Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak,

On the deep dream of age his aceents broke.

And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said—
"I listened for the words, which, years ago,
Passed o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

"Askest thou of him whose house is lone beneath?
I was an eagle in my youthful pride,
When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath,
To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side.
Many the times of flowers have been since then-
Many, but bringing nought like him again!

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,

Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings.

"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,

I and my brethren that from earth have gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, And our hearts burned within us as he spoke.

"He told of far and sunny lands, which lie

Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:

Bright must they be! for there are none that die,

And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!'

He came to guide us thither; but away

The Happy called him, and he might not stay.

"We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time--Therefore we hoped : but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes-and finds not him!

"We gathered round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree;
From his clear voice, at first, the words of power
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head

Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hungKnowest thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough! he sank upon my breast

Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

"We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide; We reared this cross in token where he lay,

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.

"But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken

Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten, save by one,
Who hears them faintly sounding from the past,
Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast."

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye:
Son of the wilderness! despair thou not,

Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,
And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot!
Heaven darkly works-yet, where the seed hath been
There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

"Hope on, hope ever!-by the sudden springing
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long;
And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,

After cold silent months the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains,
Which bound the glorious rivers on the plains.

"Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,
But as a lovely song, to leave no trace:
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race!
And fading mists the better path disclose,
And the wide desert blossom as the rose.'

So by the cross they parted, in the wild,
Each fraught with musings for life's after day,
Memories to visit one, the forest's child,

By many a blue stream in its lonely way;
And upon one, midst busy throngs to press
Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

LAST RITES.

By the mighty minster's bell,
Tolling with a sudden swell;
By the colours half-mast high,

O'er the sea hung mournfully;

Know, a prince hath died!

By the drum's dull muffled sound,
By the arms that sweep the ground
By the volleying muskets' tone,
Speak ye of a soldier gone

In his manhood's pride.

By the chanted psalm that fills
Reverently the ancient hills,1

Learn, that from his harvests done,
Peasants bear a brother on

To his last repose.

By the pall of snowy white

Through the yew-trees gleaming bright;
By the garland on the bier,

Weep! a maiden claims thy tear-
Broken is the rose !

Which is the tenderest rite of all?—
Buried virgin's coronal,

Requiem o'er the monarch's head,

Farewell gun for warrior dead,
Herdsman's funeral hymn?

Tells not each of human woe?
Each of hope and strength brought low?
Number each with holy things,

If one chastening thought it brings
Ere life's day grow dim!

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vowed
Unto the Temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers,
To bring before her God. So passed they on
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep

A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of England and Wales.