Now thou art not--and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance--he who bears False witness--he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow--he who spreads abroad Polluted hands of mockery of prayer, Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look On what is written, yet I blot not out The desultory numbers--let them stand, The record of an idle revery. THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. deg. Weep not for Scio's children slain; Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain For vengeance on the murderer's head. Though high the warm red torrent ran Between the flames that lit the sky, Yet, for each drop, an armed man Shall rise, to free the land, or die. And for each corpse, that in the sea Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, A hundred of the foe shall be A banquet for the mountain birds. Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain To keep that day, along her shore, Till the last link of slavery's chain Is shivered, to be worn no more. THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. deg. An Indian girl was sitting where Her lover, slain in battle, slept; Her maiden veil, her own black hair, Came down o'er eyes that wept; And wildly, in her woodland tongue, This sad and simple lay she sung: "I've pulled away the shrubs that grew Too close above thy sleeping head, And broke the forest boughs that threw Their shadows o'er thy bed, That, shining from the sweet south-west, The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. "It was a weary, weary road That led thee to the pleasant coast, Where thou, in his serene abode, Hast met thy father's ghost: Where everlasting autumn lies On yellow woods and sunny skies. "Twas I the broidered mocsen made, That shod thee for that distant land; 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid Beside thy still cold hand; Thy bow in many a battle bent, Thy arrows never vainly sent. "With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, And laid the food that pleased thee best, In plenty, by thy side, And decked thee bravely, as became A warrior of illustrious name. "Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed The long dark journey of the grave, And in the land of light, at last, Hast joined the good and brave; Amid the flushed and balmy air, The bravest and the loveliest there. "Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,-- To her who sits where thou wert laid, And weeps the hours away, Yet almost can her grief forget, To think that thou dost love her yet. "And thou, by one of those still lakes That in a shining cluster lie, On which the south wind scarcely breaks The image of the sky, A bower for thee and me hast made Beneath the many-coloured shade. "And thou dost wait and watch to meet My spirit sent to join the blessed, And, wondering what detains my feet From the bright land of rest, Dost seem, in every sound, to hear The rustling of my footsteps near." ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION.