WATOGA.


Oh, think not that the polished breast,
Only, can feel the fire of love,
Pure as the flames that brightly rest
In bosoms of the realms above.
Yes! often in the rudest form,
A heart may be, more clear and bright
Than ever lent the loveliest charm
To goddess of the Festal light.
Come, hear a story of the time,
When this wide land was one green bower,
The roving Red man's Eden-chine,
Where bloomed the wildest flower.
The great ships brought a wondrous race,
One evening o'er the ocean beach;
Strange was the pallor of their face,
Strange was the softness of their speech.
'Twas evening, and the sunset threw
A gorgeous brilliance o'er the scene,
Deep crimson stained the heaven's sweet blue,
But ocean rivalled all its sheen.
The painted red men came to view,
With marvel, what the winds had brought,--
For, surely, those proud vessels flew,
As if their force from Heaven they caught.
But who is yonder slender youth,
With smoothest brow and smoother cheek,
And eyes so full of boyhood's truth,