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THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.

My heart, that shut against my brother's love,
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire,
Burning my sleep away.-In the night hush,
'Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things
Of the great forests, I have call'd aloud,

"Brother! forgive, forgive!"-He answer'd not-
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls,
Cries but "Avenge me!"-and I go forth now
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore,
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say.
"I have avenged thee."

Herrmann.

Oh! that human love
Should be the root of this dread bitterness,
Till heaven through all the fever'd being pours
Transmuting balsam!-Stay, Enonio, stay!
Thy brother calls thee not!-The spirit world
Where the departed go, sends back to earth
No visitants for evil.-'Tis the might

Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief

At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice Unto the forest and the cataract,

The angry color to the clouds of morn,

The shadow to the moonlight.-Stay, my son!
Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch,

When of the murderer's poison'd shaft he died,

I knelt and pray'd; he named his Saviour's name, Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee

In pity and in love.

Enonio, (hurriedly.) Did he not say My arrow should avenge him?

Herrmann.

Were all forgiveness.

Enonio.

His last words

What! and shall the man

Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery,

Walk fearless forth in joy?

Herrmann.

Was he not once

Thy brother's friend?-Oh! trust me, not in joy
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love,
Too late repentant of its heart estranged,
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train
Of sounds and shadows-and shall he escape?
Enonio, dream it not!-Our God, the All Just,
Unto himself reserves this royalty-
The secret chastening of the guilty heart,
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies,
Leave it with him!-Yet make it not thy hope
For that strong heart of thine-Oh! listen yet-
Must, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish
For death or torture to the guilty one

Ere it can sleep again.

Enonio.

VOL II.-41

My father speaks

Of change, for man too mighty.

Herrmann.
I but speak
Of that which hath been, and again must be,
If thou would'st join thy brother, in the life
Of the bright country, where, I well believe,
His soul rejoices.-He had known such change.
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart,
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words

Which, from the Saviour's cross, went up to heaven-
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do,
Father, forgive!"-And o'er the eternal bounds
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled,

Where evil may not enter, he, I deem,

Hath to his Master pass'd.-He waits thee there-
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave,
Immortal in its holiness.-He calls

His brother to the land of golden light

And ever-living fountains-could'st thou hear

His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say,

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'My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful!

That we may meet again.'

Enonio, (hesitatingly.) Can I return Unto my tribe, and unavenged?

Herrmann.

To Him,

To Him return, from whom thine erring steps
Have wander'd far and long!-Return, my son,
To thy Redeemer!-Died he not in love-
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God-
Breathing forgiveness 'midst all agonies,
And we, dare we be ruthless? By his aid
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place
'Midst the pure spirits. Oh! retrace the way
Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears

Be o'er them shower'd.-Ay, weep thou Indian chief!
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold

Thy proud lip's working-weep, relieve thy soul!
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour

Of its great conflict.

[the bow,

Enonio, (giving up his weapons to Herrmann.) Father, take

Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call

Forth to the chase once more.-And let me dwell

A little while my father! by thy side,

That I may hear the blessed words again-
Like water brooks amidst the summer hills-
From thy true lips flow forth; for in my heart
The music and the memory of their sound
Too long have died away.

Herrmann.

O, welcome back,

Friend, rescued one!-Yes, thou shalt be my guest,
And we will pray beneath my sycamore

PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.

'Together, morn and eve; and I will spread
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last-
After the visiting of holy thoughts

With dewy wing shall sink upon thine eyes
Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!
[They go into the cabin together.-HERRMANN,

483

lingering for

a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies

Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds
Now look'st on us, thy children! make this hour
Blessed for ever! May it see the birth

Of thine own image in the unfathom'd deep
Of an immortal soul;-a thing to name
With reverential thought, a solemn world!
To Thee more precious than those thousand stars
Burning on high in thy majestic Heaven!

PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.

"The land shall never rue,

So England to herself do prove but true."
Shakspeare.

THROUGH evening's bright repose
A voice of prayer arose,
When the sea-fight was done :
The sons of England knelt,

With hearts that now could melt,

For on the wave her battle had been won.

Round their tall ship, the main

Heaved with a dark red stain,

Caught not from sunset's cloud;

While with the tide swept past

Pennon and shiver'd mast,

Which to the Ocean Queen that day had bow'd.

But free and fair on high

A native of the sky,

Her streamer met the breeze;

It flow'd o'er fearless men,

Though hush'd and child-like then,

Before their God they gather'd on the seas.

Oh! did not thoughts of home

O'er each bold spirit come

As, from the land, sweet gales?

In every word of prayer

Had not some hearth a share,

Some bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales ?

Yes! bright green spots that lay

In beauty far away,

Hearing no billows roar;
Safer from touch of spoil,

For that day's fiery toil,

Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'd o'es
A solemn scene and dread!
The victors and the dead,

The breathless burning sky!
And, passing with the race
Of waves that keep no trace,
The wild, brief signs of human victory!
A stern, yet holy scene!

Billows, where strife hath been,
Sinking to awful sleep;

And words, that breathe the sense
Of God's omnipotence,

Making a minster of that silent deep.

Borne through such hours afar,
Thy flag hath been a star,

Where eagle's wing ne'er flew ;-
England! the unprofaned,

Thou of the hearths unstain'd,

Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!

EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.

FATHER of heaven and earth!

I bless thee for the night,
The soft, still night!

The holy pause of care and mirth,
Of sound and light!

Now, far in glade and dell,
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,

Have shut around the sleeping woodlarks's nest-
The bee's long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o'erwearied one,
O'erwearied, and o'erwrought,

Bless thee, O God! O father of the oppress'd.
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!

Yes, e'er I sink to rest,

By the fire's dying light,

Thou Lord of earth and heaven!

I bless thee, who hast given

Unto life's fainting travellers, the night,
The soft still, holy night!

THE DAY OF FLOWERS.

A MOTHER'S WALK WITH HER CHILD.
"One spirit-His

Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows,

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THE DAY OF FLOWERS.

Rules universal nature.-Not a flower

But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires

Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar.

Happy who walks with him!"--Cowper.

COME to the woods, my boy!
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,
My happy child! The spirit of bright hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents
From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods,
Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy

Float in with each soft current of the air;
And we will hear their summons; we will give
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,
And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth,
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart
The vernal extasy of childhood back:

Come to the woods, my boy!

What! wouldst thou lead already to the path
Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth
Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child,
Is a glad singing stream, heard or unheard,
Singing its melody of happiness

Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace
To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life
It fills the shadowy dingle !-now the wing

Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide

Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light
From burnish'd films! And mark yon silvery line
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung

Across the narrow current, from the tuft
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough!
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves,
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,
Yet breaking not-a bridge for fairy shapes,

How delicate, how wondrous!

Yes, my boy!

Well may we make the stream's bright winding veir
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,

For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not,

Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st

Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,

As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less

His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,

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