Yon spire is but the branchless pine "O hush and hark! What sounds are these But chants and holy hymns?" "Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees Through all their leafy limbs." "Is it a chapel bell that fills The air with its low tone? "Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills, The insect's vesper drone." "The Christ be praised!-He sets for me A blessed cross in sight! 66 'Now, nay, 't is but yon blasted tree With two gaunt arms outright ! "Be it wind so sad or tree so stark, "My life is sped; I shall not see "Yet onward still to ear and eye "So, haply, it shall be thy part My dead hand plucked away. "Leave me an hour of rest; go thou The honghman climbed the poorest hill But, through the drear woods, lone and | And Norembega proved again still, A shadow and a dream, He found the Norman's nameless grave Within the hemlock's shade, And, stretching wide its arms to save, The sign that God had made, The cross-boughed tree that marked the spot And made it holy ground: NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON. NAUHAUGHT, the Indian deacon, who of old Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds "These woods, perchance, no secret And the relentless smiting of the waves, hide Of lordly tower and hall; Yon river in its wanderings wide Has washed no city wall; "Yet mirrored in the sullen stream The holy stars are given: Is Norembega, then, a dream "No builded wonder of these lands "Urbs Syon mystica'; I see Its mansions passing fair, 'Condita cælo'; let me be, Dear Lord, a dweller there!" Above the dying exile hung The henchman dug at dawn a grave Years after, when the Sieur Champlain Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream NAUHAUGHT, THE DEACON. 349 Send me," he prayed, "the angel of my | Torment him like a Mohawk's captive dream! stuck Yea, thou, God, seest me !" The pain of hunger, and walked bravely back To the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea; And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily asked: "Who hath lost aught to-day?" "I," said a voice; "Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse, My daughter's handiwork." He looked, and lo! One stood before him in a coat of frieze, And the glazed hat of a seafaring man, Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered, with no trace of wings. Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger's hand' The silken web, and turned to go his way. But the man said: "A tithe at least is yours; Take it in God's name as an honest man." And as the deacon's dusky fingers closed Over the golden gift, "Yea, in God's He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. "I'm sorry that I spelt the word: the brown eyes lower fell, "Because, you see, I love you!" Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing! He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her, because they love him. GARIBALDI. IN trance and dream of old, God's prophet saw The casting down of thrones. Thou, watching lone The hot Sardinian coast-line, hazy. hilled, MY TRIUMPH. Where, fringing round Caprera's rocky zone AFTER ELECTION. 351 THE day's sharp strife is ended now, Slow, doubtful, faint, they seem at first: That signal from Nebraska sprung, calls From Wagner's grave and Sumter's walls? From Mississippi's fountain-head The praise, O God, be thine alone! O night of peace, thy flight restrain! MY TRIUMPH. THE autumn-time has come; The aster-flower is failing, The hazel's gold is paling; |