THE lake is calm, the sun is low,
The whippoorwill is chaunting slow,
And scarce a leaf through the forest is seen
To wave in the breeze its rich mantle of green.
Fit emblem of a guiltless mind,
The glassy waters calmly lie;
Unruffled by a breath of wind,
Which o'er its shining breast may sigh!
The shadow of the forest there
Upon its bosom soft may rest;
The eagle-heights, which tower in air,
May east their dark shades o'er its breast.

But hark! approaching paddles break
The stillness of that azure lake!
Swift o'er its surface glides the bark,
Like lightning's flash, like meteor spark.
It seemed, as on the light skiff flew,
As it scarce kissed the wave's deep blue,
Which, dimpling round the vessel's side,
Sparkled and whirled in eddies wide!

Who guides it through the yielding lake?
Who dares its magic calm to break?
'T is Montonoc! his piercing eye
Is raised to where the western hill
Rears its broad forehead to the sky,
Battling the whirlwind's fury still.

'T was Montonoc, and with him there
Was that strange form, with golden hair!
Wrapped in the self-same garb, as when
Surrounded by those savage men,
The stranger had, with, Montonoc,
Been led before the blazing stake!
Swift, swift, the light skiff forward flew,
Till it had crossed the waters blue;
Both leaped like lightning to the land,
And left the skiff upon the strand;
Far mid the forest then they fled,
And mingled with its dark brown shade.

The oak's broad arms in the breeze were creaking,
The bird of the gloomy brow was shrieking,
When a note on the night-wind was wafted along,
A note of the dead chieftain's funeral song.
A form was seen wandering in frantic woe,
'T was the maniac daughter of Hillis-ad-joe!
Her dark hair was borne on the night-wind afar,
And she sung the wild dirge of the Blood-hound of War!

She ceased when she came near the breeze-ruffled take;
She ceased — was 't the wind sighing o'er the long brake?
Wast't the soft rippling wave?—was 't the murmur of trees?
Which bending, were brushed by the wing of the breeze?
Ah, no! for she shrieked, as her piercing eye caught
A form which her frenzied brain never forgot! —
'T was Rathmond! yes, Rathmond before her now stood,
And he glanced his full eye on the child of the wood.

'Chicomico!' he cried, his voice sad and low,
'Chicomico!' we are the children of Woe!
Oh, come, then! oh, come! and thy Rathmond's strong arm
Shall shelter thee ever from danger and harm;
'T is true, I have loved with the passion of youth!
I have loved; and let Heaven attest with what truth!
But, Cordelia, thy ashes are mixed with the dead — '
(Here his eye flashed more fierce, and his pale cheek turned red)
''T was thy father, Chicomico — yes, 't was thy sire,
Who kindled the loved saint's funereal pyre!
But, 't is passed' — (and he crossed his cold, quivering hand
O'er a brow that was burning like Zahara's sand,)
''T is pass'd! — and Chicomico, thou didst preserve
The life of a wretch, who now never can love!
That life is thy own, with a heart, that though chilled
To passion's soft throb, is with gratitude filled!'

She turned her dark eye, from which reason's bright fire
Had fled, with the ghosts of her friends — of her sire;
'Young Eagle!' she cried, 'when my father was slain,
What white man, who ravaged along that dread plain,
Withheld the dire blow, and plead for the life
Of Hillis-ad-joe? — and say, who in that strife,
Stayed the arm that bereft me, and left me alone?
Yes, Young Eagle! my father, my brothers are gone!
Wouldst thou ask me to linger behind them, while they
To yon Heaven in the west are wending their way!
And, hark! the Great Spirit, whose voice sounds on high,
Bids me come! and see, white man, how gladly I fly!'
More swift than the deer, when the hounds are in view,
To the bark that was stranded, Chicomico flew!
She dashed the light oar in the waves' foaming spray,
And thus wildly she sung, as she darted away:

'I go to the land in the west,
The Great Spirit calls me away!
To the land of the just and the blest,
The Great Spirit points me the way!
'Like snow on the mountain's crest,
Like foam on the fountain's breast,
Hillis-ad-joe and his kinsmen have passed!
Like the sun's setting ray in the west,
When it sinks on the wave to rest,
The dead chieftain's daughter is coming at last!

'Too long has she lingered behind,
Awaiting the Great Spirit's voice!
But hark! it calls loud in the wind,
And Chicomico now will rejoice!

'I go to the land in the west:
The Great Spirit calls me away!

To the land of the just and the blest,
The Great Spirit points me the way!'

The wild notes sunk upon the gale,
And echo caught them not again!
For the breeze which bore the maiden's wail,
Wafted afar the last sad strain!

'T was said, that shrieking 'mid the storm,
The maiden oft was seen to glide,
And oft the hunters mark'd her form,
As swift she darted through the tide.

And once along the calm lake shore,
Her light canoe was she seen to guide,
But the maid and her bark are seen no more
To float along the rippling tide.

For the billows foamed, and the winds did roar,
And her lamp, as it glimmeredd amid the storm,
A moment blazed bright, and was seen no more,
For it sunk'mid the waves with her maniac form!

THE FAREWELL.

Adieu, Chicomico, adieu;
Soft may'st thou sleep amid the wave,
And 'neath thy canopy of blue
May sea-maids deck thy coral grave.

'Twas but a feeble voice which sung
Thy hapless tale of youthful woe;
But ah! that weak, that infant tongue
Will ne'er another story know.

And tho' the rough and foaming surge,.
And the wild whirlwind whistling o'er,
Should rudely chaunt thy funeral dirge,
And send the notes from shore to shore;

Still shall one voice be heard, above
The dreadful 'music of the spheres!'
The voice of one whose song is love,
Embalm'd by sorrow's saddest tears.