"Deem me not fond; but in my warmer youth, Ere my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, I had great dreams of mighty things to come; Of conquest, whether by the sword or pen I knew not; but some conquest I would have, Or else swift death: now wiser grown in years, I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar In aftertime to win a starry throne; And so I cherish them, for they were lots, Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. Now will I draw them, since a man's right hand, A right hand guided by an earnest soul, With a true instinct, takes the golden prize From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings. The helm is shaking now, and I will stay To pluck my lot forth; it were sin to flee!" So they two turned together; one to die, Fighting for freedom on the bloody field; The other, far more happy, to become A name earth wears forever next her heart; One of the few that have a right to rank With the true Makers: for his spirit wrought Order from Chaos; proved that right divine Dwelt only in the excellence of truth; And far within old Darkness' hostile lines Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light. Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell, That--not the least among his many claims To deathless honor--he was Milton's friend, A man not second among those who lived To show us that the poet's lyre demands An arm of tougher sinew than the sword. 1843. SONG. O, moonlight deep and tender, A year and more agone, Your mist of golden splendor Round my betrothal shone! O, elm-leaves dark and dewy, The very same ye seem, The low wind trembles through ye, Ye murmur in my dream! O, river, dim with distance, Flow thus forever by: A part of my existence Within your heart doth lie! O, stars, ye saw our meeting, Two beings and one soul, Two hearts so madly beating To mingle and be whole! O, happy night, deliver Her kisses back to me, Or keep them all, and give her A blissful dream of me! 1842. A CHIPPEWA LEGEND.[A] ἀλγεινὰ μέν μοι καὶ λέγειν ἐστὶν τάδε ἄλγος δὲ σιγᾷν. Æschylus, Prom. Vinct. 197. [Footnote A: For the leading incidents in this tale, I am indebted to the very valuable "Algic Researches" of Henry R. Schoolcraft, Esq.]