For the wood-bird's merry singing,

And the hunter's cheer, Iron clang and hammer's ringing Smote upon his ear;

And the thick and sullen smoke From the blackened forges broke.

Could it be his fathers ever

Loved to linger here? These bare hills, this conquered river,Could they hold them dear, With their native loveliness Tamed and tortured into this?

Sadly, as the shades of even
Gathered o'er the hill,
While the western half of heaven
Blushed with sunset still,
From the fountain's mossy seat
Turned the Indian's weary feet.

Year on year hath flown forever,

But he came no more
To the hillside or the river
Where he came before.
But the villager can tell

Of that strange man's visit well.

And the merry children, laden
With their fruits or flowers, -
Roving boy and laughing maiden,
In their school-day hours,
Love the simple tale to tell
Of the Indian and his well.

THE EXILES.

1660.

THE goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,

With his young wife singing at his side
An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air;
The dark green woods were still;
And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud
Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud
Above the wilderness,

As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed, And all was still again,

Save a low murmur in the air

Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
A weary stranger came,
And stood before the farmer's door,
With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope
Was in his quiet glance,

49

And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed

His tranquil countenance.

A look, like that his Master wore
In Pilate's council-hall:
It told of wrongs,

but of a love Meekly forgiving all.

"Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?"

The stranger meekly said; And, leaning on his oaken staff,

The goodman's features read.

"My life is hunted, - evil men

Are following in my track;
The traces of the torturer's whip
Are on my aged back.

"And much, I fear, 't will peril thee
Within thy doors to take
A hunted seeker of the Truth,
Oppressed for conscience' sake."

O, kindly spoke the goodman's wife,
"Come in, old man!" quoth she,~
"We will not leave thee to the storm,
Whoever thou mayst be."

Then came the aged wanderer in,
And silent sat him down ;
While all within grew dark as night
Beneath the storm-cloud's frown.

But while the sudden lightning's blaz
Filled every cottage nook,
And with the jarring thunder-roll
The loosened casements shook,

A heavy tramp of horses' feet
Came sounding up the lane,
And half a score of horse, or more
Came plunging through the rai