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.

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 forever
Ancient legends tell,—
In the lonely desert wasted,
And by mortal lip untasted.

Waters which the proud Castilian 31
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,
Of its calm and silvery track,
Rolled the tranquil Merrimack.

Over village, wood and meadow,
Gazed that stranger man
Sadly, till the twilight shadow
Over all things ran,

Save where spire and westward pane

Flashed the sunset back again.

Gazing thus upon the dwelling

Of his warrior sires,

Where no lingering trace was telling Of their wigwam fires,

Who the gloomy thoughts might know Of that wandering child of woe?

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing,
Hills that once had stood

Down their sides the shadows throwing
Of a mighty wood,

Where the deer his covert kept,
And the eagle's pinion swept!

Where the birch canoe had glided
Down the swift Powow,
Dark and gloomy bridges strided
Those clear waters now;

And where once the beaver swam,

Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam.

For the wood-bird's merry singing,

And the hunter's cheer,

Iron clang and hammer's ringing
Smote upon his ear;

And the thick and sullen smoke

From the blackened forges broke.

Could it be, his fathers ever,

Loved to linger here?

These bare hills-this conquer'd river

Could they hold them dear,

With their native loveliness
Tamed and tortured into this?

Sadly, as the shades of even
Gathered o'er the hill,

While the western half of heaven
Blushed with sunset still,

From the fountain's mossy seat
Turned the Indian's weary feet.

Year on year hath flown forever,
But he came no more

To the hill-side or the river
Where he came before.
But the villager can tell

Of that strange man's visit well.

And the merry children, laden
With their fruits or flowers-
Roving boy and laughing maiden,
In their school-day hours,
Love the simple tale to tell
Of the Indian and his well.

THE EXILES.

1660.

THE goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,

With his young wife singing at his side
An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air,—
The dark green woods were still;
And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud
Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast, arose that cloud

Above the wilderness,

As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.

At times, the solemn thunder peale 1,
And all was still again,

Save a low murmur in the air
Of coming wind and rain.