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THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER.

It was a hundred years ago,

When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.

Beneath the hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,

And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.

She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,

And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.

White were her feet, her forehead showed

A spot of silvery white,

That seemed to glimmer like a star

In autumn's hazy night.

And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropt the sprouting leaves,

And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.

But when the broad midsummer moon

Rose o'er the grassy lawn, Beside the silver-footed deer

There grazed a spotted fawn.

The cottage dame forbade her son

To aim the rifle here;

"It were a sin," she said, "to harm Or fright that friendly deer.

"This spot has been my pleasant home Ten peaceful years and more ;

And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.

"The red men say that here she walked

A thousand moons ago;

They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.

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I love to watch her as she feeds,

And think that all is well

While such a gentle creature haunts

The place in which we dwell."

The youth obeyed, and sought for game

In forests far away,

Where, deep in silence and in moss,

The ancient woodland lay.

But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,

Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.

The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light ;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.

He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.

Away into the neighboring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.

Next evening shone the waxing moon

As sweetly as before;

The deer upon the grassy mead

Was seen again no more.

But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,

And slew the youth and dame.

Now woods have overgrown the mead,

And hid the cliffs from sight;

There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon
And prowis the fox at night.

23-L & B-EE

THE WANING MOON.

I'VE watched too late; the morn is near;
One look at God's broad silent sky!
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
How in your very strength ye die!

Even while your glow is on the cheek,
And scarce the high pursuit begun,
The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak,
The task of life is left undone.

See where upon the horizon's brim,
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars;
The waning moon, all pale and dim,
Goes up amid the eternal stars.

Late, in a flood of tender light,

She floated through the ethereal blue,

A softer sun, that shone all night
Upon the gathering beads of dew.

And still thou wanest, pallid moon!

The encroaching shadow grows apace;

Heaven's everlasting watchers soon

Shall see thee blotted from thy place.

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