(Written in her fourteenth year.)

WHAT sight of horror, fear and woe,
Now greets chief Hillis-ha-ad-joe?
What thought of blood now lights his eye?
What victim foe is doomed to die?
For his cheek is flushed, and his air is wild,
And he cares not to look on his only child.
His lip quivers with rage, his eye flashes fire,
And his bosom beats high with a tempest of ire.
Alas! 't is Rathmond stands a prisoner now,
Awaiting death from Hillis-ha-ad-joe,
From Hillis-ha-ad-joe, the stern, the dread,
To whose vindictive, cruel, savage mind,
Loss after loss fast following from behind,
Had only added thirst insatiate for blood;
And now he swore by all his heart held dear,
That limb from limb his victims he would tear.

But ah! young Rathmond's case what tongue can tell?
Upon his hapless fate what heart can dwell?
To die when manhood dawns in rosy light,
To be cut off in all the bloom of life,
To view the cup untasted snatched from sight,
Is sure a thought with horror doubly rife.

Alas, poor youth! how sad, how faint thy heart!
When memory paints the forms endeared by love;
From these so soon, so horribly to part;
Oh! it would almost savage bosoms move!
But unextinguishcd Hope still lit his breast,
And aimless still, drew scenes of future rest!
Caught at each distant light which dimly gleamed,
Though sinking 'mid th' abyss o'er which it beamed!
Like the poor mariner, who, tossed around,
Strains his dim eye to ocean's farthest bound,
Paints, in each snowy wave, assistance near,
And as it rolls away, gives up to fear:
Dreads to look round, for death's on every side,
The low'ring clouds above the ocean wide:
He wails alone — 'and scarce forbears to weep,'
That his wreck'd bark still lingers on the deep!

E'en to the child of penury and woe,
Who knows no friend that o'er his grave will weep,
Whose tears in childhood's hour were taught to flow,
Looks with dismay across death's horrid deep!
Then , when suspended o'er that awful brink,
Snatch'd from each joy, which opening life may give,
Who would not from the prospect shuddering shrink,
And murmur out one hope-fraught prayer to live!'
But, see! the captive is now dragged along,
While round him mingle yell and wild war-song!
The ring is formed around the high-raised pile,
Fagot o'er fagots reared with savage toil;
Th' impatient warriors watch with burning brands,
To toss the death-signs from their ruthless hands!
Nearer, and nearer still the wretch is drawn,
All hope of life, of rescue, now is gone!
A horrid death is placed before his eyes;
In fancy now he sees the flames arise,
He hears the deaf'ning yell which drowns the cry
Of the poor victim's last, dire agony!
His heart was sick, he strove in vain to pray
To that great God, before whose awful bar
His lighten'd soul was soon to wing its way
From this sad world to other realms afar!

He raised his eyes to Heaven's blue arch above,
That pure retreat of mercy and of love;
When, lo! two fellow-sufferers caught his eye,
The prophet Montonoc is doomed to die!
His haughty spirit now must be brought low,
Long had he been the chieftain's direst foe:
The Indian's face was wrapped in mystic gloom,
As on they led him to his horrid doom.
A hectic flush upon his dark cheek burned,
His eye nor to the right nor left hand turned:
His lip nor quivered, nor turned pale with fear,
Though the death-note already met his ear.
Tall and majestic was his noble mien,
Erect, he seemed to brave the foeman's ire,
His step was bold, his features all serene,
As he approached the steep funereal pyre!

Close at his side, a figure glided slow,
Clad in the dark habiliments of woe,
Whose form was shrouded in a mantle's fold,
All, save one treacherous ringlet, — bright as gold.

The death-song's louder note shrill peals on high,
A signal that the victim soon must die!
While veil and war-note join the chorus still,
Till the wild dirge rebounds from hill to hill!
Rathmond now turned to snatch a last sad gaze,
Ere closed life's curtain o'er his youthful days;
When he beheld the dark, the piercing eye
Of Montonoc, the prophet doomed to die,
Bent upon him with such a steady gaze,
That not more fixed was death's own horrid glaze!
Then lifting his long swarthy finger high,
To where the sun's bright beams just tinged the sky,
And o'er the parting day its glories spread,
Which was to close when their sad souls had fled, —
' White man,' he cried, in low mysterious tone,
Caught but by Rathmond's listening ear alone,
'Ere the bright eye of yon red orb shall sleep,
This haughty chief his fallen tribe shall weep!'
He said no more, for lo! the death-yells cease.
'T is hushed! no sound is echoed through the place!
The opening ring disclosed a female there,
In a rich mantle shrouded, save her hair,
Which long and dark, luxuriant round her hung,
With many a clear, white pearl and dew-drop strung!

She threw back the mantle which shaded her face,
She spoke not, but looked the pale spirit of woe!
The angel of mercy! the herald of grace!
Knelt the sorrowful daughter of Hillis-ad-joe!
'My father! my father!' the maiden exclaims,
'Oh doom not the white man to die midst the flames!
'T is thy daughter who kneels! 't is Chicomico sues!
Can my father, the friend of my childhood, refuse?
This heart is the white man's! with him will I die!
With him, to the Great Spirit's mansion I'll fly!
The flames which to heaven will waft his pure soul,
Round the form of thy daughter encircling shall roll!
My life is his life — his fate shall be mine ;
For his image around thy child's heart will entwine!'

Man's breast may be cruel, and savage, and stern;
From the sufferings of others it heedless may turn;
To the pleadings of want, to the wan face of woe,
To the sorrow-wrung drops which around it may flow,
But 't will melt like the snow on the Apennine's breast,
As the sunbeam falls light, on its fancy-crowned crest,
When the voice of a child to its cold ear is given,
Fill'd with sorrow's sad notes like the music of Heaven.

'Loose the white man,' the king in an agony cried,
'My child, what you plead for, can ne'er be denied!
The pris'ner is yours! to enslave or to free!
I yield him, Chicomico, wholly to thee;
But remember!' he cried, While pride conquered his woe,
'Remember, thy father is Hillis-ad-joe!'
He frowned, and his brow, like the curtains of night,
Looked darker, when tinged by a moon-beam of light;
Chicomico saw — she saw, and with dread,
The storm, which returning, might burst o'er her head;
And quickly to Rathmond she turned with a sigh,
While a love-brightened tear veiled her heavenly eye.

'Go, white man, go! without a fear;
Remember you to one are dear;
Go! and may peace your steps attend;
Chicomico will be your friend.
To-morrow eve, with us may close
Joyful, and free from cares or woes;
To-morrow eve may also end,
And find me here without a friend!
Remember then the Indian maid,
Whose voice the burning brand hath stayed!
But should I be, as now I am,
And thou in prison and in woe,
Think that this heart is still the same,
And turn thee to Chicomico!
Then, go! yes, go! while yet you may,
Dread death awaits you, if you stay!
May the Great Spirit guard and guide
Your footsteps through the forest wide!'

She said, and wrapped the mantle near
Her fragile form, with hasty hand,
Just bowed her head, and shed one tear,
Then sped him to his native land.

The wind is swift, and mountain hart,
From huntsman's bow, the feathered dart;
But swifter far the pris'ner's flight,
When freed from dungeon-chains and night!
So Rathmond felt, but wished to show
How much he owed Chicomico;
But she had fled; she did not hear!
She did not mark the grateful tear,
Which quivered in the hero's eye;
Nor did she catch the half-breathed sigh;
And Heaven alone could hear the prayer,
Which Rathmond's full heart proffered there.