THE MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.

Cowper.

GOD moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform ;

He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sov'reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust Him for his

grace;

Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind Unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His works in vain ;

God is his own Interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

BURIAL OF THE INDIAN GIRL.

Mrs. Sigourney.

["The only daughter of an Indian woman in Wisconsin territory, died of lingering consumption at the age of eighteen. A few of her own race, and a few of the whites were at her grave; but none wept save the poor mother."Herald of the Upper Mississippi.]

A WAIL upon the Prairies,

A

cry of woman's woe,

That mingled with the autumn-blast,

All fitfully and low!

It is a mother's wailing!

Hath earth another tone,

Like that with which a mother mourns
Her lost, her only one?

Pale faces gather round her,

They mark the storm swell high,
That rends and wrecks the tossing soul,
But their cold eyes were dry;
Pale faces gazed upon her,

As the wild winds caught their moan,

But she was an Indian mother,

So she wept those tears alone.

Long, o'er that wasting idol,

She watch'd, and toil'd, and pray'd:
Though every dreary dawn reveal'd
Some ravage death had made;
Till the fleshless sinews started,
And hope no opiate gave,

And hoarse and hollow grew her voice,

An echo from the grave.

She was a gentle creature,

Of raven eye and tress;

And dove-like were the tones that breathed

Her bosom's tenderness;

Save when some quick emotion

The warm blood strongly sent,
To revel in her olive cheek
So richly eloquent.

I said consumption smote her,
And the healer's art was vain ;
But she was an Indian maiden,
So none deplored her pain;
None, save that widow'd mother,
Who, now, by her open tomb,
Is writhing like the smitten wretch
Whom judgment marks for doom.

Alas! that lowly cabin,—

That couch beside the wall,—

That seat beneath the mantling vine,

They're lone and empty all!

What hand shall pluck the tall green corn

That ripeneth on the plain,

Since she for whom the board was spread

Must ne'er return again?

Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden !

Nor let thy murmuring shade

Grieve that those pale-brow'd ones with scorn

Thy burial rite survey'd :

161908

There's many a king whose funeral
A black-robed realm shall see,
For whom no tear of grief is shed
Like that which falls for thee.

Yes, rest thee, forest maiden,
Beneath thy native tree!

The proud may boast their little day,
Then sink to dust like thee;

But there's many a one whose funeral
With nodding plumes may be,
Whom nature nor affection mourns,
As now they mourn for thee!

HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN,

6. P. R. James.

SLOW, slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, Thy course of beneficence done;

As glorious go down to the ocean's warm breast As when thy bright race was begun.