MOHAWK.

Hark! how the cool wind shakes this tent-like screen Of thick and rustling leaves. No sultry heat Flames 'mid this spicy air and twilight sweet, Or steeps the fresh moss, shaded by the green O'erhanging branches. Let the hot sun beat Upon the haze-filmed forest-tops; for me, Amid this hush, inviolate sanctity, Where all that's best and holiest seems to meet, The noontide hours shall gently glide away In quiet meditation. Thou, meanwhile, That wearest 'mid thy banks through many a mile Of wood and moorland the fierce beams of day, Shall be the almoner of many a story, Hallowed with daring deeds and ancient border-glory!

Where are the painted skiffs that rocked between These clumps of willow? 'Neath this twinkling shade Of waving bushes, which o'erhead have made For the smooth waters a light emerald screen, Thick with young leaves, and mingling stems, that lean Mid briers and grass-tufts where the wren hath laid Her speckled eggs—the shell-decked Indian maid Sees her wild costume in the trembling green No longer. Haply by this mossy cove Of rocking silver she hath twined her locks With daisies and wild-roses from the rocks; Roses, the summer growth of this dark grove, And dewy violets from the splintered blocks Of yonder bluff, with vines and weeds inwove.

Cheeks olive-bright, o'er which the blaze of noon Kindled a sweeter crimson; jetty braid, And meek eyes where the summer heaven had made Its bluest glory; speech, which like the tune Of winds among the beechen boughs at noon, Scattered soft music through the stooping shade; She seemed some 'delicate Ariel' of the glade, Whose life was one of sunshine. Fair, yet soon, Too soon! that creature of fond romance passed With the brief beauty of her gentle look, Dark lock and wampum by the cool wind shook, And all that I had deemed most sweet to last; Yet not less fleetly have her race forsook Those natural rights which once they held so fast.