Poor, and weak, and robbed of all,
Weary with our daily task,
That Thy truth may never fall

Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.

Round our fired and wasted homes
Flits the forest-bird unscared,
And at noon the wild beast comes
Where our frugal meal was shared ;
For the song of praises there

Shrieks the crow the livelong day,
For the sound of evening prayer
Howls the evil beast of prey!

Sweet the songs we loved to sing
Underneath Thy holy sky-
Words and tones that used to bring
Tears of joy in every eye, —
Dear the wrestling hours of prayer,
When we gathered knee to knee,
Blameless youth and hoary hair,

Bow'd, O God, alone to Thee.

As Thine early children, Lord,
Shared their wealth and daily bread,

Even so, with one accord,

We, in love, each other fed.

Not with us the miser's hoard,

Not with us his grasping hand;

Equal round a common board,

Drew our meek and brother band!

Safe our quiet Eden lay

When the war-whoop stired the land,

And the Indian turn'd away

From our home his bloody hand.

Well that forest-ranger saw,

That the burthen and the curse

Of the white man's cruel law

Rested also upon us.

Torn apart, and driven forth

To our toiling hard and long, Father! from the dust of earth

Lift we still our grateful song! Grateful that in bonds we share In Thy love which maketh free; Joyful that the wrongs we bear, Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee!

-

Grateful!

that where'er we toil

By Wachuset's wooded side, On Nantucket's sea-worn isle,

Or by wild Neponset's tideStill, in spirit, we are near,

And our evening hymns which rise Separate and discordant here,

Meet and mingle in the skies!

Let the scoffer scorn and mock,

Let the proud and evil priest

Rob the needy of his flock,

For his wine-cup and his feast,

Redden not Thy bolts in store

Through the blackness of Thy skies?

For the sighing of the poor

Wilt Thou not, at length, arise?

Worn and wasted, oh, how long

Shall Thy trodden poor complain? In Thy name they bear the wrong, In Thy cause the bonds of pain! Melt oppression's heart of steel,

Let the haughty priesthood see, And their blinded followers feel, That in us they mock at Thee!

In Thy time, O Lord of hosts,

Stretch abroad that hand to save Which of old, on Egypt's coasts,

Smote apart the Red Sea's wave!

Lead us from this evil land,

From the spoiler set us free, And once more our gather'd band, Heart to heart, shall worship Thee!

THE FOUNTAIN.

[On the declivity of a hill, in Salisbury, Essex county, is a beautiful fountain of clear water, gushing out from the very roots of a majestic and venerable oak. It is about two miles from the junction of the Powow river with the Merrimack.]

TRAVELLER ! 'on thy journey toiling

By the swift Powow,

With the summer sunshine falling

On thy heated brow,

Listen, while all else is still

To the brooklet from the hill.

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing

By that streamlet's side,

And a greener verdure showing

Where its waters glide

Down the hill-slope murmuring on,

Over root and mossy stone.

Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth

O'er the sloping hill,

Beautiful and freshly springeth

That soft-flowing rill,

Through its dark roots wreath'd and bare,

Gushing up to sun and air.

Brighter waters sparkled never

In that magic well,

Of whose gift of life for ever
Ancient legends tell,-

In the lonely desert wasted,
And by mortal lip untasted.

Waters which the proud Castilian *
Sought with longing eyes,
Underneath the bright pavilion
Of the Indian skies ;

Where his forest pathway lay
Through the blooms of Florida.

Years ago a lonely stranger,
With the dusky brow
Of the outcast forest-ranger,
Crossed the swift Powow;
And betook him to the rill,
And the oak upon the hill.

O'er his face of moody sadness
For an instant shone

Something like, a gleam of gladness,

As he stooped him down
To the fountain's grassy side

And his eager thirst supplied.

With the oak its shadow throwing

O'er his mossy seat,

And the cool, sweet waters flowing
Softly at his feet,

Closely by the fountain's rim

That lone Indian seated him.

Autumn's earliest frost had given

To the woods below

Hues of beauty, such as Heaven

Lendeth to its bow;

And the soft breeze from the west
Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.

Far behind was Ocean striving
With his chains of sand;

Southward, sunny glimpses giving,

"Twixt the swells of land,

*De Soto, in the sixteenth century, penetrated into the wilds of the new world

in search of gold and the fountain of perpetual youth.