And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst
From the Fountain of Youth ere now,*

For there must the stream in its freshness burst,
Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lured to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours;

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze,
And bent with us the bow,

And heard the tales of our fathers' days,
Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have loved forget ?
We call-and they answer not again-

-Do they love-do they love us yet?

Doth not the warrior think of his brother there, And the father of his child?

And the chief, of those that were wont to share His wanderings through the wild ?

We call them far through the silent night,

And they speak not from cave or hill; We know, thou bird! that their land is bright, But say, do they love there still?

THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.

An early traveller mentions a people on the banks of the Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only gone on a journey, and being in constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers. Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs.

"J'ai passé moi-même," says Chateaubriand in his Souvenirs d'Amérique, " chez une peuplade Indienne qui se prenait à pleurer à la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la Contrée des Ames, et depuis long-tems en voyage"

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!

We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance,
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee !

But there came a voice from a distant shore :

He was call'd-he is found 'midst his tribe no more!

He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still he will yet return !
-His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough,
We roused him-we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step-but the step was thine.

We saw, thee, O stranger, and wept !

We look'd for the maid of the mournful song,
Mournful, though sweet-she hath left us long!
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him she pass'd alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,

The winter is white on his lonely head,

He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest-yet she comes not back!

We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,

For her breezy step-but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger, and wept !

We look'd for the chief who had left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here!

We look'd for the hunter whose bride's lament

On the wind of the forest at eve is sent :

We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky !
-Where are they?-thou 'rt seeking some distant coast-
Oh, ask of them, stranger!-send back the lost !
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams !
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step-but the step was thine!