Among the many beautiful traditions relative to Washington, which have been handed down to our times, is one which rests on the authority of Dr. Craik, who, it appears, was the intimate friend of Washington from his boyhood to his death, and who was with him at Braddock’s defeat. “Fifteen years after that event, they traveled together on an expedition to the western country, with a party of woodsmen, for the purpose of exploring wild lands. While near the junction of the Great Kenhawa and Ohio rivers, a company of Indians came to them with an interpreter, at the head of whom was an aged and venerable chief. This personage made known to them by the interpreter, that hearing Col. Washington was in that region, he had come a long way to visit him, adding that during the battle of the Monongahela he had singled him out as a conspicuous object; fired his rifle at him many times, and directed his young warriors to do the same, but to his utter astonishment none of their balls took effect. He was then persuaded that the youthful hero was under the special guardianship of the Great Spirit, (Manitou,) and ceased to fire at him any longer. He was now come to pay homage to the man who was the particular favorite of heaven, and _who could never die in battle_.” HOMEWOOD. The sinking sun streams through the trees, That form a circle there; And fragrant is the gentle breeze With sweets from flow’rets rare. It nestles in the ancient wood Where loved to couch the fawn, Where oft the dark-browed hunter stood At break of early dawn. These time-worn oaks might tell a tale Of struggles fierce and bold, When on the hill and in the dale The tide of battle rolled. The Shawanese on foeman’s trail No more bound free and light, Nor cower to hear the moaning wail Of tempest-howling night. From southern vales where Suwanee Rolls turbid to the tide, They tracked the wand’ring Lenape Where northern waters glide. And when night’s misty mantle fell On hill and dusky plain, Dark Juniata’s shades could tell The number of the slain. That race of bronze hath passed away, And all the forests broad, That yielded to its warlike sway, Are now by strangers trod. The blue-eyed Saxon plants his maize In peaceful furrows now, And through the long, lone summer days He speeds the glist’ning plough. O’er pastures white with sleeping flocks The night-winds gently sigh, And fields arrayed in golden shocks In length’ning shadows lie. The moon is up—and silv’ry beams Rest on the grassy mound, Where Aliquippa’s spirit gleams Along the haunted ground.