He sprang on the deck Of his shallop again.
"We cruise now for vengeance! Give way!" cried Estienne.
"Massachusetts shall hear
Of the Huguenot's wrong,
And from island and creekside
Her fishers shall throng!
Pentagoet shall rue
What his Papists have done,
When his palisades echo
The Puritan's gun!"
O, the loveliest of heavens
Hung tenderly o'er him,
There were waves in the sunshine,
And green isles before him:
But a pale hand was beckoning
The Huguenot on;
And in blackness and ashes
Behind was St. John!
How sweetly on the wood-girt town The mellow light of sunset shone! Each small, bright lake, whose waters
Mirror the forest and the hill,
Reflected from its waveless breast
The beauty of a cloudless west,
Glorious as if a glimpse were given
Within the western gates of heaven,
Left, by the spirit of the star
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!
Beside the river's tranquil flood
The dark and low-walled dwellings
stood,
Where many a rood of open land Stretched up and down on either hand, With corn-leaves waving freshly green The thick and blackened stumps be
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, The wild, untravelled forest spread,
FATHER! to thy suffering poor Strength and grace and faith im part,
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!
Sweet the songs we loved to sing
Underneath thy holy sky,
Words and tones that used to bring
Tears of joy in every eye,
Dear the wrestling hours of prayer,
When we gathered knee to knee,
Blameless youth and hoary hair,
Bowed, Ó God, alone to thee.
As thine early children, Lord,
Shared their wealth and daily
bread,
Even so, with one accord,
We, in love, each other fed.
Not with us the miser's hoard,
Not with us his grasping hand;
Equal round a common board,
Drew our meek and brother band!
When the war-whoop stirred the land
And the Indian turned away
From our home his bloody hand.
Well that forest-ranger saw,
That the burthen and the curse
Of the white man's cruel law
Rested also upon us.
Torn apart, and driven forth
To our toiling hard and long,
Father! from the dust of earth
Lift we still our grateful song!
Grateful, that in bonds we share
In thy love which maketh free;
Joyful, that the wrongs we bear,
Draw us nearer, Lord, to thee!
Grateful! - that where'er we toil,
By Wachuset's wooded side,
On Nantucket's sea-worn isle,
Or by wild Neponset's tide, -
Still, 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 gathered 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.
Wildand 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
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
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.
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 goodman sat beside his door One sultry afternoon,
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