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What forms were those which darkly stood
Just on the margin of the wood ?-
Charrid tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,
Or paling rude, or leafless limb ?
No-through the trees fierce eye-balls glowd,
Dark human forms in moonshine show'd,
Wild from their native wilderness,
With painted limbs and battle-dress !
A yell, the dead might wake to hear,
Swelld on the night air, far and clear-
Then smote the Indian tomahawk
On crashing door and shattering lock-

rang the rifle-shot-and then
The shrill death-scream of stricken men-
Sank the red axe in woman's brain,
And childhood's cry arose in vain-
Bursting through roof and window came,
Red, fast and fierce, the kindled flame;
And blended fire and moonlight glared
On still dead men and weapons bared.
The morning sun looked brightly through
The river willows, wet with dew.
No sound of combat fill'd the air,
No shout was heard,—nor gunshot there :
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke
From smouldering ruins slowly broke;
And on the greensward many a stain,
And, here and there, the mangled slain,
Told how that midnight bolt had sped,

on thy fated head !
Even now, the villager can tell
Where Rólfe beside his hearthstone fell,
Still show the door of wasting oak,
Through which the fatal death-shot broke,
And point the curious stranger where
De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare


Whose hideous head, in death still feard,
Bore not a trace of hair or beard-
And still, within the churchyard ground,
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
Whose grass-grown surface overlies
The victims of that sacrifice.


Father! to thy suffering poor

Strength and grace and faith impart,
And with thy own love restore

Comfort to the broken heart !
Oh, the failing ones confirm

With a holier strength of zeal !
Give Thou not the feeble worm

Helpless to the spoiler's heel !
Father! for thy holy sake

We are spoiled and hunted thus ;
Joyful, for thy truth we take

Bonds and burthens unto us :
Poor, and weak, and robbed of all,

Weary with our daily task,
That thy truth may never fall

Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.

Round our fired and wasted homes

Flits the forest-bird unscared,
And at noon the wild beast comes

Where our frugal meal was shared ;
For the song of praises there

Shricks the crow the livelong day,
For the sound of evening prayer

Howls the evil beast of prey !

Sweet the songs we loved to sing

Underneath thy holy skyWords and tones that used to bring

Tears of joy in every eye, Dear the wrestling hours of prayer,

When we gathered knee to knee, Blameless youth and hoary hair,

Bow'd, O God, alone to thee. As thine early children, Lord,

Shared their wealth and daily bread, Even so, with one accord,

We, in love, each other fed. Not with us the miser's hoard,

Not with us his grasping hand; Equal round a common board,

Drew our meek and brother band !

Safe our quiet Eden lay

When the war-whoop stirred the land, And the Indian turn'd away

From our home his bloody hand. Well that forest-ranger saw,

That the burthen and the curse
Of the white man's cruel law

Rested also upon us.
Torn apart, and driven forth

To our toiling hard and long,
Father ! from the dust of earth

Lift we still our grateful song!
Grateful—that in bonds we share

In thy love which maketh free,
Joyful that the wrongs we bear,

Draw us nearer, Lord, to thee!

Grateful !--that where'er we toil

By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle,



Or by wild Neponset's tideStill, in spirit, we are near,

And our evening hymns which rise Separate and discordant here,

Meet and mingle in the skies!

Let the scoffer scorn and mock,

Let the proud and evil priest Rob the needy of his flock,

For his wine-cup and his feast,Redden not thy bolts in store

Through the blackness of thy skies ? For the sighing of the poor

Wilt Thou not, at length, arise ? Worn and wasted, oh, how long

Shall thy trodden poor complain? In thy name they bear the wrong,

In thy cause the bonds of pain i Melt oppression's heart of steel

, Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel,

That in us they mock at Thee! In thy time, O Lord of hosts,

Stretch abroad that hand to save Which of old, on Egypt's coasts,

Smote apart the Red Sea's wave! Lead us from this evil land,

From the spoiler set us free, And once more our gather'd band,

Heart to heart, shall worship Thee !


TRAVELLER! on thy journey toiling

By the swift Powow,

With the summer sunshine falling

On thy heated brow, Listen, while all else is still To the brooklet from the hill.

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing

By that streamlet's side,
and a greener verdure showing

Where its waters glide-
Down the hill-slope murmuring on,
Over root and mossy stone.

Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth

O'er the sloping hill, Beautiful and freshly springeth

That soft-flowing rill,
Through its dark roots wreath'd and bare,
Gushing up to sun and air.
Brighter waters sparkled never

In that magic well,
Of whose gift of life forever

Ancient legends tell,-
In the lonely desert wasted,
And by mortal lip untasted.

Waters which the proud Castilian 31

Sought with longing eyes,
Underneath the bright pavilion

Of the Indian skies;
Where his forest pathway lay
Through the blooms of Florida.
Years ago a lonely stranger,

With the dusky brow
Of the outcast forest-ranger,

Crossed the swift Powow;
And betook him to the rill,
And the oak upon the hill.

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