On the funeral hemlock-trees Many a scalp the totem sees.

"Blood for blood! But evermore Squando's heart is sad and sore; And his poor squaw waits at home For the feet that never come !

"Waldron of Cocheco, hear!
Squando speaks, who laughs at fear;
Take the captives he has ta'en;
Let the land have peace again!"

As the words died on his tongue,
Wide apart his warriors swung;
Parted, at the sign he gave,
Right and left, like Egypt's wave.

And, like Israel passing free
Through the prophet-charmed sea,
Captive mother, wife, and child
Through the dusky terror filed.

One alone, a little maid,
Middleway her steps delayed,
Glancing, with quick, troubled sight,
Round about from red to white.

Then his hand the Indian laid
On the little maiden's head,
Lightly from her forehead fair
Smoothing back her yellow hair.

"Gift or favor ask I none;
What I have is all my own:
Never yet the birds have sung,
'Squando hath a beggar's tongue.'

"Yet for her who waits at home,
For the dead who cannot come,
Let the little Gold-hair be
In the place of Menewee!

"Mishanock, my little star!
Come to Saco's pines afar;
Where the sad one waits at home,
Wequashim, my moonlight, come!"

"What!" quoth Waldron, "leave a child

Christian-born to heathens wild?
As God lives, from Satan's hand
I will pluck her as a brand!"

“Chip!' went squirrel on the wall,
After me I heard him call,
And the cat-bird on the tree
Tried his best to mimic me.

"Where the hemlocks grew so dark
That I stopped to look and hark,
On a log, with feather-hat,
By the path, an Indian sat.

"Then I cried, and ran away;
But he called, and bade me stay;
And his voice was good and mild
As my mother's to her child.

"And he took my wampum chain,

cried;

"Let the little one decide.

Gave me berries, and, beside, On my neck a plaything tied."

Straight the mother stooped to see
What the Indian's gift might be.
On the braid of wampum hung,
Lo a cross of silver swung.

Well she knew its graven sign,
Squando's bird and totem pine;
And, a mirage of the brain,
Flowed her childhood back again.

Flashed the roof the sunshine through,
Into space the walls outgrew;
On the Indian's wigwam-mat,
Blossom-crowned, again she sat.

Cool she felt the west-wind blow,
In her ear the pines sang low,
And, like links from out a chain,
Dropped the years of care and pain.

From the outward toil and din,
From the griefs that gnaw within,
To the freedom of the woods

Called the birds, and winds, and floods.

Well, O painful minister!
Watch thy flock, but blame not her,
If her ear grew sharp to hear
All their voices whispering near.

Blame her not, as to her soul
All the desert's glamour stole,
That a tear for childhood's loss
Dropped upon the Indian's cross.

When, that night, the Book was read,
And she bowed her widowed head,
And a prayer for each loved name
Rose like incense from a flame,

To the listening ear of Heaven,
Lo! another name was given :
"Father, give the Indian rest!
Bless him for his love has blest!"

MY PLAYMATE.

THE pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
Their song was soft and low;
The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year.

233

"And I sought, whence is Evil: I set before the eye of my spirit the whole creation; whatsoever we see therein, - sea, earth, air, stars, trees, moral creatures, yea, whatsoever there is we do not see, - angels and spiritual powers. Where is evil, and whence comes it, since God the Good hath created all things? Why made He anything at all of evil, and not rather by His Almightiness cause it not to be? These thoughts I turned in my miserable heart, overcharged with most gnawing cares." And, admonished to return to myself, I entered even into my inmost soul, Thou being my guide, and beheld even beyond my soul and mind the Light unchangeable. He who knows the Truth knows what that Light is, and he that knows it knows Eternity! Truth, who art Eternity! Love, who art Truth! Eternity, who art Love! And I beheld that Thou madest all things good, and to Thee is nothing whatsoever evil. From the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last, Thou settest each in its place, and everything is good in its kind. Woe is me! - how high art Thou in the highest, how deep in the deepest! and Thou never departest from us and we scarcely return to Thee." -Augustine's Soliloquies, Book VII.

THE fourteen centuries fall away

Between us and the Afric saint, And at his side we urge, to-day, The immemorial quest and old complaint.

No outward sign to us is given,

From sea or earth comes no reply; Hushed as the warm Numidian heaven He vainly questioned bends our frozen sky.

No victory comes of all our strife,

From all we grasp the meaning slips; The Sphinx sits at the gate of life, With the old question on her awful lips.

In paths unknown we hear the feet Of fear before, and guilt behind; We pluck the wayside fruit, and eat Ashes and dust beneath its golden rind.

From age to age descends unchecked The sad bequest of sire to son, The body's taint, the mind's defect, Through every web of life the dark threads run.

O, why and whither? - God knows all;

I only know that he is good, And that whatever may befall Or here or there, must be the best that could.

Between the dreadful cherubim

A Father's face I still discern, As Moses looked of old on him, And saw his glory into goodness turn!

For he is merciful as just;

And so, by faith correcting sight, I bow before his will, and trust Howe'er they seem he doeth all things right.

And dare to hope that he will make

The rugged smooth, the doubtful
plain;

His mercy never quite forsake;
His healing visit every realm of pain ;

That suffering is not his revenge

Upon his creatures weak and frail, Sent on a pathway new and strange With feet that wander and with eyes that fail;

That, o'er the crucible of pain,

Watches the tender eye of Love The slow transmuting of the chain Whose links are iron below to gold above!

Our weakness is the strength of sin,

But love must needs be stronger far,
Outreaching all and gathering in
The erring spirit and the wandering star.

A Voice grows with the growing years;
Earth, hushing down her bitter cry,
Looks upward from her graves, and
hears,

"The Resurrection and the Life am I."

O Love Divine !-whose constant beam

Shines on the eyes that will not see, And waits to bless us, while we dream Thou leavest us because we turn from thee!

All souls that struggle and aspire,

All hearts of prayer by thee are lit; And, dim or clear, thy tongues of fire On dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit.

Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st,

Wide as our need thy favors fall; The white wings of the Holy Ghost Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all.

O Beauty, old yet ever new! 67

Eternal Voice, and Inward Word,

235

The Logos of the Greek and Jew, The old sphere-music which the Samian heard!

Truth which the sage and prophet

saw,

Long sought without, but found within,

The Law of Love beyond all law, The Life o'erflooding mortal death and sin !

Shine on us with the light which glowed

Upon the trance-bound shepherd's

way,

Who saw the Darkness overflowed And drowned by tides of everlasting Day.c8

Shine, light of God! - make broad thy scope

To all who sin and suffer; more And better than we dare to hope With Heaven's compassion make our longings poor!

THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS.

TRITEMIUS OF HERBIPOLIS, one day, While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray,

Alone with God, as was his pious choice,
Heard from without a miserable voice,
A sound which seemed of all sad things
to tell,

As of a lost soul crying out of hell.

Thereat the Abbot paused; the chain whereby

His And, looking from the casement, saw below

thoughts went upward broken by that cry;

A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow, And withered hands held up to him, who cried

For alms as one who might not be denied.

She cried, "For the dear love of Him who gave

His life for ours, my child from bondage

"O man

Our mild sweet day

her bold,

"Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold.

Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice;

Even while I speak perchance my firstborn dies."

sped,

But tenderly Above the sea

Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's

Along the street

The shadows meet Destiny, whose hands conceal

The moulds of fate

That shape the State,