O, the loveliest of heavens
Hung tenderly o'er him,
There were waves in the sunshine,
And green isles before him:
But a pale hand was beckoning
The Huguenot on;
And in blackness and ashes
Behind was St. John!
How sweetly on the wood-girt town
The mellow light of sunset shone !
Each small, bright lake, whose waters
still
Mirror the forest and the hill,
Reflected from its waveless breast
The beauty of a cloudless west,
Glorious as if a glimpse were given
Within the western gates of heaven,
Left, by the spirit of the star
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!
Beside the river's tranquil flood
The dark and low-walled dwellings
stood,
Where many a rood of open land Stretched up and down on either hand, With corn-leaves waving freshly green The thick and blackened stumps between.
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,
The wild, untravelled forest spread,
Back to those mountains, white and
cold,
Of which the Indian trapper told,
Upon whose summits never yet
Was mortal foot in safety set.
Quiet and calm, without a fear
Of danger darkly lurking near,
The weary laborer left his plough,
The milkmaid carolled by her cow, -
From cottage door and household hearth
Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.
At length the murmur died away,
And silence on that village lay, -
So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,
Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all,
Undreaming of the fiery fate
Which made its dwellings desolate !
Hours passed away. By moonlight sped
The Merrimack along his bed.
Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood
Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,
Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,
As the hushed grouping of a dream.
Yet on the still air crept a sound,
No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound,
Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing,
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blow-
ing.
Was that the tread of many feet,
Which downward from the hillside beat?
What forms were those which darkly
stood
Just on the margin of the wood? — Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,
Or paling rude, or leafless limb? No, through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed
Dark human forms in moonshine showed,
Wild from their native wilderness,
With painted limbs and battle-dress!
A yell the dead might wake to hear
Swelled on the night air, far and clear,-
Then smote the Indian tomahawk
On crashing door and shattering lock,-
Then rang the rifle-shot, and then
The shrill death-scream of stricken
men,-
Sank the red axe in woman's brain, And childhood's cry arose in vain, Bursting through roof and window
Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame; And blended fire and moonlight glared On still dead men and weapons bared.
The morning sun looked brightly through
The river willows, wet with dew.
No sound of combat filled the air,
No shout was heard, -nor gunshot
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke From smouldering ruins slowly broke; And on the greensward many a stain, And, here and there, the mangled slain, Told how that midnight bolt had sped, Pentucket, on thy fated head!
Even now the villager can tell
Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell,
Still show the door of wasting oak,
Through which the fatal death - shot
broke,
And point the curious stranger where
De Rouville'scorse lay grim and bare,-
Whose hideous head, in death still
feared,
Bore not a trace of hair or beard,
And still, within the churchyard ground,
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
Whose grass-grown surface overlies
The victims of that sacrifice.
FATHER! to thy suffering poor
Strength and grace and faith impart,
And with thy own love restore
Comfort to the broken heart!
O the failing ones confirm
With a holier strength of zeal! —
Give thou not the feeble worm
Helpless to the spoiler's heel!
Father for thy holy sake
We are spoiled and hunted thus; Joyful, for thy truth we take
Bonds and burthens unto us:
Poor, and weak, and robbed of all,
Weary with our daily task,
That thy truth may never fall
Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.
Round our fired and wasted homes
Flits the forest-bird unscared,
And at noon the wild beast comes
Where our frugal meal was shared;
For the song of praises there
Shrieks the crow the livelong day; For the sound of evening prayer Howls the evil beast of prey!
Sweet the songs we loved to sing
Underneath thy holy sky,-
Words and tones that used to bring
Tears of joy in every eye, -
Dear the wrestling hours of prayer,
When we gathered knee to knee,
Blameless youth and hoary hair,
Bowed, O God, alone to thee.
In thy time, O Lord of hosts,
Stretch aload that hand to save Which of tel, on Fizypt's coasts,
Smore apart the Red Sea's wave! Lead us from this moi land,
From the sponier set us free, And once more our gathered band. Heart to heart, shail worship thee 1
TRAJRLERR! on the journey toiling
By the swift Permoen,
With the summer sunshine falling
On thy heaped brow,
Lister, who bela mise is still,
For the booklet from the hill.
Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing
By that streamiet & wide,
And a greener verdure showing
Where its waters gide,
Doven the bill slope murmuring on,
Over toont and mossy stone
Where yon oak his broad arms fingeth
Over the slopaáng lum,
Bexanfal and freshny springeth
That soft-Rowing fly
Through its dark roots wreathed and
Gushing up to son and air.
Brighter waters sparkled nevaj
In that magic wally
Of whoan gift of life foreUKT
Aucient legends fall.
In the lemey desert wurstad,
And by mottar up unfasted
Watare which the prond Castilian
Sought
Underneath the bright pavin
Of the Indian does,
Where his forest pathway lay
Through the brooms of korida.
Years ago a lonely stranger,
With the d... key bene
Of the outcast forest taŭgPT,
Crowser the set Promo.
And barcode hith to the fol
And the oak upon the hul
O'er his face of mondy sadnese
For an instant shone
Something like a gumam of gladness,
As he stooped him down
To the fountain's grassy side,
And his eager thirst sup pick.
With the oak its shadow throwing
O'er his moway seat,
And the cool, sweet waters flowing
Softly at his feet,
Closely by the fountain's vim
That lone Indian sexled him.
Antumn's earliest frost had given
To the woods beleng
Hues of beauty, such as heaven
Lendeth to its here;
And the soft breeze from the west
Scarcely broke the dreamy rest.
¦ Far behind was firean striving
With his chains of sand,
Southward, sunny glimpses giving,
"Twixt the sweus of handl.
Of its calm and silvery track,
Rolled the tranquil Merrimack,
Over village, wood, and me adere
Gazed that stranger men.
Sadly, til the fœinght shadow
(ver all things ran,
Sove where spre and mastœard pane
Flashed the sunset back agam.
Gazing thus upon the dwelling
Of his warrior sures,
Where no kogering frate was telling Of their wigwam fires.
Who the gloomy thoughts might know
Of that wandering chud of wor
Naked lay, in sunshine glowing,
if us that once had stood
Drow their sides the shadows throw ng
Of a mighty wood,
Where the dent bus ciment kapt,
And the eagle's prinom swepe
Where the birch cance had ghded
Down the swift Prextex,
Dark and gloomy n dues strided
Those CAT RYBYS 16299,
And where seen the begyny vocxth,
Jarred the whee; and frowned the dam
|