And the dark maids of Sego their mats had spread,
And sung all night by the stranger’s bed;
And his sleep was sweet on that desert sand,
For his visions were far in his own loved land.

He was weary and faint in a stranger clime,
But his soul was at home as in youth's sweet time;
And he lay in the shade, by his cot's clear pool,
And the breeze which came by was refreshing and cool;

And the look of his mother was gentle and sweet,
And he heard the loved steps of his sister's light feet;
And their voices were soft, and expressive, and low,
Like the distant rain, or the brook’s calm flow.

And this was the song which the dark maids sung,
In the beautiful strains of their own wild tongue:—
“The stranger came far, and sat under our tree;
We will bring him sweet food, for no sister has he.”

And the stranger went forth when the night-breeze had died.
And launched his light bark on the Joliba's tide;
And he waved his white kerchief to those dark maids,
As he silently entered the palmy shades.

And the maidens of Sego were sad and lone,
And sung their rude song, like the death spirit's moan:—
“The stranger has gone where the simoom will burn:
Alas! for the white man will never return!”

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THE hanter went forth with his dog and gun,
In the earliest glow of the golden sun;
The trees of the forest bent over his way,
In the changeful colors of autumn gay;
For a frost had fallen, the night before,
On the quiet greenness which nature wore:-

A bitter frost!—for the night was chill,
And starry and dark, and the wind was still;

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And so, when the sun looked out on the hills,
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills,
The unvaried green of the landscape fled,
And a wild, rich robe was given instead.

We know not whither the hunter went,
Or how the last of his days was spent;
For the noon drew nigh; but he came not back,
Weary and faint, from his forest-track;
And his wife sat down to her frugal board,
Beside the empty seat of her lord.

And the day passed on, and the sun came down
To the hills of the west like an angel’s crown;
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill,
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill,
Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled
All over the west like a wave of gold.

Yet he came not back—though the stars gave forth
Their wizard light to the silent earth;
And his wife looked out from the lattice dim
In the earnest manner of fear for him;
And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood
To welcome his father back from the wood'

He came not back—yet they found him soon
In the burning light of the morrow's noon,
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death,
Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath;
And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet,
Crouched silent and sad at the hunter's feet.

He slept in death;-but his sleep was one
Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon:
For his brow was black, and his open eye
Was red with the sign of agony;-
And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim,
That an evil deed had been done on him.

They buried him where his fathers laid,

B #. mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade;

%. whispers of doubt passed over the dead,

And beldames muttered while prayers were said;

And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed
The damp earth down on the hunter's breast.

The seasons passed; and the autumn rain
And the colored forest returned again:
'Twas the very eve that the hunter died;
The winds wailed over the bare hill-side,
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook
Their red leaves over the swollen brook.

There came a sound on the night-air then,
Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men,
And louder and shriller it rose again,
Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain;
And trembled alike the timid and brave,
For they knew that it came from the hunter’s grave:

And, every year, when autumn flings
Its beautiful robe on created things,
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain,
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again,
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth,
Like the howl of a demon struggling forth.

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They heard a Voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither.” Rev. xi. 12.-MRs. SIGourn Ey.

“YE have a land of mist and shade,
Where spectres roam at will;
Dense clouds your mountain heights invade,
And damps your valleys chill;-
But ne'er may midnight care, or wo,
Eclipse our changeless ray;
“Come hither,’ if ye seek to know
The bliss of perfect day.

“Doubt, like the Bohan-Upas, spreads
A blight where’er ye tread;

And Hope, a pensive mourner, sheds
The tear o'er harvests dead:

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With us, no traitorous foe assails,
When Love her home would make;

An angel's welcome never fails;
Come,” and that warmth partake.

“Time revels 'mid your dearest joys,
Death smites your brightest rose,
And Sin your bower of peace destroys;
Where will ye find repose 2
Ye're wearied in your pilgrim race,
Sharp thorns your path infest;
* Come hither,’ rise to our embrace,
And Christ shall give you rest.”

'Twas thus, at twilight's hallowed hour.
The angels' lay came down,
Like dews upon the sick’ning flower,
When droughts of summer frown:
How sweet, upon the ambient air,
Swelled out their music freel
0, when the pangs of death I bear,
Sing ye that song to me.

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O THou, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,

Whom kings adored in song sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongues-

Not now, on Zion's height alone,
Thy favored worshipper may dwell,

Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.

From every place below the skies,
The grateful song, the servent prayer–

The incense of the heart—may rise
To Heaven, and find acceptance there.

In this Thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,

To Thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.

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To Thee shall Age, with snowy hair,
And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee,

And Childhood lisp, with reverent air,
Its praises and its prayers to Thee.

O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of prophet bards was strung,

To Thee, at last, in every clime,
Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.

The Sleeper.—CoMMERCIAL Advertis ER.

It was the spring-time in its earliest hour:
Few blossoms then had of the year been born;
The fresh winds whispered to the unfolding flower,
Where nestled dews of the unsullied morn:
Songs like to Eden's sweetened all the air,
And birds and brooks their hymns together blent;
Those in the heavens and these on earth were fair:
These midst the flowers, those in their incense went.

My little cousin had been roaming then,
At early dawn, along the upland side;
O'er dewy slope, green lawn, and shaded glen,
Standing by sister blossoms, side by side;
And, wearied with the pleasant tour, returned,
Upon her couch the sinless wanderer lay;
And sleep had won her, with sweet visions, earned
By radiant scenes upon that early day.

Her fair cheek pressed her pillow; in her hair,
Her darkly golden hair, some buds reposed;
And silken lashes, o'er her blue eyes fair,
In a faint glimpse the hue beneath disclosed:
A pure white rose was in her fairy hand;
And, gazing on her with a tearful eye,
“Dear one,” I said, “on youth's enchanted land,
Be ever thus, beneath a cloudless sky,
Till, a pure flower of heaven, thou art removed on high.

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