The morn came singing
Through the green forests of the Apennines,
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging,
And steps and voices out amongst the vines.
What found that dayspring here? Two fair forms laid
Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave,

Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the grave?
Could it be so indeed? That radiant girl,

Decked as for bridal hours!-long braids of pearl
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining,
As tears might shine, with melancholy light;
And there was gold her slender waist entwining;
And her pale graceful arms-how sadly bright!
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying,
And round her marble brow red roses dying.
But she died first!-the violet's hue had spread
O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppressed;
She had bowed heavily her gentle head,

And on the youth's hushed bosom sunk to rest.
So slept they well!-the poison's work was done;
Love with true heart had striven-but Death had won.

THE Woods-oh! solemn are the boundless woods
Of the great western world when day declines,
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods,

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines.

When dimness gathers on the stilly air,

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood,

Awful it is for human heart to bear

The might and burden of the solitude!

Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there sate
One young and fair; and oh! how desolate !
But undismayed-while sank the crimson light,
And the high cedars darkened with the night.
Alone she sate; though many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,
Were severed from her need and from her woe,
Far as death severs life. O'er that wild spot
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low,
And left them, with the history of their lot,

Founded on incidents related in an American work, Sketches of Connecti

Unto the forest oaks-a fearful scene

For her whose home of other days had been
Midst the fair halls of England! But the love

Which filled her soul was strong to cast out fear;

And by its might upborne all else above,

She shrank not-marked not that the dead were near. Of him alone she thought, whose languid head Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell; Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, While heavily she felt his life-blood well Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound

With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound—
Yet hoped, still hoped ! Oh! from such hope how long
Affection wooes the whispers that deceive,

Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong!
And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe
The blow indeed can fall. So bowed she there
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer

Filled all her soul. Now poured the moonlight down,
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown,
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place,

Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face,

Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye,

The eye that faded looked through gathering haze, Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony,

Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze,

When voice was not; that fond, sad meaning passed—
She knew the fulness of her woe at last!

One shriek the forests heard-and mute she lay
And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay

To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death!
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth,
Many and sad!--but airs of heavenly breath

Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth
Is far apart.

Now light of richer hue

Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew; The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds played; Bright-coloured birds with splendour crossed the shade, Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke From reed, and spray, and leaf-the living strings

Of earth's Æolian lyre, whose music woke

Into young life and joy all happy things.

And she, too, woke from that long dreamless trance,
The widowed Edith fearfully her glance
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange,
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change
Flashed o'er her spirit, even ere memory swept
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept;
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled,

Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough,
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now.
Where was she? Midst the people of the wild,
By the red hunter's fire: an aged chief,

Whose home looked sad-for therein played no child—
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief,

To that lone cabin of the woods; and there,
Won by a form so desolately fair,

Or touched with thoughts from some past sorrow spring,
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung;
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye,
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by,
Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head,
And leaning on his bow.

And life returned,

Life, but with all its memories of the dead,
To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learned
Her task of meek endurance-well she wore
The chastened grief that humbly can adore
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair,
Even as a breath of spring's awakening air,
Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen
A daughter to the land of spirits go;
And ever from that time her fading mien,

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low,
Had haunted their dim years: but Edith's face
Now looked in holy sweetness from her place,
And they again seemed parents. Oh! the joy,
The rich deep blessedness-though earth's alloy,
Fear, that still bodes, be there-of pouring forth
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and worth
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow,
On something all its own! that kindly glow,
Which to shut inward is consuming pain,
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again,

When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares
The adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs

Who loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the while
With the departed, and her patient smile
Spoke of farewells to earth; yet still she prayed
E'en o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place
Had been among the wilds; for well she knew
The secret whisper of her bosom true,
Which warned her hence.

And now, by many a word
Linked unto moments when the heart was stirred-
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn,

Sung when the woods at eve grew hushed and dimBy the persuasion of her fervent eye,

All eloquent with childlike piety

By the still beauty of her life she strove

To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love
Poured out on her so freely. Nor in vain
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain
The soul in gentle bonds; by slow degrees
Light followed on, as when a summer breeze
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade,
And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was made
Even such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide,
By faith and sorrow raised and purified,
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led,

Until their prayers were one. When morning spread
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow
Touched into golden bronze the cypress bough,
And when the quiet of the Sabbath time
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime
Wakened the wilderness, their prayers were one.
Now might she pass in hope-her work was done!
And she was passing from the woods away-
The broken flower of England might not stay
Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright
Even yet with something of a starry light,
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak,

A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh
Of autumn through the forests had gone by,
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown,
Flushing the air; and winter's blast had been
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green
Fringed their dark boughs: for spring again had come,
The sunny spring! but Edith to her home
Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad
To part with life when all the earth looks glad
In her young lovely things-when voices break
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake :
Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time,
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms,
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs ?
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day,
And sounds and odours, with the breezes' play,
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door,
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore.
Then with a look where all her hope awoke,
'My father!"-to the grey-haired chief she spoke--
"Knowest thou that I depart?" I know, I know,"
He answered mournfully, "that thou must go
To thy beloved, my daughter!" "Sorrow not

For me, kind mother!" with meek smiles once more She murmured in low tones: 66 one happy lot

Awaits us, friends! upon the better shore; For we have prayed together in one trust,

And lifted our frail spirits from the dust

To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own,
Under the cedar shade: where he is gone,
Thither I go. There will my sisters be,

And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee

My childhood's prayer was learned-the Saviour's prayer
Which now ye know-and I shall meet you there.
Father and gentle mother! ye have bound
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found
By Mercy's children." From the matron's eye
Dropped tears, her sole and passionate reply.
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep
Solemnly beautiful-a stillness deep,

Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,
And mantling up his stately head in woe,

66

'Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old,
In sounds like those by plaintive waters rolled.

"Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side,
And the hunter's hearth away:

For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride,
Daughter! thou canst not stay.

"Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home,
Where the skies are ever clear:
The corn-month's golden hours will come,
But they shall not find thee here.

"And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
Under our whispering pine;

Music shall midst the leaves be heard,
But not a song like thine.

"A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill,
Telling of winter gone,

Hath such sweet falls-yet caught we still
A farewell in its tone.

"But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be
Where farewell sounds are o'er;

Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt see
No fear of parting more.

"The mossy grave thy tears have wet,
Ard the winds wild moanings by,
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget,
Midst flowers-not such as die.

"The shadow from thy brow shall melt
The sorrow from thy strain,

But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt
Our heart shall thirst in vain.