They melt again to cloud--at last they fade; He breathes, that sad spectator,--they are gone; He sighs with sweet relief; but lo! anon, A deeper spell enfolds him, as a maid, Graceful as evening light, and with an eye Intelligent with beauty, like the sky, And wooing as the shade, Bends o'er him silently! With one sweet hand she lifts the streaming hair, That o'er her shoulders droops so gracefully, While with the other she directs his gaze, All desperate with amaze, Yet with a strange delight, through all his fear! What sees he there? Buried within her bosom doth his eye The deadly steel descry; The blood stream clotted round it--the sweet life Shed by the cruel knife!-- The keen blade guided to the pure white breast, By its own kindred hand, declares the rest! Smiling upon the deed, she smiles on him, And in that smile the lovely shape grows dim. His trance is gone--his heart Hath no more fear! in one wild start He bursts the spell that bound him, with a cry That rings in the far sky; He does not fear to rouse his enemy! The hollow rocks reply; He shouts, and wildly, with a desperate voice, As if he did rejoice That death had done his worst; And in his very desperation blessed, He felt that life could never more be cursed; And from its gross remains he still might wrest A something, not a joy, but needful to his breast! His hope is in the thought that he shall gain Sweet vengeance for the slain-- For her, the sole, the one More dear to him than daylight or the sun, That perished to be pure! No more! no more! Hath that stern mourner language! But the vow, Late breathed before those spectre witnesses, His secret spirit mutters o'er and o'er, As 't were the very life of him and his-- Dear to his memory, needful to him now! A moment and his right hand grasped his brow-- Then, bending to the waters, his canoe, Like some etherial thing that mocks the view, Glides silent from the shore. THE LAST OF HIS RACE. BY S. DRYDEN PHELPS. 'Twas to a dark and solitary glen, Amid New England's scenery wild and bold, A lonely spot scarce visited by men, Where high the frowning hills their summits hold, And stand, the storm-beat battlements of old-- Returned at evening from the fruitless chase, Weary and sad, and pierced with autumn's cold And laid him mournful in his rocky place, The grief-worn warrior chief--last of his once proud race.