Heart-free, unwon, she had turned from each prayer, And thought but of smoothing her raven hair; Of embroidering moccasins, dainty, neat, With quills and gay beads for her tiny feet; Or skilfully guiding her bark canoe O'er St. Lawrence's waves of sparkling blue.

Alas for the hour, when in woodlands wild The white man met with the Sachem's child, And she wondering gazed on his golden hair, His deep blue eyes, and his forehead fair, And his rich soft voice fell low on her ear, And became to her heart, alas! too dear.

Well trained was he in each courtly art That can please and win a woman's heart; And many a girl of lineage high Had looked on his wooing with fav'ring eye: Inconstant to all, in hall or in bower, What chance of escape had this forest flower?

Soon, ah! very soon, he tired of her smile, Her dusky charms and each sweet, shy wile; And yet it was long ere, poor trusting dove, Her faith was shaken in the white man's love; And now one last tryst she had asked of him In this haunted glade in the forest dim.

He had lightly vowed, as such men will do, To the place and hour that he would be true; She had waited since the dawn broke chill, Till the sun was setting behind the hill; But for him, amid scenes of fashion gay, All thought of his promise had pa.s.sed away.

"I will wait for him here," she softly said, "Yes, wait till he comes," and her weary head Drooped low on her breast, and when the night, On noiseless pinions had taken its flight, She looked at the sunrise, with eyes grown dim, And murmured: "I'll wait here for death or him."

It was death that came, and with kindly touch He stilled the heart that had borne so much; To the _Manitou_ praying, she pa.s.sed away With the sunset clouds of another day,-- No anger quickened her failing breath, Patient, unmurmuring, even in death.

For days they sought her, the sons of her race, In deep far-off woods, in each secret place, Till at length to the haunted glade they crept, And found her there as in death she slept.

They whispered low of the spirit of ill, And buried her quickly beside the hill.

That year her false lover back with him bore A radiant bride to his native sh.o.r.e.

And, with smiling triumph and joy elate, Ne'er gave one thought to his dark love's fate; But an All-seeing Judge, in wrath arrayed, Shall avenge the wrongs of that Indian maid.

A PLEA FOR OUR NORTHERN WINTERS.

"Oh, Earth, where is the mantle of pleasant emerald dye That robed thee in sweet summer-time, and gladdened heart and eye, Adorned with blooming roses, graceful ferns and blossoms sweet, And bright green moss like velvet that lay soft beneath our feet?"

"What! am I not as lovely in my garb of spotless white?

Was young bride in her beauty ever clothed in robe as bright?

Or, if you seek for tinting warm, at morn and evening hour, You'll find me bathed in blushes bright as those of summer flower."

"But, Earth, I miss the verdure of thy woods and forests old, The waving of their foliage, casting shadows o'er the wold, The golden sunbeams peering 'mid the green leaves here and there, And I sigh to see the branches so cheerless and so bare."

"But oft they're clothed in ermine to the sight and touch more fair Than the costly robing monarchs for regal garments wear, Whilst at times the glitt'ring branches with jewels are ablaze, The Frost King's pearls and diamonds flashing back the light's clear rays."

"Well, I grieve to see thy rivers, thy lakes and mountain streams, That in summer rippled gaily beneath the suns' glad beams, As light barks glided swiftly o'er their azure waves at will, Held now in icy barriers that guard them cold and still."

"But, see their gla.s.sy bosom, what scene could be more bright?

How gaily o'er the surface darts the skater, strong and light; And happy, cheerful voices ring out from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, And forms are clearly mirrored on that dazzling crystal floor."

"Ah, Earth, I cannot listen to thy soft, persuasive voice, Though the pleasures thou can'st offer may make other hearts rejoice, For with love and fond regret I recall each cloudless day, Spent with friends in sunny rambles--when the whole world seemed at play."

"Why, the time for pleasant converse is the winter's stormy night, Its long and quiet evenings, with fire and tapers bright, The soothing strains of music, laughter, jest and happy song,-- Yes! the dearest of all pleasures to the winter-time belong."

"I yield! Oh, Earth, thou hast thy charms, I grant it freely now, In winter's sterner hours, as when the spring-buds deck thy brow, So, a truce to idle grieving o'er summer beauties fled, Our northern winters we'll accept with grateful hearts instead."

RICH AND POOR.

'Neath the radiance faint of the starlit sky The gleaming snow-drifts lay wide and high; O'er hill and dell stretched a mantle white, The branches glittered with crystal bright; But the winter wind's keen icy breath Was merciless, numbing and chill as death.

It clamored around a handsome pile-- Abode of modern wealth and style Where smiling guests had gathered to greet Its master's birth-day with welcome meet; And clink of gla.s.ses and loud gay tone, With song and jest, drowned the wind's wild moan.

Yet, farther on, another abode Its pillared portico proudly showed.

From its windows high flowed streams of light, Mingling with outside shadows of night; And the strains of music rapid, gay-- Told well how within sped the hours away.

Steal but one glance at that magic scene, And long you will spell-bound gaze, I ween, On mirrors and flowers, and paintings old, And side-boards heaped with vessels of gold; Proud, stately men and women most fair, Glitt'ring in toilets, marvellous, rare.

Sharp grief may torture many a heart, But its pangs are hid with wond'rous art; b.r.e.a.s.t.s may harbor hate, envy or guile, But all is concealed 'neath the studied smile; And carelessly gay is each well-trained face, As the dancers flash past with magic grace.

Not far away, down yon narrow lane, Where poverty herds with guilt and pain, Are _homes_ where the wind finds entrance free, Searching each cranny with savage glee, And freezing the blood of those within, Through their wretched garments, scant and thin.

List to the music that meets the ear!

No sweet strains of _Strauss_ will greet you here, But the moan of sickness, the feeble wail Of suff'ring childhood--of mothers pale, The groan of despair, or, alas, still worse!

The blasphemous jest, or fierce, deep curse.

See! on yon board is their banquet spread, Coa.r.s.e broken remnants of mouldy bread; No cheerful flame in the fire-place bare To temper the cold of the biting air, Or the chill of the snow on the rotting floor, Drifting beneath the ill-closed door.

O, woman, one gem from those that deck Thy taper fingers, white brow or neck; Young girl, a rose from thy glossy hair, One inch of that lace so costly and rare, Would give food and heat, and cheerful light To that wretched home, for at least one night.

Revellers met round the festive board, A hot house fruit from your dainty h.o.a.rd, The price of one draught of that wine, so old That it seems as precious as liquid gold, Would bring joy to more than one aching breast, And smiles to lips unused to such guest.

Children of fashion, children of wealth, Who hear harsh truths, as it were, by stealth, An hour will come to all who live Of their stewardship here strict account to give Before the Great Judge, wise, stern and pure, Who will justice mete to both rich and poor.

Well for you then if kind word and deed, Or generous alms to those in need, Have marked the course of your life's brief dream, They'll plead for you in that hour supreme, Outweigh past errors, and justice move To the side of mercy and pitying love.

BENEATH THE SNOW.

'Twas near the close of the dying year, And December's winds blew cold and drear, Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet In gusty whirls through square and street, Shrieking more wildly and fiercely still In the dreary grave-yard that crowns the hill.

No mourners there to sorrow or pray, But soon a traveller pa.s.sed that way: He paused and leant against the low stone wall, While sighs breathed forth from the pine-trees tall That darkly look down on the silent crowd Of graves, all wrapped in a snowy shroud.

Solemn and weird was the spectral scene-- The tombstones white, with low mounds between, The awful stillness, eerie and dread, Brooding above that home of the dead, While Christmas fires lit up each hearth And shed their glow upon scenes of mirth.

Silent the weary wayfarer stood-- The spot well suited his pensive mood, And severed friendships, bright day-dreams flown, Thronged on his thoughts in that moment lone.

"Yes, happiness-hope," he murmured low, "All buried alike beneath the snow."

"O, for the right to lay down the load I've borne so long on life's dreary road, Heavily weighing on heart and brain, And as galling to both as a convict's chain;-- No more its strain shall I tamely bear But join the peaceful sleepers there."

His head on the old wall drooped more low, Whilst faster came down the sleet and snow, Sharply chilling the blood in his veins, Racking his frame with rheumatic pains; "No matter," he thought, "I'll soon lie low, Calm--quiet enough--beneath the snow."

Ah! hapless one, thus thine arms to yield When nearly won, perchance, is the field.

After long struggling to lose at last The price of many a victory past, Of many an hour of keen, sharp strife, Mournfully spent in the war of Life.