FINALE TO CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY)

[St. John, wandering over the face of the Earth, speaks:—]

-

That hath fallen to decay:
But the evil doth not cease,-
There is war instead of peace,
Instead of Love there is hate;
And still I must wander and wait,
Still I must watch and pray,
Not forgetting in whose sight
A thousand years in their flight
Are as a single day.

The life of man is a gleam

Of light, that comes and goes
Like the course of the Holy Stream -
The cityless river, that flows
From fountains no one knows,

Through the Lake of Galilee,

Through forests and level lands,
Over rocks and shallows, and sands

Of a wilderness wild and vast,

Till it findeth its rest at last

In the desolate Dead Sea!

But alas! alas! for me

Not yet this rest shall be!

What, then! doth Charity fail?

Is Faith of no avail?

Is Hope blown out like a light
By a gust of wind in the night?

The clashing of creeds, and the strife
Of the many beliefs, that in vain
Perplex man's heart and brain,
Are naught but the rustle of leaves,
When the breath of God upheaves

The boughs of the Tree of Life, And they subside again!

And I remember still

The words, and from whom they came,"Not he that repeateth the name,

But he that doeth the will!"

And Him evermore I behold

Walking in Galilee,

Through the cornfield's waving gold,
In hamlet, in wood, and in wold,

By the shores of the Beautiful Sea.
He toucheth the sightless eyes;

Before Him the demons flee; To the dead He sayeth, "Arise!" To the living, "Follow me!" And that voice still soundeth on From the centuries that are gone, To the centuries that shall be!

From all vain pomps and shows,
From the pride that overflows,

And the false conceits of men;
From all the narrow rules

And subtleties of Schools,

And the craft of tongue and pen; Bewildered in its search,

Bewildered with the cry,

Lo, here! lo, there! the Church!-
Poor, sad Humanity

Through all the dust and heat
Turns back with bleeding feet,

By the weary road it came,

Unto the simple thought
By the great Master taught,

And that remaineth still,—

"Not he that repeateth the name,

But he that doeth the will!"

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THE YOUNG HIAWATHA

From the Song of Hiawatha'

HEN the little Hiawatha

THE

Learned of every bird its language,

Learned their names and all their secrets,

How they built their nests in Summer,

Where they hid themselves in Winter;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."

Of all beasts he learned the language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How the beavers built their lodges,
Where the squirrels hid their acorns,
How the reindeer ran so swiftly,

Why the rabbit was so timid;

Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."

Then Iagoo, the great boaster,

He the marvelous story-teller,

He the traveler and the talker,

He the friend of old Nokomis,

Made a bow for Hiawatha;

From a branch of ash he made it,

From an oak-bough made the arrows,

Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,

And the cord he made of deerskin.

Then he said to Hiawatha:

"Go, my son, into the forest,

Where the red deer herd together,

Kill for us a famous roebuck,

Kill for us a deer with antlers!"

Forth into the forest straightway

All alone walked Hiawatha

Proudly, with his bow and arrows;

And the birds sang round him, o'er him,

"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"

Sang the robin, the Opechee,

Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa,

"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!»

Up the oak-tree, close beside him,
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
In and out among the branches,

Coughed and chattered from the oak tree,
Laughed, and said between his laughing,
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"

And the rabbit from his pathway
Leaped aside, and at a distance
Sat erect upon his haunches,
Half in fear and half in frolic,
Saying to the little hunter,
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"

But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river,

To the ford across the river,
And as one in slumber walked he.
Hidden in the alder-bushes,
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw two antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket,
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And a deer came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him,
Like the birch-leaf palpitated,

As the deer came down the pathway.
Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow;

Scarce a twig moved with his motion,
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,

But the wary roebuck started,

Stamped with all his hoofs together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped as if to meet the arrow;
Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,

Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!

Dead he lay there in the forest,

By the ford across the river;
Beat his timid heart no longer,

But the heart of Hiawatha

Throbbed and shouted and exulted,

As he bore the red deer homeward

And Iagoo and Nokomis

Hailed his coming with applauses.

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twi

light,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean.
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ?

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,— Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the

ocean,

Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.