The wind comes rushing swift by me,
Pouring its coolness on my brow;
Such was I once, as proudly free,
And yet, alas! how altered now!
Yet, while I gaze upon yon plain,
These mountains, this eternal sky,
The scenes of boyhood come again,
And pass before the vacant eye,

Still wearing something of their ancient brilliancy.

Yet why complain? --for what is wrong,
False friends, cold-heartedness, deceit,

And life already made too long,

To one who walks with bleeding feet Over its paths?—it will but make

Death sweeter when it comes at last, And though the trampled heart may ache, Its agony of pain is past,

And calmness gathers there, while life is ebbing fast.

Perhaps, when I have passed away,
Like the sad echo of a dream,

There may be some one found to say
A word that might like sorrow seem.
That I would have,-one saddened tear,
One kindly and regretting thought,-
Grant me but that! and even here,

Here, in this lone, unpeopled spot,

To breathe away this life of pain, I murmur not.

Albert Pike.

Sacramento, the River, Cal.

RIO SACRAMENTO.

ACRAMENTO! Sacramento,

SACRAM

Down the rough Nevada foaming,
Fain my heart would join thy water
In its glad, impetuous roaming,

For thy valley's fairest daughter
Watches oft to see thee coming!

Sacramento! Sacramento!

From the shining threads that wove thee, From the mountain woods that darken All the mountain heaven above thee, Teach her ear thy song to hearken, And, for what it says, to love thee!

Sacramento! Sacramento!

Lead me downward to the glory
Of thy green and flowery meadows;
I will leave the deserts hoary,
For thy grove of quiet shadows
And my love's impassioned story.

Sacramento! Sacramento!

Every dancing rainbow broken When thy falling waves are shattered, Is a glad and beckoning token

ST. GEORGE AND ST. PAUL, THE ISLANDS. 185

Of the hopes so warmly scattered
And the vows that we have spoken!

Sacramento! Sacramento!

She, beside thee, waits my coming;
Teach my step thy bounding fleetness,
Towards the bower of beauty roaming,
Where she stands, in maiden sweetness,
Gazing idly on thy foaming!

Bayard Taylor.

St. George and St. Paul, the Islands. Alaska.

CHRISTMAS CHIMES IN DISTANT ISLES.

A CHIME of nine bells, and another of six, cast in Boston, have been hung in the belfries of the little Greek churches on the isles of St. Paul and St. George, situated in the Behring Sea, not far from the straits, off Alaska.

BRO

ROAD paddles uplifting, the spray from the Behring Baptized all the bells under lee of the isle ; Their Boston inscription glad Russians were spelling, As the vessel that bore them dipped colors the while.

The Arctic sun setting, for happy leave-taking,

With red hand anointed each slumbering tongue, Till, sweeter than song-birds at early morn waking,

The first chime of bells in that distant clime rung!

And lo! the sea-eagle, broad pinions just poising,
From Mount St. Elias far inland to sweep,
Drooped wings in amaze, and his proud neck upraising,
With wonder-lit eyeballs gazed far o'er the deep.

O'er Yukan's calm waters their light baider guiding,
Koloschians heard chime from Isle of St. Paul;
And each to next rower, in deep awe confiding,

Low whispered: "I hear the great Spirit's footfall ! ”

Their oars drip apeak, and they wait for strange vision; Aurora her magical banners unrolls;

As statue sits helmsman, while borne from far mission, The silvery music enraptures all souls!

And leader of dog-sledge, his furry ears raising,

As flies the long yourt over deep-crusted snow, Hears echoed carillon the Son of God praising, And pauses, unmindful of whip's cruel blow!

His hood of rich sable the voyageur loosens;

Like sword-hilt that slippeth from paralyzed hand, The lash leaves his grasp, while he eagerly listens, His keen glances roving o'er sea and o'er land.

E'en St. Michael's sentry, the melody hearing,
Feels tears from his eyelids like summer rain fall;
The scenes of his childhood forever endearing,
Those echoes delicious that moment recall!

A New England homestead before him is dawning; He sees the red cottage in flowery dell;

The group at the doorway one still summer morning, And dear mother waving her sailor farewell!

His pent-up emotion no longer restraining,

The musket clangs earthward, and cheer upon cheer
The garrison startles; all rush to the paling,
And soft, dying echoes now charm every ear!

With white wine and biscuit the fishermen hardy
A feast held, to honor the bells of each isle ;
"To salvation's Rossignol never be tardy,"

Said priest, draining goblet with rapturous smile.

Ring on, thou sweet Angelus! the old story telling!
For precious souls herald a glad second birth;
Salvation's hand holding, so patient and willing,
The chain whose bright links shall encircle the earth!
George Bancroft Griffith.

A

St. Louis, Mo.

UP THE RIVER-SIDE.

SABBATH hush pervades the summer day,
As seated here beside the shining sands,
I gaze on once again the arid lands,

That weed-besprinkled westward stretch away;
The waves that wash the beach about me lay
Smooth mirrors in their track, and vast expands
The stream's majestic breast, to where up-stands