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Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent,
Or cloistered nun at twilight bent,
Than I, before a human shrine,

As mortal and as frail as mine,

With heart, and soul, and mind, and form,
Knelt madly to a fellow-worm.

"Full soon, upon that dream of sin,
An awful light came bursting in.

The shrine was cold at which I knelt,
The idol of that shrine was gone;

A humbled thing of shame was I and guilt,
Outcast, and spurned, and lone.

There came a voice-it checked the tear-
In heart and soul it wrought a change;

My father's voice was in my ear;
It whispered of revenge!

"A youthful warrior of the wild,
By words deceived, by smiles beguiled,
Upon our fatal errand went.

Through camp, and town, and wilderness
He tracked his victim; and at last,
Just when the tide of hate had passed,
And milder thoughts came warm and fast,
Exulting, at my feet he cast

The bloody token of success.

"O God! with what an awful power

I saw the buried past uprise

And gather, in a single hour,

Its ghost-like memories!

And then I felt alas! too late

That underneath the mask of hate

That shame, and guilt, and wrong had thrown

O'er feelings which they might not own.

And oh, with what a loathing eye,

With what a deadly hate and deep,

I saw that Indian murderer lie
Before me in his drunken sleep!
And when he murmured, as he slept,
The horrors of that deed of blood,
The tide of utter madness swept
O'er brain and bosom, like a flood.
And, father, with this hand of mine—”
"Ha! what didst thou?" the Jesuit cries,
Shuddering, as smitten with sudden pain,
And shading with one thin hand his eyes,
With the other he makes the holy sign-
"I smote him as I would a worm-
With heart as steeled, with nerves as firm.
He never woke again!

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"Woman of sin and blood and shame, Speak-I would know that victim's name."

"Father," she gasped, "a chieftain known As Saco's Sachem-Mogg Megone!"

Pale priest! What proud and lofty dreams,
What keen desires, what cherished schemes,
What hopes that time may not recall,
Are darkened by that chieftain's fall!
Was he not pledged, by cross and vow,
To lift the hatchet of his sire,

And, round his own, the church's foe,
To light the avenging fire?

Three backward steps the Jesuit takes
His long, thin frame as ague shakes;
Hate--fearful hate-is in his eye,
As from his lips these words of fear
Fall hoarsely on the maiden's ear:
"The soul that sinneth shall surely die!'

“Save me, O holy man!
"' her cry
Fills all the void, as if a tongue,

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Unseen, from rib and rafter hung,
Thrilling with mortal agony;

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Her hands are clasping the Jesuit's knee,
And her eye looks fearfully into his own.
Off, woman of sin-nay, touch not me
With those fingers of blood.
Begone!"
With a gesture of horror, he spurns the form
That writhes at his feet like a trodden worm.

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'Tis spring-time on the Eastern hills!
Like torrents gush the summer rills.
A band is marching through the wood
Where rolls the Kennebec his flood,-
The warriors of the wilderness,
Painted, and in their battle-dress.
Hark! from the foremost of the band
A sudden yell bursts o'er the land.

Blessed Mary! who is she
Leaning against that maple-tree?
The sun upon her face burns hot,
But the fixed eyelid moveth not.

A priest hath bent him over the sleeper:

"Wake, daughter, wake!"-but she stirs no limb.

The eye that looks on him is fixed and dim;

And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper,

Until the angel's oath is said,

And the final blast of the trump goes forth

To the graves of the sea and the graves of earth.
Ruth Bonython is dead!

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A PRETTY girl, a crowded car,

"Please take my seat!" and there you are.

A crowded car, a woman plain,

She stands, and there you are again.

THE DEATH OF UNCLE TOM.

THE

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

'HE hunt for the runaway slaves was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccessful; and, weary and dispirited, Simon Legree drew rein at his house and alighted.

"Now, Quimbo," he said, as he stretched himself down in the sitting-room, "you jest go and walk that Tom up here, right away! The old cuss is at the bottom of this yer whole matter; and I'll have it out of his old black hide, or I'll know the reason why.

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Sambo and Quimbo, though hating each other, were both joined in one mind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Quimbo, therefore, departed with a will to execute his master's orders.

Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart; for he knew all the plan of the fugitives' escape, and the place of their present concealment; he knew the deadly character of the man he had to deal with, and his despotic power, but he felt strong in God to meet death rather than betray the helpless. He set his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, "Into thy hands I commend my spirit! Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth!" and then quietly yielded himself to the rough, brutal grasp with which Quimbo seized him.

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"Ay, ay!" said Quimbo, as he dragged him along, "ye'll cotch it, now! I'll boun' mas'r's back's up high! No sneaking out, now! Tell ye ye'll get it, and no mistake! See how ye'll look, now, helpin' mas'r's niggers to run away! See what ye'll get!

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None of these savage words reached Tom's ear! A higher voice was saying, "Fear not them that kill the body, and, after that, have no more that they can do." Nerve and bone of that poor man's body vibrated to those words, as if touched by the finger of God, and he felt the strength of

a thousand souls in one. As he passed along, the trees and the bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene of his degradation, seemed to whirl by him as the landscape by the rushing car.

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"Well, Tom!" said Legree, walking up and seizing him grimly by the collar, and speaking through his teeth, 'd'ye know I've made up my mind to kill ye ?”

"It's very likely, mas'r," said Tom, calmly.

"I have," said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, "done-just-that-thing, Tom, unless ye'll tell me what ye know about these yer gals!"

Tom stood silent.

"D'ye hear," said Legree, stamping, with a roar like that of an incensed lion.

"Speak!

"I han't got nothing to tell, mas'r," said Tom, with a slow, firm, deliberate utterance.

"D'ye dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don't know?" said Legree.

Tom was silent.

"Speak!" thundered Legree, striking him furiously. "D'ye know anything?

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I know, mas'r; but I can't tell anything. I can die ! Legree drew a long breath, but suppressing his rage, he took Tom by the arm, and approaching his face almost to his, said, in a terrible voice:

"Hark 'e, Tom! ye think 'cause I've let ye off before, I don't mean what I say; but, this time, I've made up my mind, and counted the cost. Now, I'll conquer ye or kill ye! -one or t' other. I'll count every drop of blood there is in ye, and take 'em, one by one, till ye give up!

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Tom looked up to his master, and answered, "Mas'r, if you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save you, I'd give you my heart's blood; and if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, I'd give 'em freely, as the Lord gave His for me. Oh, mas'r! don't bring this great sin on your soul! It will hurt you more than 'twill me! Do the worst you can, my

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