Upon that loved companion, and the groups
That wept around.-Full well the dying knew
The value of those holy charities

Which purge the dross of selfishness away;
And deep he felt that woman's trusting heart,
Rent from the cherished prop, which, next to Christ,
Had been her stay in all adversities,

Would take the balm-cup best from that dear hand
Which woke the sources of maternal love,-

That smile, whose winning paid for sleepless nights
Of cradle-care,-that voice, whose murmured tone,
Her own had moulded to the words of prayer.
How soothing to a widowed mother's breast
Her first-born's sympathy!

Be strong, young man!--
Lift the protector's arm,-the healer's prayer,-
Be tender in thy every word and deed.

A Spirit watcheth thee!-Yes, he who passed
From shaded earth up to the full-orbed day,
Will be thy witness, in the court of heaven,
How thou dost bear his mantle.

So farewell,

Leader in Israel!-Thou whose radiant path
Was like the angel's standing in the sun,*
Undazzled and unswerving, it was meet
That thou should'st rise to light without a cloud.

The Indian's Tale.-J. G. WHITTIER.

It was generally believed by the first settlers of New England, that a mortal pestilence had, a short time previous to their arrival, in a great measure depopulated some of the finest portions of the country on the seaboard. The Indians themselves corroborated this opinion, and gave the English a ter rific description of the ravages of the unseen Destroyer.

THE war-god did not wake to strife
The strong men of our forest-land;
No red hand grasped the battle-knife
At Areouski's high command :—
We held no war-dance by the dim
And red light of the creeping flame;

*Revelation, xix. 17.

Nor warrior-yell, nor battle hymn,
Upon the midnight breezes came.

There was no portent in the sky,
No shadow on the round bright sun;
With light, and mirth, and melody,
The long, fair summer days came on.
We were a happy people then,

Rejoicing in our hunter-mood;
No foot-prints of the pale-faced men
Had marred our forest-solitude.

The land was ours-this glorious land—
With all its wealth of wood and streams-
Our warriors strong of heart and hand-
Our daughters beautiful as dreams
When wearied, at the thirsty noon,

We knelt us where the spring gushed up,
To taste our Father's blessed boon-
Unlike the white man's poison cup.

There came unto my father's hut

A wan, weak creature of distress; The red man's door is never shut

Against the lone and shelterless;
And when he knelt before his feet,
My father led the stranger in;
He gave him of his hunter-meat-
Alas! it was a deadly sin!

The strangers voice was not like ours-
His face at first was sadly pale,
Anon 'twas like the yellow flowers,
Which tremble in the meadow gale.
And when he him laid down to die,
And murmured of his father-land,
My mother wiped his tearful eye,
My father held his burning hand!

He died at last-the funeral yell
Rang upward from his burial sod,
And the old Powwah knelt to tell
The tidings to the white man's God!
The next day came--my father's brow
Grew heavy with a fearful pain;

He did not take his hunting-bow-
He never sought the woods again!

He died even as the white man died--
My mother, she was smitten too-
My sisters vanished from my side,

Like diamonds from the sun-lit dew.
And then we heard the Powwahs say,
That God had sent his angel forth,
To sweep our ancient tribes away,
And poison and unpeople earth.

And it was so-from day to day

The spirit of the plague went on,
And those at morning blithe and gay,
Were dying at the set of sun.-
They died our free, bold hunters died-
The living might not give them graves→→
Save when, along the water-side,

They cast them to the hurrying waves.

The carrion-crow, the ravenous beast,
Turned loathing from the ghastly dead;--
Well might they shun the funeral feast
By that destroying angel spread!
One after one, the red men fell;

Our gallant war-tribe passed away—
And I alone am left to tell

The story of its swift decay.

Alone-alone-a withered leaf-
Yet clinging to its naked bough;
The pale race scorn the aged chief,
And I will join my fathers now.
The spirits of my people bend

At midnight from the solemn west,
To me their kindly arms extend-
They call me to their home of rest!

Setting Sail. PERCIVAL.

He went amid these glorious things of earth, Transient as glorious, and along the beach