Not to the cedar shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the cross, can yield

The hope-the stay-the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lift him up to Thee!

Be thou, be thou his aid!
Oh! let thy soul pervade

The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!
There let the living stone

Be cleft-the seed be sown

The song of fountains from the silence brought!

So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore

Thine own first image-Holiest and most High!
As a clear lake is fill'd

With hues of Heaven, instill'd Down to the depths of its calm purity.

And if, amidst the throng

Link'd by the ascending song,

[soar;

There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture Thanks, Father! that the power

Of joy, man's early dower,

Thus, e'en midst tears, can fervently adore!

Thanks for each gift divine!

Eternal praise be thine,

Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer! Let the hymn pierce the sky,

And let the tombs reply!

For seed, that waits the harvest-time is there

EDITH;

A TALE OF THE WOODS.

THE Woods-oh! solemn are the boundless woods Of the great Western World, when day declines, And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, More deep the rustling of the ancient pines; When dimness gathers on the stilly air,

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, Awful it is for human heart to bear

The might and burden of the solitude! Yet, in that hour, 'midst those green wastes, there sate

One young and fair; and oh! how desolate ! But undismay'd; while sank the crimson light, And the high cedars darken'd with the night. Alone she sate: though many lay around, They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, Were sever'd from her need and from her woe,

Far as death severs Life. O'er that wild spot Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, And left them, with the history of their lot, Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene

For her whose home of other days had been 'Midst the fair halls of England! but the love

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear; And by its might upborne all else above, [near. She shrank not-mark'd not that the dead were

Of him alone she thought, whose languid head
Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell;
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled
While heavily she felt his life-blood well
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wouna,
Yet hoped, still hoped!-Oh! from such hopo
how long

Affection woos the whispers that deceive, Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong, And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe

The blow indeed can fall! So bow'd she there, Over the dying, while unconscious prayer

Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight

down,

Veining the pine-stems through the foliage

brown,

And fireflies, kindling up the leafy place,
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face,
Whereby she caught its changes: to her eye
The eye that faded look'd through gathering
haze,

Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony,
Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze,

When voice was not; that fond sad meaning pass'd

She knew the fulness of her woe at last!

One shriek the forests heard, and mute she lay And cold; yet clasping still the

To her scarce-heaving breast.

Death,

precious clay
Oh, Love and

Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth,

Many and sad! but airs of heavenly breath Shall melt the links that bind you, for your bith Is far apart.

Now light, of a richer hue Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and

dew;

The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds

play'd,

Bright-color'd birds with splendor cross'd the shade,

Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke

From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings

Of earth's Æolian lyre, whose music woke

Into young life and joy all happy things. And she too woke from that long dreamless trance,

The widow'd Edith: fearfully her glance
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange,
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change
Flash'd o'er her spirit, ev'n ere memory swept
The tide of anguish back with thought, and
slept ;

Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled,
Then faintly sank again. The forest bough,
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now—-
Where was she? 'Midst the people of the wild,
By the red hunter's fire: an aged chief,
Whose home look'd sad-for therein play'd no
child-

Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief

To that lone cabin of the woods; and there,
Won by a form so desolately fair,

Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung,

O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung, While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head, And leaning on his bow.

And life return'd, Life, but with all its memories of the dead, To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd Her task of meek endurance, well she wore The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore, 'Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair. Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air, Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen A daughter to the land of spirits go,

And ever from that time her fading mien,

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, Had haunted their dim years; but Edith's face Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place, And they again seem'd parents. Oh! the joy, The rich deep blessedness-though earth's alloy, Fear that still bodes, be there-of pouring forth The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and worth

Of strong affection, in one healthful flow,
On something all its own!-that kindly glow,
Which to shut inward is consuming pain,
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again.