The game he hunted craftily is gone, And meadow-grass conceals his ancient trail; The flock is feeding where his camp-fire shone, And rang his whoop of triumph on the gale. His implements of battle and the chase, Are often found near my romantic bower, For the rich scene about it is allied To legends of his race; And mournful traces of his day of power Make classic grove, and glade, and river-side. Frost, washing rain-drops, and the plough lay bare The rude graves of his sires on hill and plain, Exposing their white secrets to the air, And the rough foot-fall of the whistling swain; When Autumn robes the forest in a dress Of many colors, he returns no more, To pay due homage to ancestral dust, From distant wilderness; The wave no longer flushes with his oar, And crusted is his tomahawk with rust. His woodland language cannot wholly die While swift Ganèsus, with a voice of glee, Between bright, flowery banks is rolling by To mix his waters with the Genesee. These tall old hemlocks tell of other days, When the red warrior rested in their shade, The painted ruler of the scene around; And the far hills that raise Their wooded tops, by Summer lovely made, In marks of ancient Indian rule abound. When the life-stream is frozen in my veins, And hollow are my features with decay, I fondly hope my cold and stiff remains May not be hidden from the light of day, In the dank yard where hundreds hide their dead; For I would rather have a pleasant grave Beneath the roofing of my arbor green, With wild-grass over-spread; While far below sing bird and gurgling wave, Through the dense, rustling thicket, dimly seen. * * * * * PEDRO DE PADILH. BY J. M. LEGARE. (_Continued from page 310._) SPAIN, AND TERCERA. } AD. 1583. } Capt. Wolfang Carlo and Don Hilo de Ladron, seated on the side of the mountain above Angra, watched the sea brighten along the opposite horizon and the white tents of the Spanish camp slowly emerge from the mists in the valley to the right. “There’ll be hard fighting yonder before the commandant gives in,” the captain said, nodding toward Nostre Dame de Loup, “and nobody will find time to look after us for some weeks to come.” “We must make our peace with the marquis before it is over,” Hilo returned indifferently.