The Endian's Revenge.

AN OLD LEGEND.

Now had the autumn day gone by,
And evening's yellow shade

Had wrapt the mountains and the hills,
And lengthen'd o'er the glade.
The honey-bee had sought her hive,
The bird her shelter'd nest,
And in the hollow valley's gloom

Both wind and wave had rest.

And to a cotter's hut that eve
There came an Indian chief,
And in his frame was weariness,
And in his face was grief.
The feather o'er his head that danced
Was weather-soil'd and rent,
And broken were his bow and spear,
And all his arrows spent.

And meek and humble was his speech;
He knew the white man's hand
Was turn'd against those wasted tribes,
Long scourged from the land.
He pray'd but for a simple draught

Of water from the well,

And a poor morsel of the food

That from his table fell.

He said that his old frame had toil'd
A wide and weary way,

O'er the sunny lakes and savage hills,
And through the lakes that day;
Yet when he saw they scoff'd his words,
in woe,

He turn'd away

And cursed them not, but only mourn'd That they should shame him so.

When many years had flown away,
That herdsman of the hill
Went out into the wilderness,

The wolf and bear to kill,
To scatter the red deer, and slay
The panther in his lair,

And chase the rapid moose that ranged

The sunless forests there.

And soon his hounds lay dead with toil,
The deer were fierce and fleet,
And the prairie tigers kept aloof
When they heard his hostile feet;
No bread was in that desert place,
Nor crystal rivulet,

To slake the torment of his thirst,

Or his hot brow to wet.

He fear'd-he fear'd to die-yet knew
That nought on earth could save;
For none might catch his parting breath,
And lay him in his grave.

But lo! while life's dim taper still
Burn'd feebly in his breast,
A ministering angel came--
His hated Indian guest!

He shared his wheaten loaf with him,
His cup of water shared,

And bore the sick man unto those
For whom his heart most cared.
"I cursed thee not," the Indian said,
"When thou wast stern to me,
And I have had my vengeance now;
White man! farewell to thee!"

M'LELLAN.

Mary Stuart's Farewell.

ADIEU! Sweet land of France, adieu!
All cherish'd joys gone by;
Scenes where my happy childhood grew,
To leave ye is to die.

Adopted country! whence I go

An exile o'er the sea,

Hear Mary's fond farewell, and, oh!
My France, remember me!
Winds rise; the ship is on her track:
Alas! my tears are vain:

There is no storm to bear me back

On thy dear shores again.

Adieu, sweet land of France, &c.

When in my people's sight I wore
The lily's royal flower,

Ah! their applause was offered more
To beauty than to power:
Now gloomy Albyn's throne in vain
Awaits my slow advance;

I only would be queen, to reign
O'er the gay hearts of France.

Adieu, sweet land of France, &c.

Love, glory, genius-ah! too dear,-
Have dazzled all my prime;

My fates shall change to cold and drear
In Scotland's ruder clime;

My heart, my heart, with sudden woe,
Seeks a vague omen's shock!
Sure in some ghastly dream I saw
A scaffold and a block.

Adieu, sweet land of France, &c,

Oh, France! in all her woes and fears,
The Stuarts' daughter, she,

As now she greets thee through her tears,
Shall ever turn to thee;

Alas! too swift my bark hath flown

Beneath these stranger skies:
Night, as her hurried veil comes down,
Conceals thee from my eyes.

Adieu! sweet land of France, &c.

W. DOWE, (AFTER BERANGER.)

Christmas in War-Time.

(1854.)

CHRISTMAS Comes, but not with bearing such as we have loved to hail;

Comes with sable on his garment, comes with forehead bent and pale.

Ah! we greet no roysterer's Christmas, he who in the olden times

Bade us roar a jovial chorus to the music of his chimes.

Yet his bells are madly leaping-leaping in their rocky towers,

Shouting to the winds of winter for this festival of

ours.

But there floats a deeper meaning through their wild, impassioned roar,

Than those iron lips have ever launched upon the gale before.

List, as in exulting clamour wave on wave of joy is

thrown,

Listen to the refluent murmur, with its sad, repin

ing moan.