Vain were their notes of gladness, love, For the heart that is turned to sadness, love, Some other hour for lightness, love, Some other hour than now; When the eye is dimmed in its brightness, love, And cloud is on the brow. Then sing me a song of sorrow, love, One that tells of hope's first blight Leave lightsome ones till the morrow, love, W. G. C. We are indebted to our generous correspondent, TI. for the following delicate effusion of fancy; he remarks that it was written by a fair friend who had no idea of its passing beyond a private circle, and was obtained by him by a sort of innocent larceny,' in which he invites us to join by giving it a niche in the Recess of the Muses. Thy gentle breath thou need'st not hush, In fear that I should fly; flush "Tis sweet to view that eager From every bird some note I stole, And bade each blossom's leaf unroll, In spicy realms, the nightingale Why marvel-if in foreign clime Has wooed a flower of earth and time, Where is the scene when the sorrowing soul "Tis when the last splendors of sunlight roll S. From their golden tomb,-and the night hath birth! In the picturesque State of Con- | along the eastern margin of the necticut, there is not a spot more valley. At the distance of about beautiful than the village of Pomperaug. It is situated not very far from the western border of the State, and derives its name from a small tribe of Indians, who once inhabited it. It presents a small, but level valley, surrounded by hills, with a bright stream rippling through its meadows. The tops of the high grounds which skirt the valley, are covered with forests, but the slopes are smooth with cultivation, nearly to their summits. In the time of verdure, the valley shows a vividness of green like that of velvet, while the forests are dark with the rich hues, supposed to be peculiar to the climate of England. The village of Pomperaug consists now of about two hundred houses, with three white churches, arranged on a street which passes VOL. I. forty rods from this street, and running parallel to it for nearly a mile, is a rock, or ledge of rocks, of considerable elevation. From this, a distinct survey of the place may be had, almost at a glance. Beginning at the village, the spectator may count every house, and measure every garden; he may compare the three churches, which now seem drawn close together; he may trace the winding path of the river by the trees which bend over its waters; he may enumerate the white farm houses which dot the surface of the valley; he may repose his eye on the checkered carpet which lies unrolled before him, or it may climb to the horizon over the dark blue hills which form the border of this enchanting picture. The spot which we have thus 43 the Reverend Noah Benison. He was a man of great age, but still of uncommon mental and bodily vigor. His years had passed the bourne of three score and ten, and his hair was white as snow. But his tall and broad form was yet erect, and his cane of smooth hickory, with a golden head, was evidently a thing more of ornament than use.' described, did not long lie concealed from the prying sagacity of the first settlers of the colony of New Haven. Though occupied by a tribe of savages, as before intimated, it was very early surveyed by more than one of the emigrants. In the general rising of the Indians in Philip's War, this tribe took part with the Pequods, and a large portion of them shared in their destructions. The chief himself was killed. His son, still a boy, with a remnant of his fathly. She was the daughter of his er's people, returned to their na- only son, who, with his wife, had tive valley, and lived for a time slept many years in the tomb. on terms of apparent submission Her name was Mary, and well to the English. might she be the object of all the earthly affections which still beat in the bosom of one, whom death had made acquainted with sorrow, and who but for her had been left alone. The period had now arrived when the young chief had reached the age of manhood. He took, as was the custom with his fathers, the name of his tribe, and was accordingly called Pomperaug. He was tall, finely formed, with an eye that gleaned like the flashes of a diamond. He was such an one, as the savage would look upon with idolatry. His foot was swift as that of the deer; his sagacity penetrating as the light of the sun. Such was Pomperaug. But his nation was passing away, and but fifty of his own tribe now dwelt in the valley in which his fathers had hunted for ages. The day of their dominion had gone. There was a spell over the dark warrior. The Great Spirit had sealed his doom. So thought the remaining Indians in the valley of Pomperaug, and they sullenly submitted to a fate which they could not avert. Mr Benison had brought with him the last remnant of his fami Mary Benison was now seventeen years of age, She had received her education in England, and had been but a few months in America. She was tall and slender, with a dark, expressive eye, whose slow movements seemed full of soul and sincerity. Her hair was of a glossy black, parted upon a forehead of ample and expressive beauty. When at rest, her appearance was not striking; but, if she spoke or moved, she fixed the attention of every beholder by the dignity of her air, and the tone of tender, yet serious sentiment, which was peculiar to her. The settlers had been in the valley but a few months, when some matter of business relative to a purchase of land, brought It was therefore without resis- Pomperaug to the hut of Mr Bentance, and, indeed, with expres-ison. It was a bright morning in sions of amity, that they received autumn, and while he was talking a small company of English set- with Mr Benison at the door, tlers into the valley. This com- Mary, who had been gathering pany consisted of about thirty flowers in the woods, passed by persons, from the New Haven col- them and entered the hut. The ony, under the spiritual charge of eye of the young Indian followed her with a gaze of entrancement. His face gleamed as if he had seen a vision of more than earthly beauty. But this emotion was visible only for a moment. With the habitual self-command of a savage, he turned again to Mr Benison, and calmly pursued the subject which occasioned their meeting. Pomperaug went away, but he carried the image of Mary with him. He retired to his wigwam, but it did not please him. He went to the top of the rock, at the foot of which his hut was situated, and which now goes under the name of Pomperaug's Castle, and looked down upon the river, which was flashing in the slant rays of the morning. He turned away, and sent his long gaze over the checkered leaves of the forest, which, like a sea, spread over the valley. He was still dissatisfied. With a single leap he sprang from the rock, and, alighting on his feet, snatched his bow and took the path which led into the forest. In a few moments he came back, and, seating himself on the rock, brooded for some hours in silence. The next morning Pomperaug repaired to the house of Mr Benison to finish the business of the preceding day. He had before signified an inclination to accede to the terms proposed by Mr Benison, but he now started unexpected difficulties. On being asked the reason, he answered as follows: forests, if you will give me the singing bird that is in thy nest.' Savage,' said the pilgrim, with a mingled look of disgust and indignation, 'will the lamb lie down in the den of the wolf? Never! Dream not of it-I would sooner see her die! Name it not.' As he spoke he struck his cane forcibly on the ground, and his broad figure seemed to expand and grow taller, while his eye gleamed, and the muscles of his brow contracted with a lowering and angry expression. The change of the old man's appearance was sudden and striking. The air and manner of the Indian, too, was changed. There was now a kindled fire in his eye, a proud dignity in his manner, which before was not there; but they had stolen unseen upon him, with that imperceptible progress, by which the dull colors of the snake, when he becomes enraged, are succeeded by the glowing hues of the rainbow. The two now parted, and Pomperaug would not again enter into any negociations for the sale of his lands. He kept himself, indeed, aloft from the English, and cultivated rather a hostile spirit in his people towards them. As might have been expected, difficulties soon grew up between the two parties, and violent feelings were shortly excited on both sides. This soon broke out into open quarrels, and one of the white men was shot by a savage, lurking in the woods. This determined the settlers to seek instant revenge, and accordingly they followed the Indians into the broken and rocky districts which lie east of the valley, whither, expecting pursuit, they had retreated. 'Listen, father-hear a red man speak. Look into the air and you see the eagle. The sky is his home, and doth the eagle love his home? Will he barter it for the sea? Look into the river, and ask the fish that is there, if It was about an hour before sunhe will sell it? Go to the dark set, when the English, consisting skinned hunter and demand of him of twenty well armed men, led by if he will part with his forests? their reverend pastor, were marchYet, father, I will part with my ling through a deep ravine, about pouring its silver light into the valley, and Mary was still kneeling, still communing with Him who seeth in secret. two miles east of the town. The rocks on either side were lofty, and so narrow was the dell, that the shadows of night had already gathered over it. The pursuers At length a slight noise, like had sought their enemy the whole the crushing of a leaf, woke her day in vain, and having lost all from her trance, and with quicktrace of them, they were now re-ness and agitation she set out on turning to their homes. Sudden- her return. Alarmed at her disly a wild yell burst from the rocks tance from home at such an hour, at their feet, and twenty savages she proceeded with great rapidity. sprang up before them. An ar- She was obliged to climb up the row pierced the breast of the pil- face of the rocks with care, as grim leader, and he fell. Two the darkness rendered it a critical Indians were shot, and the re- and dangerous task. At length mainder fled. Several of the En- she reached the top. Standing glish were wounded, but none upon the verge of the cliff, she mortally, save the aged pastor. then turned a moment to look back upon the valley. The moon was shining full upon the vale, and she gazed with a mixture of awe and delight upon the sea of silvery leaves, which slept in deathlike repose beneath her.She then turned to pursue her path homeward, but what was her amazement to see before her, in the full moonlight, the tall form of Pomperaug! She shrieked, and swift as his own arrow, she sprang over the dizzy cliff. The Indian listened-there was a moment of silence-then a heavy sound-and the dell was still as the tomb. With mournful silence they bore back the body of their father. He was buried in a sequestered nook of the forest, and with a desolate and breaking heart, the orphan Mary turned away from his grave, to be for the first time alone in their humble house in the wilderness. * * A year passed. The savages had disappeared, and the rock, on which the pilgrim met his death, had been consecrated by many prayers. His blood was still visible on the spot, and his people of ten came with reference to kneel there, and offer up their petitions. The place they called Bethel Rock, and piously they deemed that their hearts were visited here with the richest gifts of heavenly grace. The fate of Mary was known only to Pomperaug. He buried her with a lover's care amid the rocks of the glen. Then bidding adieu to his native valley, he join ed his people, who had retired to the banks of the Housatonac. * * It was a sweet evening in summer, when Mary Benison, for the More than half a century sublast time went to spend an hour sequent to this event, a rumor ran at this holy spot. Long had she through the vilage of Pomperaug, knelt, and most fervently had she that some Indians were seen at prayed. Oh! who can tell the night, bearing a heavy burthen bliss of that communion, to which along the margin of the river, a pure heart is admitted in the which swept the base of Pomehours of solitude and silence.-raug's castle. In the morning a The sun went down, and as the spot was found near, on a gentle veil of evening fell, the full moon hill, where the fresh earth showed climbed over the eastern ledge, I that the ground had been recently |