At length the fisher furl'd his sail Within the shelter'd creek, The hunter trod his forest trail The mustering band to seek; The settler cast his axe away, And grasp'd his rifle for the fray, All came, revenge to wreak-- With the rude arms that chance supplied, And die, or conquer, side by side. Behind the footsteps of their foe, They rush'd, a gallant throng, Burning with haste, to strike a blow For each remembered wrong; Here on this field of Minisink, Fainting they sought the river's brink Where cool waves gush'd along; No sound within the woods they heard, But murmuring wind and warbling bird. A shriek!--'tis but the panther's--nought Breaks the calm sunshine there, A thicket stirs!--a deer has sought From sight a closer lair; Again upon the grass they droop, When burst the well-known whoop on whoop Shrill, deafening on the air, And bounding from their ambush'd gloom, Like wolves the savage warriors come. In vain upsprung that gallant band And seized their weapons by, Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand, Alas! 'twas but to die; In vain the rifle's skilful flash Scorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash; The hatchet hiss'd on high, And down they fell in crimson heaps, Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps. In vain they sought the covert dark, The red knife gash'd each head, Each arrow found unerring mark, Till earth was pil'd with dead. Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hear Some voice and footstep meet her ear, Till hope grew faint with dread; Long did she search the wood-paths o'er, That voice and step she heard no more. Years have pass'd by, the merry bee Hums round the laurel flowers, The mock-bird pours her melody Amid the forest bowers; A skull is at my feet, though now The wild rose wreathes its bony brow, Relic of other hours. It bids the wandering pilgrim think Of those who died at Minisink. MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS. BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN. The morn! the morn, this mountain breeze, How pure it seems, from earth how free; What sweet and sad moralities Breathe from this air that comes to me. Look down, my spirit! see below, Earth darkly sleeps were shades prevail, Or wakes to tears that vainly flow, Or dreams of hopes that surely fail. Why should'st thou linger there, and burn With passions like these fools of time? Unfold thy wings, their follies spurn, And soar to yon eternal clime. Look round, my spirit! to these hills The earliest sunlight lends its ray; Morning's pure air these far heights fills, Here evening holiest steals away. Thus when with firm-resolving breast, Though bound to earth thou liv'st on high, Shalt thou with earlier light be blest, More purely live, more calmly die.