Even trow the villager can tell
Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone 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
feared,

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.

FATHER! to thy suffering poor
Strength and grace and faith impart,
And with thy own love restore

Comfort to the broken heart!
O 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:
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!

47

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 wreathed 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 loning 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 conquered 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 hillside 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 pealed, And all was still again,

Save a low murmur in the air

Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
A weary stranger came,
And stood before the farmer's door,
With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope
Was in his quiet glance,

49

And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed

His tranquil countenance.

A look, like that his Master wore
In Pilate's council-hall :
It told of wrongs,
Meekly forgiving all.

but of a love

-

O, kindly spoke the goodman's wife,
"Come in, old man!" quoth she,→
"We will not leave thee to the storm,
Whoever thou mayst be."

Then came the aged wanderer in,
And silent sat him down ;
While all within grew dark as night
Beneath the storm-cloud's frown.

But while the sudden lightning's blaze
Filled every cottage nook,
And with the jarring thunder-roll
The loosened casements shook,

A heavy tramp of horses' feet

Came sounding up the lane, And half a score of horse, or more Came plunging through the rai

"The stranger is my guest; He is worn with toil and grievous wrong,

Pray let the old man rest."

"Now, out upon thee, canting knave!" And strong hands shook the 'door, "Believe me, Macey," quoth the priest,

"Thou 'It rue thy conduct sore." Then kindled Macey's eye of fire: "No priest who walks the earth, Shall pluck away the stranger-guest Made welcome to my hearth."

Down from his cottage wall he caught
The matchlock, hotly tried

At Preston-pans and Marston-moor,
By fiery Ireton's side;

Where Puritan, and Cavalier,

With shout and psalm contended; And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's

"I go, as to the slaughter led:
Friends of the poor, farewell!"
Beneath his hand the oaken door,
Back on its hinges fell.

"Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay”;

The reckless scoffers cried,
As to a horseman's saddle-bow
The old man's arms were tied.

And of his bondage hard and long
In Boston's crowded jail,
Where suffering woman's prayer was
heard,

With sickening childhood's wail,

It suits not with our tale to tell :
Those scenes have passed away,-
Let the dim shadows of the past
Brood o'er that evil day.

The priest came panting to the shore, His grave cocked hat was gone; Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung His wig upon a thorn.

"Come back, -come back!" the parson cried,

"The church's curse beware." "Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macey, "but

Thy blessing prithee spare."

"Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest,

"Thou 'It yet the gallows see." "Who's born to be hanged, will not be drowned,"

Quoth Macey, merrily;

"And so, sir sheriff and priest, good by!"

He bent him to his oar,
And the small boat glided quietly
From the twain upon the shore.

Now in the west, the heavy clouds
Scattered and fell asunder,
While feebler came the rush of rain,
And fainter growled the thunder.

And through the broken clouds, the sun
Looked out serene and warm,
Painting its holy symbol-light

Upon the passing storm.

O, beautiful! that rainbow span,
O'er dim Crane-neck was bended; -
One bright foot touched the eastern
hills,

And one with ocean blended.

By green Pentucket's southern slope The small boat glided fast,

The watchers of "the Block-house"

saw

The strangers as they passed,

That night a stalwart garrison
Sat shaking in their shoes,
To hear the dip of Indian oars, —
The glide of birch canoes.

The fisher-wives of Salisbury,
(The men were all away,)
Looked out to see the stranger oar
Upon their waters play.

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw
Their sunset-shadows o'er them,
And Newbury's spire and weathercock
Peered o'er the pines before them.
Around the Black Rocks, on their left,
The marsh lay broad and green;
And on their right, with dwarf shrubs
crowned,

Plum Island's hills were seen.
With skilful hand and wary eye

The harbor-bar was crossed; -
A plaything of the restless wave,
The boat on ocean tossed.

The glory of the sunset heaven
On land and water lay, -
On the steep hills of Agawam,
On cape, and bluff, and bay.

They passed the gray rocks of Cape
Ann,

And Gloucester's harbor-bar;
The watch-fire of the garrison
Shone like a setting star.

How brightly broke the morning
On Massachusetts Bay!
Blue wave, and bright green island,
Rejoicing in the day.

On passed the bark in safety

Round isle and headland steep,
No tempest broke above them,
No fog-cloud veiled the deep.

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape
The vent'rous Macey passed,
And on Nantucket's naked isle,
Drew up his boat at last.

And how, in log-built cabin,

They braved the rough sea-weather; And there, in peace and quietness, Went down life's vale together: