PENTUCKET.

Sunk 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
Over dead corse and weapons bared.

The morning sun look'd brightly through
The river-willows, wet with dew.
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!

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.

155

ODE TO THE MOON.

BY ROBERT M. BIRD.

O MELANCHOLY Moon,

Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away
Far in the dusky west, to vanish soon
Under the hills that catch thy waning ray,
Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres,
The friend of grief, and confidant of tears.

Mine earliest friend wert thou;

My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under

The locust tree, and, through the checker'd bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder

At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be

The nearest star to roam the heavens with thee.

Youth grew; but as it came,

And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole

To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the name That was the early music of my soul,

And seem'd upon thy pictured disk to trace

Remember'd features of a radiant face.

And manhood, though it bring

A winter to my bosom, cannot turn

Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring
My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern
Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill—
The boyish yearning to be with thee still.

ODE TO THE MOON.

Would it were so; for earth

Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail;

157

And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to mirth, Turn to a moody melody of wail,

And through her stony throngs I go alone,
Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone.

Would it were so; for still

Thou art my only counsellor, with whom
Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill,
Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom
Of solitude, which is so sad and sore,
Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core.

A boyish thought, and weak :

I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,

And in the land of palms, and on the peak
Of her wild hills, still turn my eyes to thee;
And then perhaps lie down in solemn rest,
With nought but thy pale beams upon my breast.

Let it be so indeed!

Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone;
And let me perish where no heart shall bleed,

And nought, save passing winds, shall make my moan, No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine,

And watching o'er me, no pale face but thine.

14

MORNING HYMN.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

“LET THERE BE LIGHT!" The Eternal spoke, And from the abyss where darkness rode The earliest dawn of nature broke,

And light around creation flowed.

The glad earth smiled to see the day,
The first-born day, come blushing in ;
The young day smiled to shed its ray
Upon a world untouch'd by sin.

"Let there be light!" O'er heaven and earth, The God who first the day-beam pour'd,

Utter'd again his fiat forth,

And shed the gospel's light abroad.
And, like the dawn, its cheering rays
On rich and poor were meant to fall,
Inspiring their Redeemer's praise,
In lowly cot and lordly hall.

Then come, when in the orient first

Flushes the signal light for prayer;

Come with the earliest beams that burst

From God's bright throne of glory there.
Come kneel to Him, who through the night
Hath watch'd above thy sleeping soul,
To Him whose mercies, like his light,
Are shed abroad from pole to pole.

DEATH AND LIFE.

BY LUCY HOOPER.

NOT unto thee, O pale and radiant Death! Not unto thee, though every hope be past, Though Life's first, sweetest stars may shine no more, Nor earth again one cherish'd dream restore,

Or from the bright urn of the future cast

Aught, aught of joy on me.

Yet unto thee, O monarch robed and crown'd,
And beautiful in all thy sad array,

I bring no incense, though the heart be chill,
And to the eyes, that tears alone may fill,

Shines not as once the wonted light of day,

Still upon another shrine my vows
Shall all be duly paid, and though thy voice
Is full of music to the pining heart,

And woos one to that pillow of calm rest,
Where all Life's dull and restless thoughts depart,
Still, not to thee, O Death!

I pay my vows, though now to me thy brow
Seems crown'd with roses of the summer prime,
And to the aching sense thy voice would be,
O Death! O Death! of softest melody,
And gentle ministries alone were thine,

Still I implore thee not.