Then fitfully and wild In thrilling notes of woe Swept down the rapid stream The death-song sad and low; And gathered on the marge, From many a forest glen, With frantic gestures rude, The red Dahcotah men. But onward sped the bark Until it reached the height, Where mounts the angry spray And raves the water's might And whirling eddies swept Into the gulf below The smiles of infancy And youth's maturer glow; The priestess of the rock And white-robed surges bore The wronged and broken heart To the far off Spirit Shore. And often when the night Has drawn her shadowy veil, And solemn stars look forth Serenely pure and pale, A spectre bark and form May still be seen to glide, In wondrous silence down The Laughing Water's tide. And mingling with the breath Of low winds sweeping free, The night-bird's fitful plaint, And moaning forest tree, Amid the lulling chime Of waters falling there, The death-song floats again Upon the laden air. THE LAST OF THE RED MEN. Travellers in Mexico have found the form of a serpent invariably pictured over the doorways of the Indian Temples, and on the interior walls, the impression of a red hand. The superstitions attached to the phenomena of the thunderstorm and Aurora Borealis, alluded to in the poem, are well authenticated. I saw him in vision,--the last of that race Who were destined to vanish before the Pale-face, As the dews of the evening from mountain and dale, When the thirsty young Morning withdraws her dark veil; Alone with the Past and the Future's chill breath, Like a soul that has entered the valley of Death. He stood where of old from the Fane of the Sun, While cycles unnumbered their centuries run, Never quenched, never fading, and mocking at Time, Blazed the fire sacerdotal far o'er the fair clime; Where the temples o'ershadowed the Mexican plain, And the hosts of the Aztec were conquered and slain; Where the Red Hand still glows on pilaster and wall, And the serpent keeps watch o'er the desolate hall. He stood as an oak, on the bleak mountainside, The lightning hath withered and scorched in its pride Most stately in death, and refusing to bend To the blast that ere long must its dry branches rend; With coldness and courage confronting Life's care, But the coldness, the courage, that's born of despair.