And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said,-
"I listened for the words, which years ago
Passed o'er these waters: though the voice is fled
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow;
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

"Ask'st thou of Him, whose house is lone beneath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride,

When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since then,— Many, but bringing nought like Him again!

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying their cedars like the corn-stalks low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls as with the morning's wings.

"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,

I and my brethren that from earth are gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone! He told of One, the grave's dark bands who broke, And our hearts burned within us as he spoke!

"He told of far and sunny lands which lie Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell.

Bright must they be ! for there are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say, 'Farewell!'
He came to guide us thither, but away

The happy called him, and he might not stay.

"We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance,
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime;
Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time:
Therefore we hoped-but now the lake looks dim,
For the green summer comes-and finds not Him.

"We gather'd round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice at first the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swelled, and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue,
And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head
Fell back, and mists upon his forehead hung-
Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead?

It is enough!-he sank upon my breast,—
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

"We buried him where he was wont to pray,

By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We reared this Cross in token where he lay,

For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave!

"But I am sad-I mourn the clear light taken Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast."

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye:
"Son of the Wilderness! despair thou not,
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,
And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot:

Heaven darkly works,-yet where the seed hath been,
There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

་་

'Hope on, hope ever!-by the sudden springing Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,

After cold, silent months, the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains,
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains;

"Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,

But as a lovely song, to leave no trace!

Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,
And the full day-spring rise upon thy race!

And fading mists the better paths disclose,
And the wide desert blossom as the rose."

So by the Cross they parted, in the wild,
Each fraught with musings for life's after-day,
Memories to visit one, the Forest's Child,

By many a blue stream on its lonely way;
And upon one, midst busy throngs to press
Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

TEARS AND SIGHS.

BY RICHARD RYAN.

My tears have been my meat day and night."

'MID tears I hail the golden sun,

PSALM xlii. 3.

And wish his fated course was run,
'Mid sighs I view that sun's decline,
And weep while silvery moonbeams shine,
Tho' young, I'm old, since all my years,
I've number'd by my sighs and tears.

Ask ye how many tears I've shed?
Go count the stars above my head :-
How many sighs I've number'd o'er?
Count ye the sands upon the shore.

Since hours, and days, and months, and years,
I've number'd by my sighs and tears.

When shall I quit this world of gloom,
And sink within the peaceful tomb?
Methinks I hear my Maker say,
"When all thy sins are wept away."

Then mournful let me pass my years,
Numb'ring each minute with my tears.