Days passed away, and one by one Canabo’s tribe, parched by thirst, wasted by famine, or self-destroyed passed into the spirit-land, till none were left but one old man. He, the last of his tribe, as the Coriaks crowded up the rock to finish their work of revenge, raised his shout of boasting and defiance, and died. No remnant of the tribe was left, even their name is lost, except in the terrible tradition that commemorates their extinction at Starved Rock. M. * * * * * LINES FOR MUSIC. In golden dreams my night goes by, And sweet the life of sleep to me; For, moon-like ’mid the starry sky, My brightest dream is still of thee. And as the moonlight stirs the deeps Of ocean with her gentle sway, So to thy glance my spirit leaps, And thrills beneath the trembling ray. G. G. F. * * * * * THE LAY OF THE WIND. BY LILIAS. I rove at my pleasure, all gayly and free, O’er the wide spreading land and the loud roaring sea, I’m at home ’mid the bright sunny bowers of the South, And at home on the wild frozen wastes of the North; While I whisper sweet things to the flowers in their bloom, And breathe a sad strain round the aisle and the tomb. When Winter all sternly comes forth from his cave, To still the glad streamlet and fetter the wave, I howl, as the tempest sweeps by in its wrath, Or scatter the snow from the icy king’s path, And chant, in the midnight all lonely and still, A dirge for the fallen, by valley and hill. And Spring, lovely maiden! Oh what would _she_ be Without her mild breezes on land and on sea? And what would awaken the sweet-scented flowers To burst in their beauty in lone forest bowers? Did _I_ not bend o’er them and joyfully sing— “A loved one is coming, the maiden is Spring.” Gay Summer, bright Summer, all joyous and fair, Gives life to the desert, perfume to the air, But the rays of her sun are too scorching and bright, The lovely flowers languish and droop ere the night: Then stealing at twilight from out my lone cave, I wander along o’er the cool starry wave, To fan Flora’s gems with my magical wing, And low, while the dew-drops are falling, to sing. Then hie me away to a child in its dreams, And whisper of fountains and cool running streams.