Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,

"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness,

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a

casement.

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the

sorrow,

All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!"

FROM "THE GOLDEN LEGEND."

The Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend, was originally written in Latin in the thirteenth century by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican friar. It was translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean de Vigney, and into English in the fifteenth by William Caxton. I have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which it is founded seems to me to surpass all other legends in beauty and significance. It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice, and the power of Faith, Hope, and Charity. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century.-Note by the Author.

THE SCRIPTORIUM OF THE CONVENT.

(Friar Pacificus transcribing and illuminating.)

Friar Pacificus. It is growing dark! Yet one line more, And then my work for to-day is o'er.

I come again to the name of the Lord!
Ere I that awful name record,

That is spoken so lightly among men,
Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen;
Pure from blemish and blot must it be,
When it writes that word of mystery!

Thus have I laboured on and on,
Nearly through the Gospel of John.
Can it be that from the lips

Of this same gentle Evangelist,

That Christ himself perhaps has kissed,
Came the dread Apocalypse!

It has a very awful look,

As it stands there at the end of the book,

Like the sun in an eclipse.

Ah me! when I think of that vision divine,
Think of writing it, line by line,

I stand in awe of the terrible curse,

Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse,
God forgive me! if ever I

Take aught from the book of that Prophecy,
Lest my part too should be taken away
From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day.

This is well written, though I say it!

I should not be afraid to display it,
In open day on the selfsame shelf
With the writings of St. Thecla herself,
Or of Theodosius, who of old
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold!
That goodly folio standing yonder,
Without a single blot or blunder,

Would not bear away the palm from mine
If we should compare them line for line.

There, now, is an initial letter!

King René himself never made a better !
Finished down to the leaf and the snail,
Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail!
And now, as I turn the volume over,
And see what lies between cover and cover,
What treasures of art these pages hold,
All ablaze with crimson and gold,
God forgive me! I seem to feel
A certain satisfaction steal

Into my heart, and into my brain,
As if my talent had not lain
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain.
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord,
Here is a copy of thy Word,

Written out with much toil and pain;

Take it, O Lord, and let it be

As something I have done for thee!

FROM "THE SONG OF HIAWATHA."

This Indian Edda-if I may so call it—is founded on a tradition prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of miraculous birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, and fishinggrounds, and to teach them the arts of peace. He was known among different tribes by the several names of Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha.

other curious Indian legends.

...

Into this old tradition I have woven The scene of the poem is among the

Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand Sable.-Note by the Author.

TO THE READER.

YE who love the haunts of Nature,

Love the sunshine of the meadow,

Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,
And the rushing of great rivers

Through their palisades of pine-trees,

And the thunder in the mountains,

Whose innumerable echoes

Flap like eagles in their eyries :--
Listen to these wild traditions,

To this Song of Hiawatha !

Ye who love a nation's legends,