And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands

In the river scooped by a spirit's hands,23 Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn.

hemlock spurs

And sharp, gray splinters of the windswept ledge

Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling

rose,

Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the snows.

And merrily when that feast was done On the fire-lit green the dance begun, With squaws' shrill stave, and deeper hum Of old inen beating the Indian drum.

eastward cold, wide marshes stretched away,

Dull, dreary flats without a bush or tree, O'er-crossed by icy creeks, where twice a day

Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck

sea;

And faint with distance came the stifled roar,

flowing,

And red arms tossing and black eyes

glowing,

low shore.

No cheerful village with its mingling

smokes,

No laugh of children wrestling in the

snow,

No camp-fire blazing through the hillside oaks,

No fishers kneeling on the ice below; Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view,

Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed Weetamoo.

Her heart had found a home; and freshly all

Its beautiful affections overgrew Their rugged prop. As o'er some granite wall

Soft vine-leaves open to the moistening dew

And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife

Found on a hard cold breast the dew and warmth of life.

The steep bleak hills, the melancholy shore,

The long dead level of the marsh between,

A coloring of unreal beauty wore

Through the soft golden mist of young

love seen.

For o'er those hills and from that dreary plain, Nightly she welcomed home her hunter chief again.

23

ing kiss,

the rain,

sire again.

dove

The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide, Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell,

On the high wind their voices rose and fell. Nature's wild music, - sounds of windswept trees,

The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze,

The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong,

Mingled and murmured in that farewell song.

["The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merrimack." SIEUR DE MONTS: 1604.]

STREAM of my fathers! sweetly still
The sunset rays thy valley fill;
Poured slantwise down the long defile,
Wave, wood, and spire beneath them
smile.

I see the winding Powow fold
The green hill in its belt of gold,
And following down its wavy line,
Its sparkling waters blend with thine.
There's not a tree upon thy side,
Nor rock, which thy returning tide
As yet hath left abrupt and stark
Above thy evening water-mark;
No calm cove with its rocky hem,
No isle whose emerald swells begem
Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail
Bowed to the freshening ocean gale;
No sinall boat with its busy oars,
Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;
Nor farm-house with its maple shade,
Or rigid poplar colonnade,
But lies distinct and full in sight,
Beneath this gush of sunset light.
Centuries ago, that harbor-bar,
Stretching its length of foam afar,
And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,
And yonder island's wave-smoothed
strand,

Saw the adventurer's tiny sail,

Flit, stooping from the eastern gale; 27
And o'er these woods and waters broke
The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak,
As brightly on the voyager's eye,
Weary of forest, sea, and sky,
Breaking the dull continuous wood,
The Merrimack rolled down his flood;
Mingling that clear pellucid brook,
Which channels vast Agioochook
When spring-time's sun and shower un-
lock

The frozen fountains of the rock,
And more abundant waters given
From that pure lake, "The Smile of
Heaven,'

"" 28

Tributes from vale and mountain-side, With ocean's dark, eternal tide!