But the low wall's contracted bound The Ivy's amorous folds entwine, The Lilac, child of frolic May, There flings her fragrance to the breeze; And there, in loveliest tints array'd, Far in my garden's utmost bound The modest mansion rears its head, No "stores beneath its humble thatch," Within inscribed, above, around, 'Tis here, at morn or dewy eve, The world, its pomps and cares, I leave, Full many a tome's neglected weight, When noisy, rough, intestine broils, Or rude commotions, sore molest, And here I fly for peace and rest. Sweet! oh sweet, the evening hour, In which my soul delights to dwell. Miss Pyefinch was charmed with this production of my cousin's muse; the only thing that puzzled her was, whereabouts this nice little retreat could possibly be situated, as memory refused to supply her with any edifice about the grounds at all answering the description given. Sir Oliver indeed hazarded a suggestion, but the fair Sappho was highly scandalized at the bare insinuation, and most indignantly rejecting the solu tion offered, finally concluded that the whole was merely a flight of fancy, or, as she phrased it, poetic fiction." a The period was now rapidly approaching when it was thought advisable that I should be removed from Westminster to the University. I was turned of eighteen, tall and active, and furnished with a sufficient quantum of Greek and Latin to make my debût among those classic scenes, without any violent apprehension of a failure. Colonel Stafford had been some time in England; his constitution, originally not a strong one, had been much injured by the exertions, privations, and fatigues, necessarily attendant on a desultory and protracted series of campaigns; of late, too, the mode of warfare had begun to assume a more decided character, and the "marchings and counter-marchings" were now, as the plans of the great commander who directed the operations changed from the offensive to the defensive, interspersed with skirmishes and actions, dangerous in the extreme during their progress, though ever glorious in their results. Frequently exposed, from the nature of his official situation on the staff, to the hottest fire of the enemy, and urged by the innate gallantry of a disposition rather impetuous than prudent, into dangers which he might perhaps without discredit have avoided; still the "sweet little cherub that sits up aloft," seemed to watch over my father's safety with unwearied vigilance. Often was the weapon levelled by man, but Heaven averted the ball; and with a single exception, he came out of every conflict scathless and uninjured. It was not till after his return to England, whither he was at length despatched with the official accounts of the battle of ---, and his subsequent retirement into the bosom of his family, that the ravages made in his health, by his long continued subjection to the hardships of a military life, passed under the inauspicious combinations of an active enemy and an ungenial climate, were fully apparent. A wound, too, originally of a trivial nature, as his friends had been taught to believe, but which had never been entirely healed, now joined to occasion alarm to his friends, and to give a character to other symptoms which betokened a sure, though gradual decay. Mrs Stafford, for a while, shut her eyes, and remained obstinately blind to what was perfectly apparent to every one else, and fondly flattered herself that the increasing debility of her husband might be successfully combated by quiet, his native air, and the soothing attentions of conjugal affection. Her hopes were groundless; the hectic on his cheek became, it is true, more vivid, but it contrasted painfully with the sallow paleness of the rest of his countenance, while a short dry cough, and his attenuated form, evinced but too surely that his stamina were affected, if not reduced. The symptoms were but too prophetic; as spring (the third since his return) advanced, his inability to contend against disease became daily more evident, till early in the fatal month of May, a month so critical to invalids, my dear father resigned his upright and honourable spirit into the hands of Him who gave it. My poor mother was overwhelmed with the most profound grief by this melancholy event, the more so, as although of late the conviction had been forced upon her, that Colonel Stafford was in a rapidly declining state, still she had never contemplated the probability of so sudden a dissolution of those ties which formed the principal joy of her existence. It was done, however.Those ligaments of the soul which bound her to an adored and adoring husband, were at length severed; and till their reunion in a future world, I was the only object to which she was now to look for comfort and support. My father's death had been so sudden, that I had barely time to reach home, from Christ Church, of which I was now a member, in order to receive his blessing. He died like a Christian, calm, fearless, and resigned, with his latest breath commending my mother to my care. Years have since rolled on, but the moment is fresh as ever in my memory.-May I never forget it! THE INDIAN's revenge. But by my wrongs, and by my wrath, That fires yon Heaven with storms of death, Shall guide me to the foe! Indian Song in “Gertrude of Wyoming." SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.* Scene-The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods-A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees-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, The mighty melancholy of the woods! The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades Of what is solitude! In hours like this, There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths On the home-path;-while round his lowly porch, The clustered faces of his children shine To the clear harvest-moon. Be still, fond thoughts! By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God! Till all the hollow of these deep desires Hark! a step, Gliding so serpent-like. He comes forward and meets an Indian warrior armed. 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? 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, 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 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? And said-" Avenge me!"-In the clouds this morn, Herrmann. A better path, my son, My hand in peace can guide thee-ev'n the way Enonio. And so returned :—and where was he?-the earth Herrmann. But thou thyself since then Hast turned thee from the idols of thy tribe, To the one God. Enonio. Yes, I have learned to pray With my white father's words, yet all the more, Of the great forests, I have called aloud Herrmann. Oh! that human love 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 colour to the clouds of morn, The shadow to the moonlight-Stay, my son! In pity and in love. Enonio (hurriedly.) Did he not say My arrow should avenge him? Herrmann. His last words What! and shall the man Who pierced him, with the shaft of treachery, Herrmann. Was he not once Thy brother's friend?-Oh! trust me, not in joy Leave it with Him!-Yet make it not thy hope- Ere it can sleep again. Enonio. My father speaks Of change, for man too mighty. Herrmann. I but speak Of that which hath been, and again must be, If thou wouldst join thy brother, in the life He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named 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 Where evil may not enter, He, I deem, |