To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd
In a golden current on,

Ere from the garden, man's first abode,

The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told-
Those days of song and dreams—
When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old
By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,

Which many a bark, with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,

Mark'd thus-even thus-on earth, By the closing of one hope's delight, And another's gentle birth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,

Shutting in turn, may leave

A lingerer still for the sunset hour,

A charm for the shaded eve.

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom,
And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound,
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Now all was hush'd-and eve's last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,

And he too paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

The Cross in the Wilderness.

And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said—
"I listen'd for the words, which, years ago,
Pass'd o'er these waters: though the voice is fled
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

"Ask'st thou of him, whose house is lone beneath?
I was an eagle in my youthful pride,
When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath,
To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side.
Many the times of flowers have been since then—
Many, but bringing naught like him again!

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying the cedars like the corn-stalks low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings.

"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,
I and my brethren that from earth are gone,
Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone?
He told of One, the grave's dark bonds who broke,
And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke.

"He told of far and sunny lands, which lie
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:
Bright must they be !—for there are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!'
He came to guide us thither ;-but away

The Happy call'd him, and he might not stay.

"We saw him slowly fade,-athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time,Therefore we hoped :—but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes,—and finds not him!

"We gather'd round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree;
From his clear voice, at first, the words of power
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swell'd and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

393

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue,
And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head
Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung,—
Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead?
It is enough!-he sank upon my breast-
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

"We buried him where he was wont to pray,
By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ;
We rear'd this Cross in token where he lay,

For on the Cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.

“But I am sad !—I mourn the clear light taken Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten, save by one,
Who hears them faintly sounding from the past,
Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast."

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye :-
"Son of the Wilderness! despair thou not,
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,
And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot!
Heaven darkly works ;-yet where the seed hath been
There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

"Hope on, hope ever!—by the sudden springing
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long;
And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,
After cold silent months, the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains,
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains;

"Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,
But as a lovely song to leave no trace,
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race!
And fading mists the better path disclose,
And the wide desert blossom as the rose.

So by the Cross they parted, in the wild,
Each fraught with musings for life's after-day,
Memories to visit one, the forest's child,

By many a blue stream in its lonely way;
And upon one, midst busy throngs to press
Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

THERE'S beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes
Gan trace it midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise;
We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms o'er our way,
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day.

We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged tree, With the foxglove o'er the water's glass, borne downwards by the bee;

Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is thrown, As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone.

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky, While soft on icy pool and stream their pencill'd shadows lie, When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound,. Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground.

*This little poem derives an additional interest from being affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than that of the late Mr. Dugald Stewart. The admiration he always expressed for Mrs. Hemans's poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy subjects; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would employ her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mrs. Hemans (who was then residing in Wales) sent to the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of 'Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given to Mr. Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, "that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above."

The letter reached Mr. Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh-the last time, alas! his presence was ever to gladden that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterwards. The poem was read to him by his daughter, on his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestion; and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life.

Yes! beauty dwells in all our paths-but sorrow too is there : How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air! When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things, That through the leafy places glance on many-colour'd wings,

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades, And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades; And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plaintive tone Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.

But are we free to do even thus-to wander as we will,
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill?
No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast,
While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, back, And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track;

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth, And weigh our burden'd spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.

Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield!
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field!

A sweeter by the birds of heaven-which tell us, in their flight,
Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease?

Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies,

By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies!

LAST RITES.

By the mighty minster's bell,
Tolling with a sudden swell;
By the colours half-mast high,
O'er the sea hung mournfully;

Know, a prince hath died!