and wall,
And the serpent keeps watch o'er the desolate hall.

He stood as an oak, on the bleak mountainside,
The lightning hath withered and scorched in its pride
Most stately in death, and refusing to bend
To the blast that ere long must its dry branches rend;
With coldness and courage confronting Life's care,
But the coldness, the courage, that's born of despair.

I marked him where, winding through harvest-crowned plain,
The "Father of Waters" sweeps on to the main,
Where the dark mounds in silence and loneliness stand,
And the wrecks of the Red-man are strewn o'er the land:
The forests were levelled that once were his home,
O'er the fields of his sires glittered steeple and dome;
The chieftain no longer in greenwood and glade