Cover'd my bosom from the chill night air.
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love,
Until he turn'd him from his father's gods,
And then my soul fell from him-then the grass
Grew in the way between our parted homes,
And wheresoc'er I wander'd, then it seem'd
That all the woods were silent.-I went forth-
I journey'd, with my lonely heart, afar,
And so return'd-and where was he?-the earth
Own'd him no more.
Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then,
Hast turn'd thee from the idols of thy tribe,
And, like thy brother, bow'd the suppliant knee
To the one God.

Enonio. With my white father's words, yet all the more 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 din shadowy things

Yes, I have learn'd to pray

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.-"T is 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 colour 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,

I but speak

Of that which hath been, and again must be,
If thou wouldst 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-couldst thou bear
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say,
"My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful!
That we may meet again."
Enonio, (hesitating.)
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.

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

Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!

[They go into the cabin together-HERR-
MANN, 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!

COME to the woods, my boy! Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth, My happy child! The spirit of bright hours Wooes 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 ecstasy 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 take the stream's bright winding
vein

Our woodland guide, for He who made the strewn
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,
For ever deepening. O, forget him not,
Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,

As 't were a breeze within thee, is not less

His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and riossy tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step,
My merry wanderer! let us rest awhile
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast,
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not
E'en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved
Their music, still accordant with each mood
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still
Beneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fount
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which bless'd
The river Deities or fountain Nymphs
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade,
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme,
The all-sustaining, ever-present God,
Who dower'd the soul with immortality,
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth
Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet
Each wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him,
Each bird-note, quivering 'midst light summer
leaves,

And every rich celestial tint unnamed,
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and

eve

Kindle and melt away!

And now, in love,
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers
Around the ruin'd mansion. Thou, my boy,
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought-
No colouring from the past. This way our path
Winds through the hazels;-mark how brightly
shoots

The dragon-fly along the sunbeam's line,
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life,
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings.
Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, O thing
Of all the brightest and the happiest here,
My blessed child! my gift of God! that mak'st
My heart o'erflow with summer!

Hast thou twined Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not, Though here the bluc-bell wave, and gorgeously Round the brown twisted roots of yon scathed oak

leave

The copsc, and through yon broken avenue,
Shadow'd by drooping walnut foliage, reach
The ruin's glade.

And, lo! before us, fair,
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day,

It stands, that house of silence! wedded now
To verdant nature by the o'ermantling growth
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands
Once loved to train. How the rich wall-flower

scent

From every niche and mossy cornice floats,
Embalming its decay! the bee alone

Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine,
Watching some homeward footstep. See! un-
bound

From the old fretted stone-work, what thick

wreaths

Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load

The air with mournful fragrance, for it speaks
Of life gone hence; and the faint southern breath
Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch,
Startles the soul with sweetness! yet rich knots
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy,
Undimm'd by human change. How kindly here
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent!
And, under arches of wild eglantine,
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems
The frail gumcistus o'er the turf to snow
Its pearly flower-leaves down!-Go, happy boy!
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets,
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone,
Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned,
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around
Their many-tinged mosaic, 'midst dark grass,
Bedded like jewels.

He hath bounded on,
Wild with delight!-The crimson on his cheek
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies
In this deep-hearted rose-cup!-Bright moss-rose!
Though not so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree!
Once thou wert cherish'd! and, by human love,
Through many a summer duly visited

For thy bloom-offerings, which, o'er festal board,
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch
Of long secluded sickness, may have shed
A joy, now lost.

Yet shall there still be joy,

Where God hath pour'd forth beauty, and the voice
Of human love shall still be heard in pralse
Over his glorious gifts!-O Father, Lord!
The All-Beneficent! I bless thy name,

That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers,

Linking our hearts to nature! By the love
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled.

Iler minster cells; dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low religious whisperings

The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain
streams,

That sing of Thee! back to free childhood's heart
Fresh with the dews of tenderness!-Thou bidd's
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss :-The old man's eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory, to be girt with power,
And fill'd with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gav'st us flowers!

Return, my boy,

With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd
And glorified the ruin! glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dew-drops, ere we reach
Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet
prayer

At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his Heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O'er one rich day of flowers!

HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN.

IN THE OLDEN TIME.

Joy! the lost one is restored!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board,
From the far-off countries old
Of the diamond and red gold:
From the dusky archer bands,
Roamers of the fiery sands;
From the desert winds, whose breath
Smites with sudden silent death;
He hath reach'd his home again,
Where we sing

In thy praise a fervent strain,
God our King!

Mightiest! unto Thee he turn'd,
When the noon-day fiercest burn'd;
When the fountain springs were far,
And the sounds of Arab war

Swell'd upon the sultry blast,
And the sandy columns past,
Unto Thee he cried! and Thou,
Merciful! didst hear his vow!
Therefore unto Thee again

Joy shall sing,
Many a sweet and thankful strain,
God our King!

Thou wert with him on the main,
And the snowy mountain-chain,
And the rivers, dark and wide,
Which through Indian forests glide,
Thou didst guard him from the wrath
Of the lion in his path,

And the arrows on the breeze,
And the dropping poison-trees;
Therefore from our household train
Oit shall spring

Unto Thee a blessing strain,
God our King!

Thou to his lone watching wife
Hast brought back the light of life!
Thou hast spared his loving child
Home to greet him from the wild.
Though the sons of eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch'd the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown,
He is living and our own!-
Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle and his sword
With the armour on the wall,
While this long, long silent hall
Joyfully doth hear again

Voice and string
Swell to Thee the exulting strain,
God our King!

A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.

BLESSINGS, O Father, shower! Father of mercies! round his precious head! On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, And the pure visions of his midnight bed, Blessings be shed!

Father! I pray Thee not

For earthly treasure to that most beloved,

Fame, fortune, power;-oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will!
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,
With its dove-pinion still!

Let such a sense of Thee,

Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,
His bosom guest inalienably be,

That wheresoe'er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien

Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest
With our own evening hymn?

Eugene.

Not now, deas Love, My soul is wakeful-lingering to look forth, Not on the sun, but thee?-Doth the light sleep On the stream tenderly?—and are the stems So richly changed? and is the sweet-brier scent Of our own clm trees, by its alchemy, Floating around ?-But I have said farewell, Farewell to earth, Teresa!--not to thee; Nor yet to our deep love, nor yet awhile Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows Back on my soul in mastery.-One last work! And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts, Clinging affections, and undying hopes, All, all in that memorial!

Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunninghain