"Tis the light of innocent thoughts, whose ray An infant's slumber blesses; When, weary of paying smile for smile, Its blue eyes close, and it dreams the while The breezy spirits of air float past With calm and noiseless motion; Not a zephyr is dimpling the glassy lakeEven the aspen hath still'd its tremulous shake At Nature's high devotion. As I loiter along my homeward path, That last sweet smile of the evening sun His farewell look, with Christian hope, Alas! when it vanish'd, the night came down, And my poor lorn heart no more might own A Father's guiding light! THE MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE. Cowper. GOD moves in a mysterious way, He plants His footsteps in the sea, Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind Unbelief is sure to err, God is his own Interpreter, 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 Pale faces gather round her, They mark the storm swell high, 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, I said consumption smote her, 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 : |