_Were These The First Discoverers Of America?_

MILICETE LEGEND OF THE OUANGONDÉ, OR RIVER ST. JOHN.

Though the ebbing ocean listens To Ugondé's throbbing roar, Calm the conquering flood-tide glistens Where the river raved before.

The Bay of Fundy tide rises to such a height that it flows up the St. John River channel to some distance, silencing the roar of the Calls, which pour over a great ledge of rock left by the ebbing sea. Taken very literally from a tale in the "Amaranth Magazine," 1841.

So the sea-brought strangers, stronger Than their Indian foes of old, Conquered, till were heard no longer War-songs through the forests rolled.

Yet the land's wild stream, begotten Where its Red Sons fought and died, With traditions unforgotten Strives to stem Oblivion's tide; Tells the mighty, who, like ocean, Whelm the native stream, how they First in far dim days' commotion, Wrestling, fought for empire's sway.

Hear the sad cascade, ere ever Sinks in rising tides its moan, True may be the tale, though never By the victor ocean known.

Now the chant rings softly, finding Freedom as the sea retires; Loudly now, through spray-tears blinding Throb and thunder silver lyres;

Silenced when the strong sea-water To its great' heart, limitless, Rising, takes the valley's daughter, Soothes the song of her distress.

UGONDÉ'S TALE.

For a while the salt brine leaves me O'er my terraced rocks to fall, And my broad swift-gliding waters Olden memories recall.

Ere the tallest pines were seedlings With my life-stream these were blent; As a father's words, like arrows Straight to children's hearts are sent,

So my currents speeding downwards, Ever passing, sing the same Story of the days remembered, When the stranger people came. Men of mighty limbs and voices, Bearing shining shields and knives, Painted gleamed their hair like evening, When the sun in ocean dives.

Blue their eyes and tall their stature, Huge as Indian shadows seen When the sun through mists of morning Casts them o'er a clear lake's sheen.

From before the great Pale-faces Fled the tribes to woods and caves, Watching thence their fearful councils, Where they talked beside the waves.

For they loved the shores, and fashioned Houses from its stones, and there Fished and rested, danced at night-time By their fire and torches' glare.

Sang loud songs before the pine-logs As they crackled in the flame, Raised and drank from bone-cups, shouting Fiercely some strange spirit's name.

Turning to the morning's pathway, Cried they thus to gods, and none Dared to fight the bearded giants, Children of the fire and sun.

From their bodies fell our flint-darts, Yet their arrows flew, like rays Flashing from the rocks where polished By the ice in winter days.

Then the Indians prayed the spirits Haunting river, bank, and hill, To let hatred, like marsh vapour, Rise among their foes and kill.

And they seemed to heed, for anger Often maddened all the band, Fighting for some stones that glittered Yellow on Ugondé's sand.

Seeing axe and spear-head crimson, Hope illumined doubt and dread, And our land's despairing children Called upon the mighty dead.

All the Northern night-air shaking, Rose the ancients' bright array, Burning lines of battle breaking Darkness into lurid day.

But the stranger hearts were hardened, Fearless slept they; then at last Our Great Spirit heard, and answered From his home in heaven vast.

For his waving locks were tempests, And the thunder-cloud his frown; Where he trod the earthquake followed, And the forests bowed them down.

As his whirlwind struck the mountains, Rent and lifted, swayed the ground; Winged knives of crooked lightning Gleamed from skies and gulfs profound.

Floods, from wonted channels driven, Roared at falling hillside's shock; What was land became the torrent, What was lake became the rock.

Now the river and the ocean, Whispering, say: "Our floods alone See white skeletons slow-moving Near the olden walls of stone."

Moving slow in stream and sea-tide, There the stranger warriors sleep, And their shades still cry in anguish Where the foaming waters leap.

THE GUIDE OF THE MOHAWKS.

For strife against the ocean tribe The Mohawks' war array Comes floating down, where broad St. John Reflects the dawning day.

A camp is seen, and victims fall, And none are left to flee; A maid alone is spared, compelled A traitress guide to be. The swift canoes together keep, And o'er their gliding prows The silent girl points down the stream, Nor halt nor rest allows.

"Speak! are we near your fires? How dark Night o'er these waters lies!" Still pointing down the rushing stream, The maiden naught replies.

The banks fly past, the water seethes; The Mohawks shout, "To shore! Where is the girl?" Her cry ascends From out the river's roar.

The foaming rapids rise and flash A moment o'er her head, And smiling as she sinks, she knows Her foemen's course is sped;

A moment hears she shriek on shriek From hearts that death appals, As, seized by whirling gulfs, the crews Are drawn into the falls!