There is an artless tradition among the Indians, related by Irving, of a warrior who saw the thunderbolt lying upon the ground, with a beautifully wrought moccasin on each side of it. Thinking he had found a prize, he put on th...
Oh! call us not silent, The throng of the dead! Though in visible being No longer we tread The pathways of earth, From the grave and the sky, From the halls of the Past...
'T is said that each succeeding year Another circlet weaves Within each living, waving tree; Yet not in buds or leaves,-- But far within the silent core, The tiny shuttles ply,...