Thanksgiving to the Lord of life!-to Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set His hand maid free; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for the poor is laid! Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm Uplift the loud thanksgiving-pour forth the grateful psalm; Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old, When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told. And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong, The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour: But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad, And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad, For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save! FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 1756. AROUND Sebago's lonely lake The solemn pines along its shore, The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, Dazzling and white! save where the bleak, Yet green are Saco's banks below, The earth hath felt the breath of spring, Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, And odors from the springing grass, Her tokens of renewing care But in their hour of bitterness, The turf's red stain is yet undried— And silent now the hunters stand, Fire and the axe have swept it bare, With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, They heave the stubborn trunk aside, And there the fallen chief is laid, The silver cross he loved is pressed "Tis done: the roots are backward sent, When of that sleeper's broken race Their green and pleasant dwelling-place Which knew them once, retains no trace; O! long may sunset's light be shed There shall his fitting requiem be, To their wild wail the waves which break A solemn under-tone shall make! And who shall deem the spot unblest, Deem ye that mother loveth less As sweet o'er them her wild flowers blow, What though the places of their rest What though the bigot's ban be there, Yet Heaven hath angels watching round There ceases man's frail judgment; all O, peeled, and hunted, and reviled, And Nature's God, to whom alone Who from its many cumberings Not with our partial eye shall scan- ST. JOHN. 1647. "To the winds give our banner! Cried the Lord of Acadia, Cried Charles of Estienne; O'er the blue western waters On the heretic sail, As the songs of the Huguenot |