er than at present, but this is also evinced by the immense quantity of soil about its base, which has been washed from its sides by the rains of ages. Its perpendicular height is now nearly seventy feet; the slope from base to summit, or verge of the basin, measures about one hundred and twentyfour. From the sunken appearance of the top, and the form of other mounds in the neighborhood, it is reasonable to conclude that its perpendicular was once twenty or thirty feet higher.

It is composed of a soil similar to that of the plain which surrounds it, but there are no local marks to determine from whence such a quantity of earth could have been taken, as the surface of the plain is nearly level. The mound itself is covered with trees, consisting of white and black oak, beech, black walnut, white poplar, locust, &c. and many of them are of a large size. The vegetable mould in the centre of the basin, is about two feet in depth, but gradually diminishes on each side. About one eighth of a mile distant on the same plain, in a northeasterly direction, are three smaller tumuli of similar construction; and several other small ones in the neighborhood. Near the three alluded to, on the most level part of this plain, are evident traces of ancient fortifications. The remains of two circular entrenchments, of unequal size, but each several rods in diameter, and communicating with each other by a narrow pass, or gateway, are to be seen, and also a causeway leading from the largest towards the hills on the east, with many other appearances of a similar nature, all exhibiting marks of a race of men more civilized than any of the tribes found in this section of the country when first visited by Europeans.

In stamping or striking with a club on the top of this huge heap of earth, a hollow, jarring sound may be heard and felt, similar to that which we feel in walking heavily on a large covered vault.

With regard to the object of these structures, it is now, I believe, pretty well agreed, that they were repositories for the dead. A good evidence of this is, that a substance resembling decayed bones has generally been found in those which have been opened, with implements of war and various articles used by savage nations. Otherwise we have no certain data; no historical facts to guide us in our enquiries. into this subject. Not even tradition, for the tribes inhabiting the country when discovered by the whites, were more ignorant, if possible, of the origin and uses of these mounds, than we are.

(83)

FOR THE LITERARY JOURNAL.

American Sketches,

THE WINTER EVENING.

I.

THE twinkling fires, that gild the ethereal arch,
From pole to pole, resume their stellar round,
Along the burning galaxy they march,

And through its realms, their countless host is found.
Anon expanding o'er them with a bound,
The Northera-light shines in the central skies.
In yonder moss-grown tree, (ill-boding sound!)
The famished owl begins his nightly cries,

And through the dreary wild, the wolf on errand hies.

II.

Along Cocheco's cold and icy face,

On Holland skates, and some, forsooth, without,
The village lads each other gaily chace;
And, ever and anon, the laugh, the shout

Of those, who tire their boon companions out,
Or pass them in the race, bursts to the sky.
And there is noise and revelry about,
Some neighbor lads their wits at jesting try,
Some tell a jocund tale, some laugh out merrily.

III.

Yes, it is true, stern Winter has a charm,
E'en when he coines in tempest and in cloud,
And through his trumpet pours the wild alarm.
His step is on the mountains; white the shroud,
That wraps him, and where'er he treads, aloud
The forests roar, the shaken villas reel.

And yet I love thee, Winter! and am proud,
To revel in thy madness, and to feel

New thoughts, emotions new, through all my spirit steal.

IV.

It seems the solemn knell of parted days,
What time I hear thee, sighing from thy cave;
Then saddening memory on my spirit preys,
And shades of gloomy cypress o'er me wave.

Of days and years, now sunk into their grave,
The vision hastes around; and thought on thought,
Burning returns; till heart and fancy rave,
And feel an inward tempest, which is fraught,
With elements as wild, as thou thyself hast brought.

V.

This night thou comest in peace! How pure the glow
That decks the brow of evening's pensive queen!

A pile of silver seem the hills of snow,
Climbing in light, and loveliness serene.
Far in the dreary distance, may be seen
The hoary forests, and the mountain pile.
Shut to the door! The wintry breeze is keen
And 'neath the Cottage roof repose awhile,

Where, round its blazing hearth, the happy inmates smile.

VI.

The fire is heaped with logs and limbs of trees,
And o'er the walls, the dancing shadows play.
Without, unheeded is the vagrant breeze,
But many gird the hearth's protecting ray.
The Patriarch of the cot! His locks of gray,
In many a twine, are round his shoulders spread.
His eye beams not, as in his younger day,
And there's a polished baldness on his head,
Yet is he cheerful, wise, in men and things well read.
VII.

His wife a woman was, "made out of fire,"

And round and round, her rapid wheel did flee,
She seemed not born to wear out, or to tire,
Though she in years, as numerous was as he,
A paragon of talk and industry.

Among the number was a neighbor lad,
Bound out to service, as seemed best to be;

His mother, she was poor, and gone, his dad,

And here Dick toiled by day, and here his dwelling had.

VIII.

And there were sons, and daughters, in that hall,
Far in the mountains wild, in youth they grew.
One heart, one love, one feeling had they all.
With tress of glossy shade, that clustering flew
Around a neck, which matched the snow in hue,
'The eldest of the sister train was there.

And round the hearth, both sons and daughters drew,
Of looms and distaffs these, whate'er their care,

Those spake of huntings, wilds, and mountains drear and bare.

IX.

And soon, full soon, a wild and fearful tale,
Of cinctured chiefs, of ancient times, of all
The burnings, scalpings, ambush, shrieks, and wail,
Of old, that on the helpless could befal,

Doth shroud their minds with darkness, as a pall,
And fills the melting eye with tears of woe,
That cruel foes should murder or enthral,
And bid the weak and half-expiring go,

Where other mountains rise, and other rivers flow.

X.

Each heart was hushed; the sigh, the starting tear Declared, the story was not told in vain, Which taught the listener, when in bright career, The burning stars were in their midnight reign, How rose the war-shout, how the ambushed train Rushed forth to burn, to murder, and to bind. As leaves, when winds at autumn sweep the plain, So fell the old and young of human kind, Where through the Dover hills, Cocheco's waters wind.

XI.

He, who hath strayed on Dover's hills and vales,
Hath marked the windings of her walled tide,

The weary gondolier, the distant sails,

The uplands, stretching from the river side,
Where art and nature have together vied,

To deck the rural edifice, will deem

The spot, where foemen fought and Waldron died, (1)

As yet unsung, no unbefitting theme,

For bard's immortal verse and all-creating dream.

XII.

A braver heart than Waldron's none could bear;
Professing love, and shunning open fight,
The red-men trapped the lion in his lair.
Had they but given his veteran sword its right,
They would not thus have conquered on that night.
Mesandowit first one gash across his breast,
Oped with his polished axe, (a fearful sight!)
The smoking blood hot from the opening pressed,
The deed the chief had done was practised by the rest.
XIII.

Each one exclaimed, “I'll cut out my account.”
Then spear, or tomahawk, with vengeance rife,
Gashed in, as if 'twere of a large amount;
And thus they held the cruel, bloody strife,

Of days and years, now sunk into their grave,
The vision hastes around; and thought on thought,
Burning returns ; till heart and fancy rave,
And feel an inward tempest, which is fraught,
With elements as wild, as thou thyself hast brought.

ས.

This night thou comest in peace! How pure the glow
That decks the brow of evening's pensive queen!

A pile of silver seem the hills of snow,
Climbing in light, and loveliness serene.
Far in the dreary distance, may be seen
The hoary forests, and the mountain pile.
Shut to the door! The wintry breeze is keen
And 'neath the Cottage roof repose awhile,

Where, round its blazing hearth, the happy inmates smile.
VI.

The fire is heaped with logs and limbs of trees,
And o'er the walls, the dancing shadows play.
Without, unheeded is the vagrant breeze,
But many gird the hearth's protecting ray.
The Patriarch of the cot! His locks of gray,
In many a twine, are round his shoulders spread.
His eye beams not, as in his younger day,
And there's a polished baldness on his head,
Yet is he cheerful, wise, in men and things well read.
VII.

His wife a woman was, "made out of fire,"

And round and round, her rapid wheel did flee,
She seemed not born to wear out, or to tire,
Though she in years, as numerous was as he,
A paragon of talk and industry.

Among the number was a neighbor lad,
Bound out to service, as seemed best to be;

His mother, she was poor, and gone, his dad,

And here Dick toiled by day, and here his dwelling had.

VIII.

And there were sons, and daughters, in that hall,
Far in the mountains wild, in youth they grew.
One heart, one love, one feeling had they all.
With tress of glossy shade, that clustering flew
Around a neck, which matched the snow in hue,
The eldest of the sister train was there.

And round the hearth, both sons and daughters drew,
Of looms and distaffs these, whate'er their care,

Those spake of huntings, wilds, and mountains drear and bare.