POETRY

THE EXILES.

Why move with step so slow, yon red brow'd throng?-

Sire, son, and bride, in long procession drear?

The mother leads her wailing child along

Yet breathes no sound its wearied heart to cheer.-

Unshrinking youth, and palsied age appear

In those unmarshall'd ranks,-with speechless care

The warrior droops, who never bow'd to fear,

While the time-honor'd Chief with haughty air

Grav'd on his furrow'd brow unutter'd wrongs doth bear.

Why from their peaceful dwellings do they fly

To unshorn forests, and to deserts bare?

Where roams the savage beast with vengeful eye,

And Famine seizes what his fang may spare;-

Ah! why this mute and motionless despair

As the last parting glance they darkly threw

On home and stream and vale and mountain fair?

They answer not,--save by those tears of wo

Which o'er their fathers' graves in wild profusion flow.

But what with silent lip they lock secure

In the deep casket of a suffering heart

I know.-The hoarse winds shriek'd it to my ear,

That tempest wrote it with its lightning dart.

Earth rais'd her voice to act the accusers part

Oh Native Land!-Thou Eden of the free,-

So blest by Heaven, so glorious as thou art,

I bowed by head in bitterness for thee,

Mourning thy broken vows, thy threaten'd infamy.-

I slept,-and 'mid my deep and troubled dream

A spirit past.--Fear bath'd my limbs in dew.

The unearthly eye with indignation's gleam

Was bright,-yet by the brow serene I knew

Our Country's Father, he who dauntless drew

His awful sword to bar oppression's claim

Now from Mount Vernon's tomb where pilgrims true

Kneel in their love, the Sage and Warrior came,

To save the red-brow'd few, and spare his nation's shame.

And lo! in heaven-girt panoply were seen,

Like ancient Macedon's unblenching band,

Illustrious statesmen of majestic men,

And sacred priests who at God's altar stand.

And hoary- templed men with wisdom's wand,

And woman's plaint was heard, with the lone prayer

Of lisping babe,-while o'er their much lov'd land

A shield they threw, and strove with watchful care

To guard from blackening trace her holy annals fair.

So, back the exiles turn'd-Amid the throng

Was no reluctant step, of lingering sigh,-

Back to their cots they turn'd with shout and song,

To their dear cultur'd fields, and clear blue sky,-

Back,'mid their kindred sepulchers to die:-

The faithful dog through each familiar shade

Fawn'd at his master's feet, with joyous eye,-

Gay infant groups around each thresh-hold play'd--

And sounds of rural toil rose sweet from every glade.

Hartford Connecticut Nov. 14th 1829.

L. H. S.