Quiet and calm, without a fear
Of danger darkly lurking near,
The weary laborer left his plough
The milk-maid carol'd by her cow
From cottage door and household hearth
Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.
At length the murmur died away,
And silence on that village lay -
So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,
Ere the quick earthquake swallow'd all,
Undreaming of the fiery fate

-

Which made its dwellings desolate !

Hours pass'd away. By moonlight sped
The Merrimack along his bed.
Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood

Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,
Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,
As the hush'd grouping of a dream.
Yet on the still air crept a sound-
No bark of fox- nor rabbit's bound-
Nor stir of wings -nor waters flowing
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.

Was that the tread of many feet,
Which downward from the hill-side beat?
What forms were those which darkly stood
Just on the margin of the wood?
Charr'd tree-stumps in the moonlight dim,
Or paling rude, or leafless limb?

No

through the trees fierce eye-balls glow'd,
Dark human forms in moonshine show'd,
Wild from their native wilderness,
With painted limbs and battle-dress!

A yell, the dead might wake to hear,
Swell'd on the night air, far and clear
Then smote the Indian tomahawk
On crashing door and shattering lock-
Then rang the rifle-shot and then
The shrill death-scream of stricken men

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Sank the red axe in woman's brain,
And childhood's cry arose in vain ·
Bursting through roof and window came,
Red, fast and fierce, the kindled flame;
And blended fire and moonlight glared
On still dead men and weapons bared.

The morning sun looked brightly through
The river willows, wet with dew.

-nor

No sound of combat fill'd the air, -
No shout was heard, nor gun-shot there:
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke
From smouldering ruins slowly broke;
And on the green sward many a stain,
And, here and there, the mangled slain,
Told how that midnight bolt had sped,
Pentucket, on thy fated head!

Even now, the villager can tell
Where Rolfe beside his hearth-stone fell,
Still show the door of wasting oak
Through which the fatal death-shot broke,
And point the curious stranger where
De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare —
Whose hideous head, in death still fear'd,
Bore not a trace of hair or beard-
And still, within the churchyard ground,
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
Whose grass-grown surface overlies
The victims of that sacrifice.

THE FAMILIST'S HYMN.

[The "Pilgrims" of New England, even in their wilderness home, were not exempted from the sectarian contentions which agitated the mother country after the downfall of Charles the First, and of the established Episcopacy. The Quakers, Baptists, and Catholics were banished, on pain of death, from the Massachusetts Colony. One Samuel Gorton, a bold and eloquent declaimer, after preaching for a time in Boston, against the doctrines of the Puritans, and declaring that their churches were mere human devices, and their sacrament and baptism an abomination, was driven out of the State's jurisdiction, and compelled to seek a residence among the savages. He gathered round him a considerable number of converts, who, like the primitive Christians, shared all things in common. His opinions, however, were so troublesome to the leading clergy of the Colony, that they instigated an attack upon his "Family" by an armed force, which seized upon the principal men in it, and brought them into Massachusetts, where they were sentenced to be kept at hard labor in several towns (one only in each town), during the pleasure of the General Court, they being forbidden, under severe penalties, to utter any of their religious sentiments, except to such ministers as might labor for their conversion. They were unquestionably sincere in their opinions, and, whatever may have been their errors, deserve to be ranked among those who have in all ages suffered for the freedom of conscience.]

FATHER! to thy suffering poor

Strength and grace and faith impart,

And with Thy own love restore

Comfort to the broken heart!

Oh, the failing ones confirm

With a holier strength of zeal !
Give Thou not the feeble worm
Helpless to the spoiler's heel!

Father for Thy holy sake

We are spoiled and hunted thus ;
Joyful, for Thy truth we take

Bonds and burthens unto us :

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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 tide-
Still, 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!