Oh, sweet as a rose-bud encircled with dew,
When its fragrance is flung on the air,

So fresh and so bright to that mother he seemed,
As he lay in his innocence there.

But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form,
Pale as marble, and silent, and cold,

But paler and colder her beautiful boy,

And the tale of her sorrow was told!

But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart

And taken her treasure away,

To allure her to heaven He has placed it on high,

And the mourner will sweetly obey.

There had whispered a voice-'twas the voice of her God,

"I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod !"

I saw the fond brother, with glances of love,

Gazing down on a gentle young girl,

And she hung on his arm, and breathed soft in his ear
As he played with each graceful curl.

Oh, he loved the sweet tones of her silvery voice,

Let her use it in sadness or glee;

And he'd clasp his brave arms round her delicate form,
As she sat on her brother's knee.

But I saw when he gazed on her death-stricken face,
And she breathed not a word in his ear;

And he clasped his brave arms round an icy cold form,
And he moisten'd her cheek with a tear.

But the Healer was there, and He said to him thus— "Grieve not for thy sister's short life,"

And He gave to his arms still another fair girl,

And he made her his own cherished wife!

There had whispered a voice-'twas the voice of his God,

"I love thee—I love thee-pass under the rod !"

I saw where a father and mother had leaned

On the arms of a dear gifted son,

And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze,
As they saw the proud place he had won:
And the fast-coming evening of life promised fair,
And its pathway grew smooth to their feet,

And the starlight of love glimmered bright at the end.
And the whispers of fancy were sweet.

But I saw when they stood, bending low o'er the grave,
Where their heart's dearest hope had been laid,
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night,
And the joy from their bosoms had fled.

But the Healer was there, and His arms were around,
And He led them with tenderest care;

And He showed them a star in a bright upper world,
'Twas their star shining brilliantly there!

They had each heard a voice-'twas the voice of their God,

"I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod !"

MARY B. Dana.

SACH

METAMORA TO HIS WARRIORS.

ACHEMS, chiefs, and warriors! Metamora has told his brothers of the many aggressions and insults of the pale-faces, and the outrage upon his family. Metamora cannot lie. He has told his brothers that the heart of the paleface is like his skin, white and without blood-that good sap of the tree that makes its branches spread afar, and give shelter and fruit to all. Metamora cannot lie. He has told his brothers that the Great Spirit, who provides for all His creatures, made a land for the white man as well as for His red children. That land made by the Good Spirit must be good; and if these pale-faces were good in their hearts, they would live in their own land

that their Father gave them. If they are not good, the red man should treat them as he treats the panther, that comes to his wigwam to steal the deer that he has hunted, or the bird that he has shot with his arrow. Metamora cannot lie.

When a red man makes a visit of peace to a brother's wigwam, he feeds at his fire, drinks of his bowl, smokes of the prophet-plant, and departs in peace. We received the white man as we receive a brother; he fed at our fire, smoked of the friendly pipe, and danced with our squaws; but he never departs. He still stays, eats of our meat, warms by our fires, craves more and more from us, measures the very ground that we loaned him to sport on, and claims it as his own. Was he not afraid to track even the deer of the hills, or the bear of the forest, for a meal? Did not the red man hunt the buffalo, the buck, the otter, and slay them to feed and keep him warm? And when the Great Spirit, angry at their stay, talked louder than the roar of their mighty rifles, and shook their big canoes in His wrath, did we not dive into the mad waters around them, and save them from going down to the water-spirit in their splintered barks? Did not the red men dry them by their fires, give them the soft fur of the otter to lie on, and shelter and protect them, till our prophets soothed the Great Spirit's anger, and He talked no more in thunder? And now they stay long, and want more-more-more. Like the wolf-dog, feed him, and he'll come again; give him our beds, and he bites us; fatten him, and he'll drive us from our wigwam.

They show us books, which they say will tell us of the Great Spirit. We know the Great Spirit without books. He whispers to us in the breeze; He sings to us in the windcloud and the waterfall; He talks to us in thunder, and our hearts answer; we see His frown in the storm-cloud, His smile in the warm face of the eternal sun; the great

blue tent above is His wigwam, and the stars are His watch-fires! The red men need no books to tell them this, for this is all truth. White men make books, and white men lie! They take from us, while they tell us that they come to give; but the red man wants no gifts, save the gifts of Him who owns all, and who can give without taking from another. When the red man makes war upon his brother, he comes to him as his foe, and shows the tomahawk, the bow and arrow, and the plume of the eagle; but these pale-faces come with peace upon their lips, with their hands empty, but wear the little rifle and the knife, like a snake hid within their bosoms, to plunge into the heart of the red man. In this do they not lie? They are as false as the snow-bank in the spring; if we rest upon it it sinks with us.

The white man talks of peace; but Metamora tells his brothers that their big canoes are still landing from over the salt lake, filled with rifles, thunder-guns, and their long knives of war. Metamora cannot lie. When we ask the white man what all these are for, he tells us they are for hunting, and destroying the wolf, the panther, and the alligator; but Metamora again tells his brothers 'tis a lie! They are to drive the red man from his lands, shoot him down like the deer herd, and fire his wigwam with their thunder-guns. Then let the red man rouse and scream like the eagle when the snake seeks his nest-join with his tribe, and dart upon his foe-protect the lands of his fathers, the gift of the Great Spirit; let the keen axe of vengeance defend their wives and the doves of their wigwams from the fire-hail of the white skin. Bury not the hatchet, nor sling the rifle, while the track of the high moccasin insults the graves of our fathers!

White man, beware! The wrath of the wronged Indian shall come upon you like the roaring cataract that dashes the uprooted oak down into the mighty chasm; the war

whoop shall rouse you from your dreams at night, and the red tomahawk glare in the blaze of your burning dwellings! Tremble! from the east to the west, in the north and in the south, shall be heard the loud cry of vengeance, till the lands you have stolen groan under your feet no more.

Snakes of the pale-face, ye may slay the chief of the Wampanoags, but the soul of Metamora shall still live, and talk in the red sons of Manito. His blood shall be their

war-paint of vengeance. They shall kill man for man and race for race. From the king of hills to the mighty vales and caverns, they shall betray you as you have the wronged red man, till your hot fire-water blood shall burn in millions of fires and light their dance of freedom.

THE BOAT-RACE.

From "Queen Hynde."

FOURTEEN fair barges in a row

Started at once with heaving prow;
With colors, flags, and plumes bedight;
It was forsooth a comely sight!

King Eric's seven good rowers swarth,
Chosen from all the sinewy north,

Were men of such gigantic parts,

And science in the naval arts,

And with such force their flashes hurled,
They feared no rowers of this world.

King Eric, crowned with many a gem,
Took station on his barge's stem;
Secure of victory, and proud
To shoot before the toiling crowd,
And spring the first upon the shore;
Full oft he'd done the same before.