When the shrivell'd skies shall burn,
Shall those buried hours return,—
Wake from their oblivious bed,
Meet us at the bar of dread—
Come they then in smiles or tears,
Dark with frowns, or pale with fears?—
Search in Memory's treasure-cell,
Question her, for she can tell.—
Is her boasted colouring pale?—
Sighs she o'er a broken tale?—
Does her footstep shrink to climb
All the slippery steeps of time?—
Ask of Conscience!—She can bring
Waters from the deepest spring,
Touch the nerve of keenest thrill,
Stir the dregs of latent ill;—
And her tablets never fade
Though their trace seem lightly made,—
For each tint of bliss or wo
Through Eternity shall glow.
THE CHAIR OF THE INDIAN KING.
In the neighbourhood of Mohegan is a rude recess, environed by rocks, which still retains the name of "the chair of Uncas." When the fort of that King was besieged by the Narragansetts, and his people were perishing with famine, he took measures to inform the English of their danger, and was found seated in this rocky chair,
