We cannot discard the history connected with the traditionary gods of the ancients as entirely fabulous, for undoubtedly, in the fables of heathen mythology, are transmitted to us records of early times so far enveloped in the impenetrable darkness that separates us from the earliest records of the human species, that they alone are all that remain to us of the habits and pursuits of the patriarchs of the world. It remains with us to sift these relics of the past from the mystic web that a barbarous age threw around them, and thus be enabled to transmit to future ages glimpses of the habits and pursuits of patriarchs of our race in all the purity of unadorned truth. [Illustration] LEGEND OF LONG-POND; OR, LAKE OF THE GOLDEN CROSS. BY FANNY FALES. THE summer moon hung in the sky, And sleeping in its sheen; Long-Pond, watched by the angel stars, Lay in its cradle green. The little zephyrs gliding by, Rocked it upon their way; And saw the dimples come and go, As of a child at play. The beautiful white lilies bowed, With folded hands, at rest; As if they stole away to pray Beneath the water's crest. From the dim woods beyond, the doe Came down her thirst to slake; Her wild brown eyes, and graceful form, Reflected from the lake. What! does she list the huntsman's horn, That thus she bounds away? Turns she, with head erect and proud, The noisy hounds to bay? Nay, nay! 'tis but a swift canoe Shoots from the coppice near; Its light oars leave a silvery track Upon the waters clear. A pale, fair youth, one arm flung round A maiden's form, is there; The Saxon in his deep blue eyes, And light-brown waving hair. The full-orbed moon floods in its wanes, The Indian maiden's face; The rich blood tints her olive cheek, Her form is full of grace. Her black eyes, softer than the night, Are turned to meet his own; Her heart drinks in each loving word, And deep impassioned tone. "Listen, Lueka--little fawn," (His voice is sad and low;) "Chide not with that imploring gaze; To-morrow I must go!" Her head drops slowly on her breast, Veiled with her long black hair; Love in that simple act confest, Love, and almost--despair. "Anoonk,[5] Lueka's heart will bleed, The arrow 'neath its wing; 'Twill sit and mourn, 'twill droop and die, It never more will sing. "To-morrow is a little word, But, oh, how big with woe! Did poor Lueka hear or dream, 'To-morrow I must go?' "Lueka, list, my bird, my fawn, I will return again Before the harvest moon looks down Upon the golden grain. "I swear, Lueka, by the stars, And by this cross of gold, 'Ere red the berries of the thorn My Indian bride I'll fold.