Speechless, motionless, unconscious Of the daylight or the darkness. Then they buried Minnehaha ; In the snow a grave they made her, In the forest deep and darksome, Underneath the moaning hemlocks; Clothed her in her richest garments, Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, Covered her with snow, like ermine ; Thus they buried Minnehaha.
And at night a fire was lighted, On her grave four times was kindled, For her soul upon its journey To the Islands of the Blessed. From his doorway Hiawatha Saw it burning in the forest, Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; From his sleepless bed uprising, From the bed of Minnehaha, Stood and watched it at the doorway, That it might not be extinguished, Might not leave her in the darkness. "Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha! Farewell, O my Laughing Water! All my heart is buried with you, All my thoughts go onward with you! Come not back again to labor, Come not back again to suffer, Where the Famine and the Fever Wear the heart and waste the body. Soon my task will be completed, Soon your footsteps I shall follow To the Islands of the Blessed, To the Kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter !"
Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon; My breath to heaven like vapor goes; May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord.
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,
To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
Thro' all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below,
And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,
One sabbath deep and wide
A light upon the shining sea
The Bridegroom with his bride!
THE ABORIGINES OF AMERICA.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.
O'er the vast regions of that western world Whose lofty mountains hiding in the clouds, Concealed their grandeur and their wealth so long From European eyes, the Indian roved
Free and unconquered. From those frigid plains Struck with the torpor of the arctic pole, To where Magellan lifts his torch to light The meeting of the waters; from the shore Whose smooth green line the broad Atlantic laves, To the rude borders of that rocky strait Where haughty Asia seems to stand and gaze On the new continent, the Indian reigned
Majestic and alone. Fearless he rose,
Firm as his mountains; like his rivers, wild; Bold as those lakes whose wondrous chain controls His northern coast. The forest and the wave Gave him his food; the slight constructed hut Furnished his shelter, and its doors spread wide To every wandering stranger. There his cup, His simple meal, his lowly couch of skins, Were hospitably shared. Rude were his toils, And rash his daring, when he headlong rushed Down the steep precipice to seize his prey; Strong was his arm to bend the stubborn bow, And keen his arrow. This the bison knew, The spotted panther, the rough, shaggy bear, The wolf dark prowling, the eye piercing lynx, The wild deer bounding through the shadowy glade, And the swift eagle, soaring high to make His nest among the stars. Clothed in their spoils He dared the elements: with eye sedate, Breasted the wintry winds; o'er the white heads Of angry torrents steered his rapid bark
Light as their foam; mounted with tireless speed Those slippery cliffs, where everlasting snows Weave their dense robes; or laid him down to sleep Where the dread thunder of the cataract lulled His drowsy sense. The dangerous toils of war He sought and loved. Traditions, and proud tales Of other days, exploits of chieftains bold, Dauntless and terrible, the warrior's song, The victor's triumph-all conspired to raise The martial spirit....
Oft the rude wandering tribes Rushed on to battle. Their aspiring chiefs,
Lofty and iron-framed, with native hue
Strangely disguised in wild and glaring tints,
Frowned like some Pictish king. The conflict raged Fearless and fierce, mid shouts and disarray,
As the swift lightning urges its dire shafts
Through clouds and darkness, when the warring blasts Awaken midnight. O'er the captive foe
Unsated vengeance stormed: flame and slow wounds
Racked the strong bonds of life; but the firm soul
Smiled in its fortitude to mock the rage
Of its tormentors; when the crisping nerves
Were broken, still exulting o'er its pain,
To rise unmurmuring to its father's shades,
Where in delightful bowers the brave and just Rest and rejoice....
Yet those untutored tribes Bound with their stern resolves and savage deeds Some gentle virtues; as beneath the gloom Of overshadowing forests sweetly springs
The unexpected flower....Their uncultured hearts Gave a strong soil for friendship, that bold growth Of generous affection, changeless, pure,
Self sacrificing, counting losses light,
And yielding life with gladness. By its side, Like sister plant, sprang ardent Gratitude, Vivid, perennial, braving winter's frost
And summer's heat; while nursed by the same dews, Unbounded reverence for the form of age
Struck its deep root spontaneous....With pious awe Their eyes uplifted sought the hidden path Of the Great Spirit. The loud midnight storm, The rush of mighty waters, the deep roll Of thunder, gave his voice; the golden sun, The soft effulgence of the purple morn, The gentle rain distilling, was his smile, Dispensing good to all....In various forms arose Their superstitious homage. Some with blood Of human sacrifices sought to appease That anger which in pestilence, or dearth, Or famine, stalked; and their astonished vales, Like Carthaginian altars, frequent drank The horrible libation. Some, with fruits, Sweet flowers, and incense of their choicest herbs, Sought to propitiate Him whose powerful hand Unseen sustained them. Some with mystic rites, The ark, the orison, the paschal feast,
Through glimmering tradition seemed to bear, As in some broken vase, the smothered coals Scattered from Jewish altars.
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.-MOTHERWELL.
Mournfully! O, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet, plaintive melody Of ages long gone by! It speaks a tale of other years- Of hopes that bloomed to die- Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie!
Mournfully! O, mournfully,
This midnight wind doth moan! It stirs some chord of memory In each dull, heavy tone; The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon- All, all my fond heart cherished Ere death hath made it lone.
Mournfully! O, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell, With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy, Hope's passionate farewell To the dreamy joys of early years, Ere yet grief's canker fell
On the heart's bloom-ay! well may tears Start at that parting knell!
TUBAL CAIN.-CHARLES MACKAY.
Old Tubal Cain was a man of might, In the days when earth was young; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright, The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers, As he fashion'd the sword and spear.
And he sang-"Hurrah for my handiwork! Hurrah for the spear and sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be king and lord!"
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearls and gold, And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang-"Hurrah for Tubal Cair Who hath given us strength anew! Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire, And hurrah for the metal true!"
But a sudden change came o'er his heart, Ere the setting of the sun;
And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain For the evil he had done;
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed,
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said-"Alas! that I ever made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword, for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!"
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