On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are call'd.

D'Aubigne.

If I may speak through tears!—
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!-thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widow'd house,

There springing up with soft light round thee shed-
For immortality!-Meek child of God!

I bless thee-He will bless thee !-In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer's breast!-And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived-my duteous, holy Blanche!
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.

Blanche, (rising.)

Now is there strength

Infused through all my spirit.-I can rise

And say, "Thy will be done!"

D'Aubigne, (pointing upwards.) See'st thou, my child, Yon faint light in the west? The signal star

Of our due vesper service, gleaming in

Through the close dungeon grating!-Mournfully

It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice

Of adoration in our narrow cell,

As if unworthy fear or wavering faith

Silenced the strain?-No! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,

In its dark hour once more!-And we will sleep-
Yes-calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed."

[They sing together.

PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN

We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies;
How every color'd hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,

Though man hath barr'd it from our sight.

We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, th' All just

And bless thee stih with free and boundless trust!

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS,

We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last-
And by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark-
We trust thee !-As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose

His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.

We know thou reign'st--All holy one, all just!

And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh,

When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer-and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on-
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment-

And by his parting word, which rose

Through faith victorious o'er all woes

We know that Thou may'st wound, may'st break

The Spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!

Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,

In our deep need to Thee we turn!

To whom but Thee !-All merciful, all just!

In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!

477

YMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF

PERSECUTION

"Thanks be to God for the mountains."-Howitt.

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

Thou hast made thy children mighty,

By the touch of the mountain sod.

Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge
Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

We are watchers of a beacon

Whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar
'Midst the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

For the dark resounding caverns,

Where thy still, small voice is heard;
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stir'd:
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad:

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

The royal eagle darteth

On his quarry from the heights,
And the stag that knows no master,
Seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for thy communion,

Have sought the mountain sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

The banner of the chieftain,
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves:

Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom's last abode;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

For the shadow of thy presence,

Round our camp of rock outspread;

For the stern defiles of battle,

Bearing record of our dead;

For the snows and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial-sod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.

"But by my wrongs and by my wrath,

To-morrow Areouski's breath

*

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!"

Indian Song in "Gertrude of Wyoming.” SCENE. The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and

*Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.

sycamore trees.

THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.

479

HERRMANN, the missionary, seated alone

before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight.

Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone swift canoe

Shooting across the waters?-No, a flash

From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again

In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark

Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze

Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,

Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems

The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst

The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know

Of what is solitude! In hours like this,

There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,

On the home path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,

The cluster'd faces of his children shine

To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill'd!-Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnize
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of cne heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!

Hark! a step,
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound-
'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass

Gliding so serpent-like.

[He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form

Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye

Discerns thy face.

Enonio. My father speaks my name.

Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase returned?

The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?

Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler prey

Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave

The lone path free.

Herrmann. The forest way is long

From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak
Of these things further.

Enonio.

Tell me not of rest!

My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift-
I must begone.

Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior, thou must stay!
The Mighty one hath given me power to search
Thy soul with piercing words and thou must stay,
And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart
Be grown thus restless, is it not because

Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up

Some burning thought of ill?

Enonio, (with sudden impetuosity.) How should I rest ?—

Last night the spirit of my brother came,

An angry shadow in the moonlight streak,

And said, "Avenge me!"-In the clouds this morn

I saw the frowning color of his blood

And that, too, had a voice.—I lay at noon

Alone beside the sounding waterfall,

And through its thunder-music spake a tone-
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves-

And said "Avenge me!"-Therefore have I raised
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again,
That I may send the shadow from my couch,
And take the strange sound from the cataract
And sleep once more.

Herrmann.

A better path, my son,
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep,

My hand in peace can guide thee-e'en the way
Thy dying brother trod.-Say, didst thou love
That lost one well?

Enonio.
Know'st thou not we grew up
Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness
Unto the chase we journey'd in one path;
We stemm'd the lake in one canoe; we lay
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand
Was still beneath my head; my brother's robe
Cover'd my bosom from the chill night air.
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love
Until he turn'd him from his fathers' gods,
And then my soul fell from him—then the grass
Grew in the way between our parted homes,
And wheresoe'er I wander'd, then it seem'd
That all the woods were silent.-I went forth-
I journey'd with my lonely heart, afar,

And so return'd-and where was he?-the earth
Own'd him no more.

Herrmann.

But thou thyself, since then Hast turn'd thee from the idols of thy tribe,

And, like thy brother, bow'd the suppliant knee

To the one God.

Enonio.

Yes, I have learn'd to pray

With my white father's words, yet all the more