a belt, a belt of texture fine,
Of snowy hue, emboss'd with blue and scarlet porcupine;
This tender braid sustain'd the blade I drew against the foe,
And ever prest upon my breast, to mark its ardent glow.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely fighting stand,
I, in the din, a trophy win, that gains Nimosha's hand.

My love, she is a handsome girl, she has a sparkling eye,
And a head of flowing raven hair, and a forehead arched and high;
Her teeth are white as cowry shells, brought from the distant sea,
And she is tall, and graceful all, and fair as fair can be.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand,
And with address my suit I press, I gain Nimosha's hand.

Oh, I will search the silver brooks for skin of blackest dye,
And scale the highest mountain-tops, a warrior's gift to spy!
I'll place them where my love shall see, and know my present true;
Perhaps when she admires the gift, she'll love the giver, too.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand,
I'll gain my love's unsullied heart, and then I'll gain her hand.

THE LOVE OF THE FOREST.

To rove with the wild bird, and go where we will,
Oh, this is the charm of the forest-life still!
With our houses of bark, and our food on the plain,
We are off like an eagle, and back there again.

No farms can detain us, no chattels prevent;
We live not by ploughing--we thrive not by rent;
Our herds rove the forest, our flocks swim the floods,
And we skim the broad waters, and trip through the woods.

With ships not of oak wood, nor pitchy, nor strong,
We sail along rivers, and sail with a song;
We care not for taxes--our laws are but few;
The dart is our sickle, our ship the canoe.

If enemies press us, and evil fear stray,
We seize on our war-clubs, and drive them away,
And when there is nothing to fear or withstand,
We lift the proud rattle, and dance on the land.

In feasting and dancing, our moments are gay;
We trust in the God who made heaven and day;
We read no big volumes, no science implore,
But ask of our wise men to teach us their lore.

The woods are our pastures; we eat what we find,
And rush through the lands like a rattling wind.
Heaven gave us the country; we cling to the west,
And, dying, we fly to the Lands of the Blest!

LIGHT OF CHRISTIANITY IN THE WIGWAM.

Oh why, ye subtle spirits, why
Lift I my eyes to yonder floating sky,
Where clouds paint pictures with so clear a hue?
A heaven so beautiful