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And meek and humble was his speech;

He knew the white man's hand
Was turned against those wasted tribes,

Long scourged from the land.
He prayed but for a simple draught

Of water from the well,
And a poor morsel of the food

That from his table fell.

He said that his old frame had toiled

A wide and weary way, O'er the sunny lakes and savage hills,

And through the lakes that day. Yet when he saw they scoffed his words,

He turned away in wo, And cursed them not, but only mourned

That they should shame him so.

When many years had flown away,

That herdsman of the hill
Went out into the wilderness

The wolf and bear to kill-
To scatter the red deer, and slay

The panther in his lair,
And chase the rapid moose that ranged

The sunless forests there.

And soon his hounds lay dead with toil,

The deer were fierce and fleet, And the prairie tigers kept aloof

Where they heard his hostile feet.
No bread was in that desert place,

Nor crystal rivulet
To slake the torment of his thirst,

Or his hot brow to wet.

He feared-he feared to die-yet knew That nought

on earth could save; For none might catch his parting breath

And lay him in his grave.
But lo! while life's dim taper still

Burned feebly in his breast,
A ministering angel came-

His hated Indian guest !

He shared his wheaten loaf with him,

His cup of water shared,
And bore the sick man unto those

For whom his heart most cared.

"I cursed you not,” the Indian said,

“When thou wast stern to me,
And I have had my vengeance now;

White man ! farewell to thee!
-M'LELLAN.

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TU-WH00! Tu-whoo !—In my ancient hall,

In my old gray turret high,
Where the ivy waves o'er the crumbling wall,
A king—a king reign I!

Tu-whoo !
I wake the woods with my startling call

To the frighted passer-by.
The gadding vines in the chinks that grow,

Come clambering up to me;
And the newt, the bat, and the toad, I trow
A right merry band are we. .

Tu-whoo !
Oh, the coffined monks in their cells below

Have no goodlier company!

Let them joy in their brilliant sun-lit skies,

And their sunset hues, who may;
But how softer far than the tints they prize
Is the dim of the twilight gray!

Tu-whoo !
Oh, a weary thing to an owlet's eyes

Is the garish blaze of day!
When the sweet dew sleeps in the midnight cool,

Some tall tree-top I win;
And the toad leaps up on her throne-shaped stool,
And our revels loud begin-

Tu-whoo !
While the bull-frog croaks o'er his stagnant pool,

Or plunges sportive in.

As the last lone ray from the hamlet fades

In the dark and still profound,
The night-bird sings in the cloister shades,
And the glow-worm lights the ground-

Tu-whoo !
And fairies trip o'er the broad green glades,

To the fire-flies circling round.
Tu-whoo! Tu-whoo!-All the livelong night

A right gladsome life lead we;
While the starry ones from their jewelled height
Bend down approvingly.

Tu-whoo !
They may bask who will in the noonday light,

But the midnight dark for me!
-MRS HEWITT.

LIGHT.

FROM the quickened womb of the primal gloom

The sun rolled black and bare,
Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast

Of the threads of my golden hair;
And when the broad tent of the firmament

Arose on its airy spars,
I pencilled the hue of its matchless blue,

And spangled it round with stars.
I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers,

And their leaves of living green;
And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes

Of Eden's virgin queen.

And when the fiend's art on her trustful heart

Had fastened its mortal spell,
In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear

To the trembling earth I fell.

When the waves that burst o'er a world accursed

Their work of wrath had sped,
And the ark's lone few, the tried and true,

Came forth among the dead,
With the wondrous gleams of my braided beams

I bade their terrors cease,
As I wrote on the roll of the storm's dark scroll

God's covenant of peace.

Like a pall at rest on a pulseless breast,

Night's funeral shadow slept,
Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains

Their lonely vigils kept;
When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright

Of Heaven's redeeming plan,
As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born,

Joy, joy to the outcast Man!

Equal favour I show to the lofty and low,

On the just and unjust I descend;
E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tears,

Feel my smile the blest smile of a friend.
Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced,

As the rose in the garden of kings;
At the chrysalis bier of the worm

I

appear, And lo! the gay butterfly's wings!

The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn,

Conceals all the pride of her charms,
Till I bid the bright Hours chase the Night from her bowers,

And lead the young Day to her arms;
And when the gay rover seeks Eve for his lover,

And sinks to her balmy repose,
I
wrap

their soft rest, by the zephyr-famed west, In curtains of amber and rose.

From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep,

I gaze with unslumbering eye,
When the cynosure star of the mariner

Is blotted from the sky;
And guided by me through the merciless sea,

Though sped by the hurricane's wing,
His compassless bark, lone, weltering, dark,

To the haven-home safely he brings.

I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers,

The birds in their chambers of green,
And mountain and plain glow with beauty again,

As they bask in my matinal sheen.
Oh, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth,

Though fitful and fleeting the while,
What glories must rest on the home of the blest,

Ever bright with the DEITY's smile!
-W. P. PALMER.

INDIAN NAMES.

“How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, rivers and lakes, are designated by their names ?”

YE say they all have passed away,

That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanishëd

From off the crested wave;
That’mid the forest where they roamed

There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your watersm

Ye may not wash it out.
Yes, where Ontario's billow

Like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake

The echo of the world;
Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps

On green Virginia's breast.
Ye say their cone-like cabins,

That clustered o'er the vale,
Have disappeared as withered leaves

Before the autumn gale;
But their memory liveth on your hills,

Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak

Their dialect of yore.
Old Massachusets wears it

Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown,
Connecticut hath wreathed it

Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse

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