The Poems of Charles Fenno Hoffman

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Preface

PREFACE.

Charles Fenno Hoffman was born in New York in 1806. He entered Columbia College when fifteen years old, and remained there till the junior year, when he commenced the study of law in Albany. He was of too active a temperament for so quiet a life, and a number of his poems which appeared in the "Albany Gazette" having met with a favorable reception, he gradually drifted away from his profession, and engaged in an occupation more congenial to his tastes. During his literary career, he was for a number of years a contributor to the "New York American," and afterward became editor of the "Knickerbocker Magazine" and the "Literary World." In October, 1833, starting from New York on horseback, he made a tour in the dead of winter through the North-western States to the Mississippi, and home through the South-west, Kentucky and Virginia. During nearly the whole of this adventurous ride he was entirely alone, with the exception of such chance companions as he would pick up on the way; and considering the intensity of the cold, the severity of the snow-storms and the unsettled state of the country, it is remarkable that he accomplished it without an accident. On his return to New York the following May he published an account of his trip in a series of letters entitled "A Winter in the West." He is also the author of "Wild Scenes in Forest and Prairie," "Grayslaer, a Romance," "The Life of Jacob Leisler" and numerous essays which have never been collected.

For the last twenty-five years, on account of ill-health, he has been obliged to forego all literary pursuits, and since his retirement, his writings have been for many years out of print, and his reputation has only been kept alive by "Monterey," "Sparkling and Bright," "Rosalie Clare" and other of his most popular songs which have found their way into the various compendiums of American literature. In placing this volume of his poems before the public I have been influenced solely by a feeling that on account of their literary merits they should be collected, and that the author would prefer this task be performed by some near relative whose affection for him entitled to assume so delicate an office. Conscious that I possess this qualification, I have been encouraged to undertake what has been to me a most agreeable labor. A complete edition of his poems would be impossible, as many of them appeared anonymously; but in the present volume I have included a number of pieces not contained in either of the previous editions. It is rather a venture to reproduce poems which have remained so long a time in obscurity; but in the conviction that a true appreciation of the beauties of nature and purity of sentiment are qualities which will always be admired, I have strong hopes that they will regain their former position of popularity with the public.

My uncle was a lover of nature and the natural. Most of his leisure was spent in excursions on the Hudson and into the Adirondacks, at that time a trackless wilderness. He was passionately fond of these wild haunts, and took a particular inte- rest in the hunters and Indians, at that time the only inhabitants. He always enjoyed the greatest health and strength, and when on his rambles was perfectly indifferent to the weather or the accommodations he was obliged to put up with. Like all strong, simple-hearted men, love of country was one of his predominating characteristics. He took a special interest in our early traditions and made them the subjects of most of his prose writings. The motto of a writer in the West is emblematic of his life:

ppoem|{fine} Where can I journey to your secret springs, Eternal nature? Onward still I press, Follow thy windings still, yet sigh for more. >>Goethe.

Cummington, Mass., Aug. .

My Dear Sir:—I congratulate you on the completion of the task which you have undertaken of collecting the poetical productions of your uncle, Charles Fenno Hoffman, whom, while he lived in New York, I was proud to reckon among my friends, and whose kindly and generous temper and genial manners won the attachment of all who knew him. His poems bear the impress of his noble character. They are the thoughts of a man of eminent poetic sensibilities, who delights to sing of whatever moves the human heart—the domestic affections, patriotic reminiscences, the traditions of ancient loves and wars, and the ties of nature and friend-ship. These thoughts are expressed in musical versification with the embellishments of a ready fancy. The friends of your uncle have reason to thank you for presenting them in this manner the moral and intellectual image of him whom they have had such reason to esteem.

E. Fenno Hoffman, Esq.

Table of Contents

Contents.

../Forest Musings

Inscription.

The fragile bark whereon the Indian traces Rude tokens of his path for other eyes, Sometimes outlasts the tree on which he places Anew the birchen scroll he thence had peeled, And while he wanders forth to other skies, Some curious Settler, ere his axe he wield, The frail memorial careful bears away:— So I have freely traced a woodland lay, In lines as quaint as chart of forest child, Content, like him, if passing on my way, I cheer some friendly heart in life's dull wild— A birchen scroll from birchen tree y'cleft, A trail of moccasin in wildering forest left.

../Forest Musings

The Hunt is Up.

A Meditation.

HE hunt is up— The merry woodland shout, That rung these echoing glades about An hour agone, Hath swept beyond the eastern hills, Where, pale and lone, The moon her mystic circle fills; Awhile across her slowly reddening disk The dusky larch, As if to pierce the blue o'erhanging arch, Lifts its tall obelisk.

And now from thicket dark, And now from mist-wreathed river The fire-fly's spark Will fitful quiver, And bubbles round the lily's cup From lurking trout come coursing up,

Where stoops the wading fawn to drink: While scared by step so near, Uprising from the sedgy brink The clanging bittern's cry will sink Upon the hunter's ear; Who, startled from his early sleep, Lists for some sound approaching nigher— Half-dreaming, lists—then turns to heap Another fagot on his fire, And then again, in dreams renewed, Pursues his quarry through the wood.

And thus upon my dreaming youth, When boyhood's gambols pleased no more, And young Romance, in guise of Truth, Usurped the heart all theirs before; Thus broke Ambition's trumpet-note On visions wild, Yet blithesome as this river On which the smiling moonbeams float That thus have there for ages smiled, And will thus smile for ever. And now no more the fresh green-wood, The forest's fretted aisles, And leafy domes above them bent, And solitude So eloquent! Mocking the varied skill y'-blent In Art's most gorgeous piles— No more can soothe my soul to sleep Than they can awe the sounds that sweep

To hunter's horn and merriment Their verdant passes through, When fresh the dun-deer leaves his scent Upon the morning dew.

The game's afoot!—and let the chase Lead on, whate'er my destiny— Though Fate her funeral drum may brace Full soon for me! And wave death's pageant o'er me— Yet now the new and untried world Like maiden banner first unfurled, Is glancing bright before me! The quarry soars! and mine is now the sky, Where, "at what bird I please, my hawk shall fly!"

Yet something whispers through the wood— A voice like that perchance Which taught the hunter of Egeria's grove To tame the Roman's dominating mood, And lower, for awhile, his conquering lance Before the images of Law and Love— Some mystic voice that ever since hath dwelt Along with Echo in her dim retreat, A voice whose influence all, at times, have felt By wood or glen, or where on silver strand The clasping waves of Ocean's belt Will clashing meet Around the land: It whispers me that soon—too soon The pulses which now beat so high,

Impatient with the world to cope, Will, like the hues of autumn sky, Be changed and fallen ere life's noon Should tame its morning hope.

Yet why, While Hope so jocund singeth And with her plumes the gray beard's arrow wingeth, Should I Think only of the barb it bringeth? Though every dream deceive That to my youth is dearest, Until my heart they leave Like forest leaf when searest— Yet still, mid forest leaves Where now Its tissue thus my idle fancy weaves, Still with heart new-blossoming While leaves, and buds, and wild flowers spring, At Nature's shrine I'll bow; Nor seek in vain that truth in her She keeps for her idolater.

../Forest Musings

What is Solitude?

N in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the echoes brood In caves untrod by men;

Not by the black seashore, Where barren surges break, Not on the mountain hoar, Not by the breezeless lake; Not on the desert plain Where man hath never stood, Whether on isle or main— Not there is solitude.

Birds are in woodland bowers; Voices in lonely dells: Streams to the listening hours Talk in earth's secret cells; Over the gray-ribbed sand Breathe Ocean's frothy lips; Over the still lake's strand The wild flower toward it dips; Pluming the mountain's crest Life tosses in its pines, Coursing the desert's breast Life in the steed's mane shines.

Leave—if thou wouldst be lonely— Leave Nature for the crowd; Seek there for one—one only With kindred mind endowed! There—as with Nature erst Closely thou wouldst commune— The deep soul-music nursed In either heart, attune!

Heart-wearied thou wilt own, Vainly that phantom wooed, That thou at last hast known What is true Solitude!

../Forest Musings

The Bob-O-Linkum.

T vocal sprite—thou feather'd troubadour! In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger, Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger? Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature; But wise, as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, The school-boy best hath fixed thy nomenclature, And poets, too, must call thee Bob-O-Linkum.

Say! art thou, long 'mid forest glooms benighted, So glad to skim our laughing meadows over— With our gay orchards here so much delighted, It makes thee musical, thou airy rover? Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer'd treasure Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish?

They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges; And even in a brace of wandering weeks, They say, alike thy song and plumage changes;

Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth, And leafy June is shading rock and river, Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the North, While through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.

Joyous, yet tender—was that gush of song Caught from the brooks, where 'mid its wild flowers smiling The silent prairie listens all day long, The only captive to such sweet beguiling; Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls And column'd isles of western groves symphonious, Learn from the tuneful woods, rare madrigals, To make our flowering pastures here harmonious?

Caught'st thou thy carol from Ottawa maid, Where, through the liquid fields of wild-rice plashing, Brushing the ears from off the burdened blade, Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing? Or did the reeds of some savannah south Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth, The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing?

Unthrifty prodigal!—is no thought of ill Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever? Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still Throb on in music till at rest for ever?

Yet now in wilder'd maze of concord floating, 'Twould seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time in hearing thee might fall a-doting, And pause to listen to thy rapturous song!

../Forest Musings

Primeval Woods.

<>1. Y even here, not less than in the crowd, Here, where yon vault in formal sweep seems piled Upon the pines, monotonously proud, Fit dome for fane, within whose hoary veil No ribald voice an echo hath defiled— Where Silence seems articulate; up-stealing Like a low anthem's heavenward wail:— Oppressive on my bosom weighs the feeling Of thoughts that language cannot shape aloud; For song too solemn, and for prayer too wild,— Thoughts, which beneath no human power could quail, For lack of utterance, in abasement bow'd The cavern'd waves that struggle for revealing, Upon whose idle foam alone God's light hath smiled.

<>2. Ere long thine every stream shall find a tongue, Land of the Many Waters! But the sound Of human music, these wild hills among, Hath no one save the Indian mother flung

Its spell of tenderness? Oh, o'er this ground, So redolent of Beauty, hath there play'd no breath Of human poesy—none beside the word Of Love, as, murmur'd these old boughs beneath, Some fierce and savage suitor it hath bound To gentle pleadings? Have but these been heard? No mind, no soul here kindled but my own? Doth not one hollow trunk about resound With the faint echoes of a song long flown, By shadows like itself now haply heard alone?

<>3. And Ye, with all this primal growth must go! And loiterers beneath some lowly spreading shade, Where pasture-kissing breezes shall, ere then, have play'd, A century hence, will doubt that there could grow From that meek land such. Titans of the glade! Yet wherefore primal? when beneath my tread Are roots whose thrifty growth, perchance, hath arm'd The Anak spearman when his trump alarm'd; Roots that the Deluge wave hath plunged below; Seeds that the Deluge wind hath scattered; Berries that Eden's warblers may have fed; In slime of earlier worlds preserved unharmed, Again to quicken, germinate, and blow, Again to charm the land as erst the land they charm'd.

../Forest Musings

A Hunter's Matin.

U comrades, up, the morn's awake Upon the mountain side, The curlew's wing hath swept the lake, And the deer has left the tangled brake, To drink from the limpid tide. Up, comrades, up! the mead-lark's note And the plover's cry o'er the prairie float,

The squirrel he springs from his covert now To prank it away on the chestnut bough, Where the oriole's pendent nest high up, Is rock'd on the swaying trees, While the humbird sips from the harebell's cup, As it bends to the morning breeze. Up, comrades, up! our shallops grate Upon the pebbly strand, And our stalwart hounds impatient wait To spring from the huntsman's hand.

../Forest Musings

The Streamlet.

H silently yon streamlet slides From out the twilight-shaded bowers! How, soft as sleep, it onward glides In sunshine through its dreaming flowers.

That tranquil wave, now turn'd to gold Beneath the slowly westering sun, It is the same, far on the wold, Whose foam this morn we gazed upon.

The leaden sky, the barren waste, The torrent we this morning knew, How changed are all! as now we haste To bid them, with the day, adieu!

Ah! thus should life and love at last Grow bright and sweet when death is near: May we, our course of trial pass'd, Thus bathed in beauty glide from here!

../Forest Musings

My Birchen Bark.

M birchen bark, my birchen bark! When Fortune first made Love a rover, He shaped it for his own trim ark To float Care's deluge gayly over. Then leave the boasting pioneer To hew his skiff from yonder pine, And, dearest, with young Love to steer, Become a passenger in mine: In swan-like grace thy form resembling— With joy beneath thy sweet limbs trembling— For lightsome heart, oh, such a boat On summer wave did never float!

Think'st thou, my love, that painted barge, With gaudy pennant flaunting o'er her, Could kiss, like her, the flowery marge, Nor break the foam-bells formed before her?

Look, sweet, the very lotus-cup, Trembling as if with bliss o'erbrimm'd, Seemed now almost to buoy her up As o'er the heart-shaped leaves we skimm'd— Those floating hearts, beside their flowers, Half bear the boat and both of ours! For lightsome heart, oh, such a boat On summer wave did never float!

../Forest Musings

The Brook and the Pine.

T me, fair Brook, that long hast sung, To yonder Pine hast sung so sweetly— Are its wild arms more near thee flung, When night their motion veils completely? Or, for the morn's caressing rays Still eager, will it toss its boughs,— Like hearts that only beat for praise, All heedless of affection's vows?

I never pause—the Brook replied— To know how near it bends above me, I cannot help, whate'er betide, To sing for one I fain would love me; My song flows on, and still must flow, My chosen Pine with truth to bless, Though rippling pebbles sometimes show The brook athirst with tenderness:

Nay more—when thus, while tronblous, oft My wavelets flash some ray redeeming,

I think but of the Pine aloft, Which first will proudly hail its beaming! And, wasted thus, a joy it is To know my Pine,—refresh'd and bright, While I distill'd each dewy kiss— Is worthy of all glorious light!

../Forest Musings

The Western Hunter to his Mistress.

W love, with me, to the deep woods wend, Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower may peep. Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue, Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit, From the saffron orchis and lupin blue, And those like the foam on my courser's bit.

One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, One hand of each on the bridle meet; And beneath the wrist that entwines me there, An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. I will sing thee many a joyous lay, As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, While the winds that over the prairie play Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride.

Our home shall be by the cool, bright streams, Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams Through the branches around our lodge that meet.

Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower may peep.

../Forest Musings

A Frontier Incident.

T Indian whoop is heard without, Within the Indian arrow lies; There's horror in that fiendish shout, There's death where'er that arrow flies.

Two trembling women there alone, Alone to guard a feeble child; What shield, O God! is round them thrown Amid that scene of peril wild?

Thy Book upon the table there Reveals at once from whence could flow The strength to dash aside despair, The meekness to abide the blow.

Already, half resign'd, she kneels, And half imploring, kneels the mother, Awhile angelic courage steels The gentle nature of the other.

They thunder on the oaken door, They pierce the air with furious yell, And soon that plume upon the floor May grace some painted warrior well.

Oh, why cannot one stalwart arm But wield the brand that hangeth by? And snatch the noble girl from harm, Who heedeth not the hellish cry?

A shot! the savage leader falls— The maiden's eye which aim'd the gun— That eye, whose deadly aim appals, Is tearful when its task is done.

He falls and straight with baffled cries, His tribesmen fly in wild dismay; And now, beneath the evening skies, That Household may in safety pray.

../Forest Musings

The Laurel.

B him not, that rhyming, rakish Roman, Who swore so roundly that a lover's quarrel Between one Phœbus and some thick-shod woman, First caused to sprout the leaflets of the laurel!

Why, long ago,—ere his Deucalion floated Upon that freshet, which was so surprising— In that small world where every rill is noted, As if it were a Mississippi rising:

Yes, long ere then, on Alleghan's bright mountains, Na-nabozho had seen the laurel growing, With berries glassed in Adirondach fountains, Or cup mist-filled near Niagara's flowing:

A crimped and dainty cup, whose timid flushing Tinted the creamy hue of lips so shrinking, He thought at first some sentient thing was blushing, To be thus caught from such a caldron thinking.

Plants then had tongues, if we believe old story, As told by red men under forest branches,— (Who still insist they hear that language hoary, Ere mountain-woods descend in avalanches.)

Plants then had tongues, and in their careless tattle, Each painted creature on its footstalk swaying, Beguiled the loitering hunter, with their prattle, Secrets of Nature and old Earth betraying.

And once, they said, when Earth seemed fully freighted With pearly cup, and star, and tufted blossom, A Mohawk youth, with spirit all unmated, On old Ta-ha-was flung his weary bosom.

He knew not, could not, comprehend the feeling That kept him mute oppressed with thought unuttered, That wild, wild sense of loveliness o'erstealing Which urged his pent soul forth on wing unfettered.

Despairing and bewildered in his sorrow, He pressed with quivering lip the hollow mountain, As he its giant hardihood would borrow, Its free-voiced rushing wind and chainless fountain.

This for a savage to be sure was tender,— Whose hottest passion chiefly for the chase is: And when his native soil refused to render Aught of response to her wild son's embraces,—

He breathed into the ground vague thoughts of power, The yearnings of a soul in silence hidden; Beneath the midnight sky in that lone hour, Thought found a language by itself unbidden!

Then, with no human eye its birth beholding, No fostering plaudit human hands bestowing, First to the dew its glossy leaves unfolding, Sprouted the Laurel, from its own heart growing.

And still that type of native genius telleth, On barren rock, or lonely woodland bower, Not in approval, but in Utterance dwelleth The Poet's craving, and the Poet's power.

../Forest Musings

The Ambuscade.

A Tradition of Lake Iroquois, or Champlain.

T mountain-tops are bright above, The lake is bright beneath— And the mist is seen, the rocks between, In a silver shroud to wreathe. Merrily on the maple spray The redbreast trills his roundelay, And the oriole blithely flits among The boughs where her pendent nest is hung: The squirrel his morning revel keeps In the chestnut's leafy screen, And the fawn from the thicket gayly leaps To gambol upon the green. Now on the broad lake's waters blue Dances many a light canoe; And banded there, in wampum sheen, Many a crested chief is seen; Now as the foamy fringe they break, Which the waves, where they kiss the margin, make, The shallops shoot on the snowy strand, And the plumed warriors leap to land.

They bear their pirogues of birchen bark Far in the shadowy forest glade, And plunge them deep in covert dark Of the closely-woven hazel shade; Then stealthily tread in each other's track, And with wary step come gliding back.

And when the water again is won, Unlace the beaded moccason, And covering first with careful hand The footmarks dash'd in the yielding sand, Round jutting point and dented bay Through the wave they take their winding way.

Awhile their painted forms are seen Gleaming along the margin green, And then the sunny lake is left— Where issuing from a mountain cleft— Above whose bold impending height The dusky larch excludes the light, The current of a rivulet Conceals their wary footsteps yet.

Scaling the rocks, where strong and deep Abrupt the waters foaming leap, Along the stream they bending creep, Where the hanging birch's tassels sweep, Thrid the witch-hazel and alder-maze, Where in broken rills the streamlet strays, And reach the spot where its oozy tide Steals from the mountain's shaggy side.

Now where wild vines their tendrils fling, From crag to crag their forms they swing, Some boldly find a footing where The mountain cat would hardly dare; Others as lightly onward bound As the frolic chipmonk skips the ground,

Till all the midway mountain gain And there once more collected meet, Where on the eagle's wild domain The morning sunbeams fiercely beat.

There's a glen upon that mountain-side, A sunny dell expanding wide, Where the eye that looks through the green arcade Of cliffs in vines and shrubs array'd, Sees many a silver stream and lake Upon its raptured vision break; That sunny dell has its opening bright Almost within an arrow's flight Of a fearful gorge whose upper side Rank weeds and furze as closely hide, As if Pau-puck-wis there had plied His skill in weaving osiers green, And thus in thievish freak had tried Its gloomy mouth to screen.

'Tis a chasm beneath the wooded steep, Where the brain will swim and the blood will creep When its dizzy edge is seen, And the Fiend will prompt the heart to leap When the eye would measure the yawning deep Of that hideous ravine! Far down the gulf in distance dim The bat will oft at noontide skim, The rattlesnake like a shadow glides Through poisonous weeds in its shelvy sides,

While swarming lizards loathsome crawl Where the green-damp stands on the slimy wall, And the venomous copper-snake's heard to hiss On the frightful edge of that black abyss.

Here, in the feathery fern—between The tangled thicket's matted screen, Their weapons hid, save where a blade From straggling ray reflection made, The Adirondach warriors lay. The morning sees them gather there And crouch within their leafy lair— The scorching beams of noontide hour, If boughs should lift, would only play On bronzed and motionless array Within that silent bower: Still silent when the mantle gray Of sombre twilight slowly fell O'er rocky height and wooded dell, Those men of bronze all silent they Still waited for their prey!

How slow the languid moments move, How long to him their lapse appears In whom remorse, or fear, or love, Concentres griefs untold by tears, The gather'd agony of years! But o'er the Indian warrior's soul Uncounted and unheeded roll Long hours, like these in watching spent,

The moments that he knows within, When on the glorious War-Path sent, Are calm as those which usher in The thunders of the firmament!

The moose hath left the rushy brink Where he stole to the lake at eve to drink, And sought his lair in thicket dark, Lit only by the fire-fly's spark. Now myriad stars are twinkling through The vaulted heaven's veil of blue, And seen reflected in the wave With golden studs its bed to pave. Now as upon the western hills The moon her mystic circle fills, Against the sky each cliff is flung, As if at magic touch it sprung; And as the wood her beam receives, The dewdrop in that virgin light Pendent from the quivering leaves, Sparkles upon the pall of night.

Deep in the linden's foliage hid, Complains the peevish katydid, And the shrill screech-owl answers back From tulip tree and tamarack. At times along the placid lake A solitary trout will break, And rippling eddies on the stream In trembling circles faintly gleam; While near the sedgy shore is, heard The plash of that ill-omen'd bird,

Whose dismal note and boding cry Will oft the startled ear assail, When lowering clouds obscure the sky, And when the tempest gathers nigh Come quivering in the rising gale.

Oh, why cannot that loon's wild shriek To them a feeble warning speak, Whose proudly waving banner now Comes floating round the mountain brow, Whose gallant ranks in close array Now gleam along the moonlit way; And now with many a break between, Are winding through the long ravine?

Oh, why cannot that loon's wild shriek To them a feeble warning speak, Who careless press a foeman's sod As if in banquet-hall they trod; Who rashly thus undaunted dare To chase in woods the forest child, To hunt the panther to his lair, The Indian in his native wild?

Unapprehensive thus, at night The wild doe looking from the brake, To where there gleams a fitful light Dotted upon the rippling lake, Sees not the silver spray-drop dripping From the lithe oar which, softly dipping,

Impels the wily hunter's boat; But on his ruddy torch's rays, As nearer, clearer now they float, The fated quarry stands to gaze, And dreaming not of cruel sport, Withdraws not thence her gentle eyes Until the rifle's sharp report The simple creature hears and dies.

Buoyant with youth, as heedless they Pursue the death-besetted way, As cautionless each one proceeds, Where his doom'd steps the pathway leads, As if the peril of that hour But led those steps to beauty's bower. They come with stirring fife and drum, With flaunting plume and pennon come, To solitudes where never yet Hath gleamed the glistening bayonet— Banner upon the breeze hath flown, Or bugle note before been blown. The cautious beaver starts with fear, That strange unwonted sound to hear; But still her grave demeanor keeps, As from her hovel-door she peeps— Observing thence with curious eye The pageant as it passes by; Pauses the wailing whipporwill One moment, in her plaintive trill, As echoing on the mountain-side Their martial music wanders wide;

Then, as the last note dies away, Pursues once more her broken lay.

At length they reach that fatal steep, Which, hanging o'er the chasm deep, With stunted copse and tangled heath, Conceals the gulf that yawns beneath. The watchful Indian, from his lair, One moment sees them falter there— One moment looks, with eagle eye, To mark their forms against the sky; Then through the night air, wild and high, Peals the red warrior's battle cry.

From sassafras and sumac green, From shatter'd stump, and riven rock— From the dark hemlock boughs between Is launch'd the gleaming tomahawk. And savage eyes glare fiercely out From every bush and vine about; And savage forms the branches throw In dusky masses on the foe.