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My God! when I read o'er the bitter lives Dwelt only in the excellence of truth; of men whose eager hearts were quite too And far within old Darkness' hostile lines great

Advanced and pitched the shining tents of To beat beneath the cramped mode of the Light. day,

Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell, And see them mocked at by the world they That not the least


his many love,

claims Haggling with prejudice for pennyworths To deathless honor - he was Milton's Of that reform which their hard toil will

friend, make

A man not second among those who lived The common birthright of the


to To show us that the poet's lyre demands come,

An arm of tougher sinew than the sword. When I see this, spite of my faith in God, I marvel how their hearts bear up so long; Nor could they but for this same prophecy,

A CHIPPEWA LEGEND This inward feeling of the glorious end.

αλγεινά μέν μοι και λέγειν εστίν τάδε, “Deem me not fond; but in my warmer

άλγος δε σιγαν. youth,

ÆSCHYLUS, Prom. Vinct. 197, 198. Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed

For the leading incidents in this tale I am away,

indebted to the very valuable Algic Researches I had great dreams of mighty things to of Henry R. Schoolcraft, Esq. J. R. L.

come; Of conquest, whether by the sword or pen The old Chief, feeling now wellnigh his I knew not; but some conquest I would end, have,

Called his two eldest children to his side, Or else swift death: now wiser grown in And gave them, in few words, his parting years,

charge! I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings · My son and daughter, me ye see no more; Of those strong wings whereon the soul The happy hunting - grounds await me, shall soar

green In after time to win a starry throne; With change of spring and summer through And so I cherish them, for they were lots, Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. But, for remembrance, after I am gone, Now will I draw them, since a man's right Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake: hand,

Weakling he is and young, and knows not A right hand guided by an earnest soul,

yet With a true instinct, takes the golden To set the trap, or draw the seasoned bow; prize

Therefore of both your loves he hath more From out a thousand blanks. What men

need, call luck

And he, who needeth love, to love hath Is the prerogative of valiant souls,

right; The fealty life pays its rightful kings. It is not like our furs and stores of corn, The helm is shaking now, and I will stay Whereto we claim sole title by our toil, To pluck iny lot forth; it were sin to flee!” But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts,

And waters it, and gives it sun, to be So they two turned together; one to die, The common stock and heritage of all: Fighting for freedom on the bloody field; Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that yourThe other, far more happy, to become

selves A name earth wears forever next her heart; May not be left deserted in your

need.” One of the few that have a right to rank With the true Makers: for his spirit Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam stood, wrought

Far from the other dwellings of their tribe; Order from Chaos; proved that right di- And, after many moons, the loneliness vine

Wearied the elder brother, and he said,

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the year:

Unless kept clear and white by Duty's care. So she went forth and sought the haunts of

men, And, being wedded, in her household cares, Soon, like the elder brother, quite forgot The little Sheemah and her father's charge.

“Why should I dwell here far from men,

shut out From the free, natural joys that fit my age ? Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled to

hunt, Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet Have seen the danger

which I dared not look Full in the face; what hinders me to be A mighty Brave and Chief among my

kin?So, taking up his arrows and his bow, As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on, Until he gained the wigwams of his tribe, Where, choosing out a bride, he soon for

got, In all the fret and bustle of new life, The little Sheemah and his father's charge.

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Now when the sister found her brother

gone, And that, for many days, he came not back, She wept for Sheemah more than for her

self; For Love bides longest in a woman's heart, And flutters many times before he flies, And then doth perch so nearly, that a word May lure him back to his accustomed nest; And Duty lingers even when Love is gone, Oft looking out in hope of his return; And, after Duty hath been driven forth, Then Selfishness creeps in the last of all, Warming her lean bands at the lonely

hearth, And crouching o'er the embers, to shut out Whatever paltry warmth and light are left, With avaricious greed, from all beside. So, for long months, the sister hunted wide, And cared for little Sheemah tenderly; But, daily more and more, the loneliness Grew wearisome, and to herself she sighed, “Am I not fair ? at least the glassy pool, That bath no cause to flatter, tells me so; But, oh, how fat and meaningless the tale, Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue ! Beauty hath no true glass, except it be In the sweet privacy of loving eyes.” Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the lore Which she had learned of nature and the

woods, That beanty's chief reward is to itself, And that Love's mirror holds no image

long Save of the inward fairness, blurred and


But Sheemah, left alone within the lodge, Waited and waited, with a shrinking heart, Thinking each rustle was his sister's step, Till hope grew less and less, and then went

out, And every sound was changed from hope

to fear. Few sounds there were:- the dropping of

a nut, The squirrel's chirrup, and the jay's harsh

scream, Autumn's sad remnants of blithe Summer's

cheer, Heard at long intervals, seemed but to

make The dreadful void of silence silenter. Soon what small store bis sister left was

gone, And, through the Autumn, he made shift

to live On roots and berries, gathered in much

fear Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he heard

ofttimes, Hollow and hungry, at the dead of night. But Winter came at last, and, when the

snow, Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o'er

hill and plain, Spread its unbroken silence over all, Made bold by hunger, he was fain to glean (More sick at heart than Ruth, and all

alone) After the harvest of the merciless wolf, Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, A thing more wild and starving than him

self; Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew

friends, And shared together all the winter


yet feared

Late in the Spring, when all the ice was

gone, The elder brother, fishing in the lake, Upon whose edge his father's wigwam



Heard a low moaning noise upon the shore: Half like a child it seemed, half like a

wolf, And straightway there was something in

his heart That said, “It is thy brother Sheemah's

voice." So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he saw, Within a little thicket close at hand, A child that seemed fast changing to a

wolf, From the neck downward, gray with

shaggy hair, That still crept on and upward as he

looked. The face was turned away, but well he

knew That it was Sheemah's, even his brother's

face. Then with his trembling hands he hid his

eyes, And bowed his head, so that he might not

MEN ! whose boast it is that ye
Come of fathers brave and free,
If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain,
When it works a brother's pain,
Are ye not base slaves indeed,
Slaves unworthy to be freed ?

Women ! who shall one day bear
Sons to breathe New England air,
If ye hear, without a blush,
Deeds to make the roused blood rush
Like red lava through your veins,
For your sisters now in chains, –
Answer ! are ye fit to be
Mothers of the brave and free?


Is true Freedom but to break
Fetters for our own dear sake,
And, with leathern hearts, forget
That we owe mankind a debt ?
No! true freedom is to share
All the chains our brothers wear,
And, with heart and hand, to be
Earnest to make others free !

me !

They are slaves who fear to speak For the famen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.

The first look of his brother's eyes, and

cried, “O Sheemah! O my brother, speak to Dost thou not know me, that I am thy

brother? Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt

dwell With me henceforth, and know no care or

want!" Sheemah was silent for a space, as if 'T were hard to summon up a human

voice, And, when he spake, the voice was as a

wolf's: I know thee not, nor art thou what thou

say'st; I have none other brethren than the

wolves, And, till thy heart be changed from what

it is, Thou art not worthy to be called their

kin." Then groaned the other, with a choking

tongue, “Alas! my heart is changed right bitterly; 'T is shrunk and parched within me even And, looking upward fearfully, he saw Only a wolf

that shrank away and ran, Ugly and fierce, to hide among the woods.


I have partly written a poem on Columbus to match with Prometheus and Cromwell. I like it better than either in point of artistic merit. J. R. L. to C. F. Briggs, September 18, 1844.

The cordage creaks and rattles in the

wind, With wbims of sudden hush; the reeling

now !


Now thumps like solid rock beneath the

stern, Now leaps with clumsy wrath, strikes

short, and, falling


my soul


Crumbled to whispery foam, slips rustling Just lifted to achieve its crowning deed, down

And made the firm-based heart, that would The broad backs of the waves, which jostle

bave quailed and crowd

The rack or fagot, shudder like a leaf To fling themselves upon that unknown Wrinkled with frost, and loose upon its shore,

stem. Their used familiar since the dawn of The wicked and the weak, by some dark

time, Whither this foredoomed life is guided on Have a strange power to shut and rivet To sway on triumph's hushed, aspiring

down poise

Their own horizon round us, to unwing One glittering moment, then to break ful- Our heaven-aspiring visions, and to blur filled.

With surly clouds the Future’s gleaming

peaks, How lonely is the sea's perpetual swing,

Far seen

across the brine of thankless The melancholy wash of endless waves,

years. The sigh of some grim monster undescried, If the chosen soul could never be alone Fear-painted on the canvas of the dark, In deep mid-silence, open-doored to God, Shifting on his uneasy pillow of brine ! No greatness ever had been dreamed or Yet night brings more companions than the done; day

Among dull hearts a prophet never grew; To this drear waste; new constellations The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude.

burn, And fairer stars, with whose calm height The old world is effete; there man with Finds nearer sympathy than with my herd Jostles, and, in the brawl for means to live, Of eartben souls, whose vision's scanty ring Life is trod underfoot, Life, the one Makes me its prisoner to beat my wings

block Against the cold bars of their unbelief, Of marble that's youchsafed wherefrom to Knowing in vain my own free heaven beyond.

Our great thoughts, white and godlike, to O God! this world, so crammed with eager

shine down life,

The future, Life, the irredeemable block, That comes and goes and wanders back to Which one o'er-hasty chisel-dint oft mars, silence

Scanting our room to cut the features out Like the idle wind, which yet man's shap- Of our full hope, so forcing us to crown ing mind

With a mean head the perfect limbs, or Can make his drudge to swell the longing

leave sails

The god's face glowing o'er a satyr's trunk, Of highest endeavor, - this mad, unthrift Failure's brief epitaph.

world, Which, every hour, throws life enough

Yes, Europe's world away

Reels on to judgment; there the common To make her deserts kind and hospitable,

need, Lets her great destinies be waved aside Losing God's sacred use, to be a bond By smooth, lip-reverent, formal infidels, 'Twixt Me and Thee, sets each one scowl. Who weigh the God they not believe with ingly gold,

O’er his own selfish hoard at bay; no state, And find no spot in Judas, save that he, Knit strongly with eternal fibres up Driving a duller bargain than he ought, Of all men's separate and united weals, Saddled his guild with too cheap precedent. Self-poised and sole as stars, yet one as O Faith ! if thou art strong, thine opposite light, Is mighty also, and the dull fool's sneer Holds up a shape of large Humanity Hath ofttimes shot chill palsy through the To which by natural instinct every man

Pays loyalty exulting, by which all




of men


Mould their own lives, and feel their pulses Yet he therein can feel a virtue left filled

By the sad pressure of a mother's hand, With the red, fiery blood of the general And unto him it still is tremulous life,

With palpitating haste and wet with tears, Making them mighty in peace, as now in The key to him of hope and humanness,

The coarse shell of life's pearl, Expectancy: They are, even in the flush of victory, This hope hath been to me for love and weak,

fame, Conquering that manhood which should Hath made me wholly lonely on the earth, them subdue.

Building me up as in a thick-ribbed tower, And what gift bring I to this untried Where with enwalled my watching spirit world ?

burned, Shall the same tragedy be played anew, Conquering its little island from the Dark, And the same lurid curtain drop at last Sole as a scholar's lamp, and heard men's On one dread desolation, one fierce crash

steps, Of that recoil which on its nakers God In the far hurry of the outward world, Lets Ignorance and Sin and Hunger make, Pass dimly forth and back, sounds heard in Early or late ? Or shall that common

dream. wealth

As Ganymede by the eagle was snatched Whose potent unity and concentric force

up Can draw these scattered joints and parts From the gross sod to be Jove's cup-bearer,

So was I lifted by my great design: Into a whole ideal man once more,

And who hath trod Olympus, from his eye Which sucks not from its limbs the life Fades not that broader outlook of the gods; away,

His life's low valleys overbrow earth's But sends it flood-tide and creates itself

clouds, Over again in every citizen,

And that Olympian spectre of the past Be there built up ? For me, I have no Looms towering up in sovereign memory, choice;

Beckoning his soul from meaner heights of I might turn back to other destinies,

doom. For one sincere key opes all Fortune's doors; Had but the shadow of the Thunderer's But whoso answers not God's earliest call

bird, Forfeits or dulls that faculty supreme Flashing athwart my spirit, made of me Of lying open to his genius

A swift-betraying vision's Ganymede, Which makes the wise heart certain of its Yet to have greatly dreamed precludes low ends.


Great days have ever such a morning-red, Here am I; for what end God knows, not I; On such a base great futures are built up, Westward still points the inexorable soul: And aspiration, though not put in act, Here am I, with no friend but the sad sea, Comes back to ask its plighted troth again, The beating heart of this great enterprise, Still watches round its grave the unlaid Which, without me, would stiffen in swift ghost death;

Of a dead virtue, and makes other hopes, This have I mused on, since mine eye could Save that implacable one, seem thin and first

bleak Among the stars distinguish and with joy As shadows of bare trees upon the snow, Rest on that God-fed Pharos of the north, Bound freezing there by the unpitying On some blue promontory of heaven lighted That juts far out into the upper sea; To this one hope my heart hath clung for While other youths perplexed their mandoyears,

lins, As would a foundling to the talisman Praying that Thetis would ber fingers Hung round his neck by hands he knew not twine whose;

In the loose glories of her lover's hair, A poor, vile thing and dross to all beside, And wile another kiss to keep back day,


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