THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY.

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.

FRANCES H. GREEN.

are Yamoyden, by Sands and Eastburn, Mogg Megone, by Whittier, the Legend of the Andirondach Mountains, by Hoffman, Yonondio, by Hosmer, Nemahmin, by Louis L. Noble, and Mrs. Green's Nanuntenoo, with which, -though it is not yet published-may be classed Mr. Street's admirable romance ofFrontenac. In Nanuntenoo are shown descriptive powers scarcely inferior to those of Bryant and Carlos Wilcox, who have been most successful in painting the grand, beautiful, and peculiar scenery of New England. The rhythm is harmonious, and the style generally elegant and poetically ornate. In the delineations of Indian character and adventure, we see fruits of an intelligent study of the colonial annals, and a nice apprehension of the influences of external nature in psychological development. It is a production that will gratify attention by the richness of its fancy, the justness of its reflection, and its dramatic interest.

One of the best known of Mrs. Green's poems is The Dwarf's Story, a gloomy but passionate and powerful composition, which appeared in The Rhode Island Book, in 1841. The longest and most carefully finished is Nanuntenoo, a Legend of the Narragansetts, in six cantos, of which the first, second and third were published in Philadelphia in 1848. This is a work of decided and various merit. We have few good poems upon aboriginal superstition, tradition, or history. The best

NEW ENGLAND SUMMER IN THE AN-
CIENT TIME.

FROM THE FIRST CANTO OF "NANUNTENO0."
STILLNESS of summer noontide over hill,
And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream,
Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep
Upon the drooping eyelids of the air.

No wind breathed through the forest, that could stir
The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound
Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird,
Or else the polished leaves were turning back
To their own natural places, whence the wind
Of the last hour had flung them. From afar
Came the deep roar of waters, yet subdued
To a melodious murmur, like the chant

Of naiads, ere they take their noontide rest.
A tremulous motion stirred the aspen leaves,
And from their shivering stems an utterance came,
So delicate and spirit-like, it seemed
The soul of music breathed, without a voice.
The anemone bent low her drooping head,
Mourning the absence of her truant love,
Till the soft languor closed her sleepy eye,
To dream of zephyrs from the fragrant south,
Coming to wake her with renewed life.
The eglantine breathed perfume; and the rose
Cherished her reddening buds, that drank the light,
Fair as the vermil on the cheek of Hope.
Where'er in sheltered nook or quiet dell,
The waters, like enamored lovers, found
A thousand sweet excuses for delay,
The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast,
Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came
To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves.

The wild bee, hovering on voluptuous wing,
Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence
Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup,
As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep.
The wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate;
Each looked within the other's drowsy eyes,
Till outward objects melted into dreams.

The rich vermilion of the tanager,

Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green,
Like rubies set in richest emerald.
On some tall maple sat the oriole,

In black and orange, by his pendent nest,

To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs;
While high amid the loftiest hickory
Perched the loquacious jay, his turquoise crest
Low drooping, as he plumed his shining coat,
Rich with the changeful blue of Nazareth.
And higher yet, amid a towering pine,
Stood the fierce hawk, half-slumbering, half-awake,
His keen eye flickering in his dark unrest,
As if he sought for plunder in his dreams.
The scaly snake crawled lazily abroad,
To revel in the sunshine; and the hare
Stole from her leafy couch, with ears erect
Against the soft air-current; then she crept,
With a light, velvet footfall, through the ferns.
The squirrel stayed his gambols; and the songs
Which late through all the forest arches rang,
Were graduated to a harmony

Of rudimental music, breathing low,
Making the soft wind richer-as the notes

Had been dissolved, and mingled with the air.
Pawtucket almost slumbered, for his waves
Were lulled by their own chanting: breathing low,
With a just-audible murmur, as the soul
Is stirred in visions with a thought of love,
He whispered back the whisper tenderly
Of the fair willows bending over him,
With a light hush upon their stirring leaves,
Blest watchers o'er his day-dreams. Not a sign
Of man or his abode met ear or eye,
But one great wilderness of living wood,
O'er hill, and cliff, and valley, swelled and waved,
An ocean of deep verdure. By the rock
Which bound and strengthen'd all their massive roots
Stood the great oak and giant sycamore;
Along the water-courses and the glades
Rose the fair maple and the hickory;
And on the loftier heights the towering pine-
Strong guardians of the forest-standing there,
On the old ramparts, sentinels of Time,
To watch the flight of ages. Indian hordes,
The patriarchs of Nature, wandered free;
While every form of being spake to them
Of the Great Spirit that pervaded all,
And curbed their fiery nature with a law
Written in light upon the shadowy soil-
Bowing their sturdy hearts in reverence
Before the Great Unseen yet Ever FELT!

The very site where villages and towns,
As if called forth by magic, have uprisen;
Where now the anvils echo, hammers clank,
The hum of voices in the stirring mart,
And roar of dashing wheels, create a din
That almost rivals the old cataract-
As if its thunder had grown tired and hoarse
In striving to be heard above the din-
Two centuries gone, was one unbroken wild,
Where the fierce wolf, the panther, and the snake,
A forest aristocracy, scarce feared

The monarch man, and shared his common lot-
To hunger, plunder from the weak, and slay;
To wake a sudden terror; then lie down,
To be unnamed-unknown-for evermore.

A NARRAGANSETT SACHEM,

FROM THE SAME.

A FOOTFALL broke the silence, as along
Pawtucket's bank an Indian warrior passed.
Awed by the solemn stillness, he had paused
In deep, reflecting mood. A nobler brow
Ne'er won allegiance from Roman hosts,
Than his black plume half shaded; nor a form
Of kinglier bearing, moulded perfectly,
E'er flashed on day-dreams of Praxiteles.
The mantle that o'er one broad shoulder hung,
Was broidered with such trophies as are worn
By sachems only. Ghastly rows of teeth
Glistened amid the wampum. On the edge
A lace of woven scalp-locks was inwrought,
Where the soft, glossy brown of white man's hair
Mingled with Indian tresses, dark and harsh.
The wampum-belt, of various hues inwrought,
Graced well his manly bosom; and below,
His taper limbs met the rich moccasin.

Behold yon smouldering ruin! Lo, yon height!
The Pequot there his simple fortress reared,
And there he slept in peace but yester-eve,
And his fair dreams spake not of coming death!
Where are the hundred dwellers of this spot-
The parents, children, and the household charms,
That woke a soft, familiar magic here!
The crackling cinders-one chaotic mass
Of death and ruin-utter all the wrong,
In their deep, voiceful silence. Fire and sword,
Sped by the Yengees' hate, have only left
The ashes of the beautiful; or, worse,
The mangled type of each familiar form,
-Looks grimly through the horrid mask of death!
There slumbers all that woke a thrill of love
In the firm warrior's bosom. Death stole on,
Swift in the track of Gladness; and young hearts,
Yet quick with rapture, in the halcyon dreams
Of youth, and love, and hope, awoke-to die.
They grappled with the subtile element,
Then rushed on lance, and spear, and naked sword,
To quench with their hot blood the torturing flames.
The few strong warriors had grown desperate;
But desperation could not long avail-
And nerveless valor fall beside the weak.
Mothers and children, aged men and strong,
Bore the fierce tortures of dissolving life,
And all consumed together; till, at last,
The feeble wail of dying infancy-

On a morning of May, 1637, the English, under Major John Mason, attacked the fort of Mystic, one of the strong. holds of Sassacus. The Indians, believing the enemy afar, had sung and danced till midnight; and the depth of their morning slumbers made them an easy prey. ance," says Thatcher, was manly and desperate, but the work of destruction was completed in little more than an hour." And again, "Seventy wigwams were burnt, and five or six hundred Pequots killed. Parent and child alike, the sanop and squaw, the gray-haired man and the babe, were buried in one promiscuous ruin." Sassacus, flushed with conquest, with his followers returned just in time to witness the expiring flames. After this, the fortunes of the sachem rapidly declined; and when his own hatchets were turned against him, he fled with Mononotto to the Mohawks, by whom he was treacherously murdered.