64 MICAH P. FLINT. [1S20-O0. ' Twas, as the grove return'd my youthful love, And fondly clasped me in maternal arms, And on her mossy pillow laid my head. E'en there my youthful palaces of hope All rose amidst the trees. My fairy scenes Of love and joy were all beneath the shade. Words cannot paint the visionary thoughts That rose, sj^ontaneous, as reclin'd 1 lay To list the birds that struck their solemn notes, Unfrequent, aw'd, and as a temple hymn, With turtle's moan at close ; and saw the flowers Bend with the humble-bee, as from their cup It, busy, drew ambrosia, bearing home The yellow plunder on its loaded thighs. And traced it by its organ-tones through air, Sailing from sight, like a dark, fading pomt. These voices from the spirit of the gi'oves With gentle whisperings inspir'd within A holy calm, and thoughts of love and peace. Aiid since, in forest wanderings of years. Whene'er my course led through the beechen woods. The Mantuan's "spreading beech" to memory sprung. Like youthful playmate dear. When from the bed Of pain arising, my first feeble steps Still led me to the groves ; and, always kind, Ye never taunted, slander'd me, deceived, Mocked at my sorrows; proudly shrunk away From the embraces of your druid son. As mad'ning wrath arose within my breast, And counsel'd deep revenge for cruel wrongs, In the still air reposing, your green heads Still read to me how ye had gently bent Before the storms of centuries, unharm'd. Sweet beechen woods, ye soon will richly tint With autumn's gold and purple ; ye would warn Your votary to mellow into age, And doff, resigned, the flaunty thoughts of youth, Its flowmg tresses, and its unscathed brow, E'en as your fallen leaves plash in the stream. Accept, ye beechen woods, my filial thanks For parent's love vouchsaf 'd at morn and noon. Oh ! grant me shelter in your shade in age. Teach me to dwell in mem'ry, neath your boughs, On the companions of my morning dawn, Of whom but few still walk above the soil. Sweet is the mem'ry of theii* kindnesses. The thought of each by distance, time, or death Is render'd holy. Teach me patiently to wait Till my time come. Oh ! teach me, beechen woods. As spring will clothe your boughs again with leaves, I, too, shall spring immortal from the dust. THE SHOSHONEE MARTYR. In Sewasserna's greenest dell, Beside its clear and winding stream, The Shoshonee at evening tell A tale of truth, that well might seem A poet's wild and baseless di'eam, If many an eye that saw the sight. Were not as yet undimmed and bright, And many an ear, that heard it all, Still startled by the sear leaf's fall. For years the tribe had dwelt in peace, Amidst the free and full increase. That Nature in luxuriance yields, From their almost uncultur'd fields, Without one scene of passing strife To mar their peaceful village life. The buried hatchet, cased in rust, Had almost moulder'd into dust.
