th the organ's tone,
Deep, solemn and majestic; not with sounds
Of trump or drum, that cheer armed squadrons on,
In coats of steel, o'er lines of bloody grounds,
Nor is my tone, the tone of rushing storms,
That sweep in mad career through forests tall,
Up-tearing gnarled oaks, with sounds of hellish forms,
That bode destruction black, and death to all.
Nor is it yet the screaming warrior, loud,
With hand upraised to mouth, hyena-strong,
That tells of midnight onrush, hell-endowed,
And bleeding scalp of aged, mild and young.
Ah no! it is a note that's only blown,
Where kindness fills the heart, and every thrill
Is peace and love, while music's softer tone
Steals on the evening air, its simple aims to fill,
Waking the female ear to carols of the Pibbigwun.

[107] Indian flute.

THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.

They tell me, the men with a white-white face
Belong to a purer, nobler race;
But why, if they do, and it may be so,
Do their tongues cry, "Yes"--and their actions, "No?"

They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue,
And it may be so, but the sky is blue;
And the first of men--as our old men say,
Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.

But throughout my life, I've heard it said,
There's nothing surpasses a tint of red;
Oh, the white man's cheeks look pale and sad,
Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.

Then let them talk of their race divine,
Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine;
Give me a lodge, like my fathers had,
And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.

DOUBT.

Ninimosha,[108] think'st thou of me,
When beneath the forest tree?
Do'st thou in the passing wind,
Catch the sighs I've cast behind?
Ah! I fear--I fear--I fear,
Evil bird hath filled thine ear.

Ninimosha, in the clear blue sky,
Canst thou read my constancy,
Or in whispering branches near,
Aught from thy true lover hear?
Ah! I fear--I fear--I fear,
Evil bird hath filled thine ear.

[108] My sweetheart.

FAIRY WHISPERINGS.

Supposed to be addressed to, and responded by a young pine-tree, in a
state of transformation.

INVOCATION.

Spirit of the dancing leaves,
Hear a throbbing heart that grieves,
Not for joys this world can give,
But the life that spirits live:
Spirit of the foaming billow,
Visit thou my nightly pillow,
Shedding o'er it silver dreams,
Of the mountain brooks and streams,
Sunny glades, and golden hours,
Such as suit thy buoyant powers:
Spirit of the star