THE LAST OF THE WAMPANOAGS.

BY I. M'LELLAN, JR.

WITH the tough bow of savage war,
And feathered arrow in his hand,
Last of his race, an Indian chief
Gazed forth upon his native land;

The scene was green with woods around,
The sod was sown with flowering blooms,
And every sighing breeze that blew
Was laden with wild-wood perfumes.
High o'er the groves a mountain chain
Uplifted its blue cones in air, —
Smiling and shining in the light,
The setting sunbeams showered there,
Till craggy cliff and purple cone,
In heaven's own radiant glory shone.

It was a lovely sight to see,

On which the dullest eye might feast;
Where wood and mountain, lake and stream,

By many a bubbling rill increased,

Joined their soft beauties to complete

One of boon Nature's fairest scenes;

Nor marvel is it, that the chief,

Long gazing, on his weapon leans.
He mused upon the glowing sky,
Resting a-weary on the eve:

He listened where the voiceful woods

THE LAST OF THE WAMPANOAGS.

BY I. M'LELLAN, JR.

WITH the tough bow of savage war,
And feathered arrow in his hand,
Last of his race, an Indian chief
Gazed forth upon his native land;
The scene was green with woods around,
The sod was sown with flowering blooms,
And every sighing breeze that blew
Was laden with wild-wood perfumes.
High o'er the groves a mountain chain
Uplifted its blue cones in air,
Smiling and shining in the light,
The setting sunbeams showered there,
Till craggy cliff and purple cone,
In heaven's own radiant glory shone.

It was a lovely sight to see,

On which the dullest eye might feast;
Where wood and mountain, lake and stream,

By many a bubbling rill increased,

Joined their soft beauties to complete

One of boon Nature's fairest scenes;

Nor marvel is it, that the chief,
Long gazing, on his weapon leans.
He mused upon the glowing sky,
Resting a-weary on the eve:

He listened where the voiceful woods