The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
And the sickle cut down the yellow corn,—
The mower sung loud by the meadow side,

Where the mists of evening were spreading wide,
And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.

Then the hunter turned away from that scene,
Where the home of his fathers once had been,
And heard by the distant and measured stroke,
That the woodman hewed down the giant oak,
And burning thoughts flashed over his mind
Of the white man's faith, and love unkind.

The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white,-
A footstep was heard in the rustling brake,
Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake,
And a mourning voice and a plunge from shore ;-
And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.

When years had passed on, by that still lake-side
The fisher looked down through the silver tide,
And there, on the smooth yellow sand displayed,
A skeleton wasted and white was laid,

And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow
That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.

F2

AN INDIAN STORY.

"I know where the timid fawn abides

In the depths of the shaded dell,

Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides,
With its many stems and its tangled sides,
From the eye of the hunter well.

"I know where the young May violet grows, In its lone and lowly nook,

On the mossy bank, where the larch tree throws Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose,

Far over the silent brook.

"And that timid fawn starts not with fear
When I steal to her secret bower,
And that young May violet to me is dear,
And I visit the silent streamlet near,
To look on the lovely flower."

Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks
To the hunting ground on the hills;

'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills.

He goes to the chase-but evil eyes

Are at watch in the thicker shades;

For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs,

And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize,

The flower of the forest maids.

The boughs in the morning wind are stirred,
And the woods their song renew,

With the early carol of many a bird,

And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard
Where the hazels trickle with dew.

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,
Ere eve shall redden the sky,

A good red deer from the forest shade,
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade,
At her cabin door shall lie.

The hollow woods, in the setting sun,
Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;

And Maquon's sylvan labours are done,
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won
He bears on his homeward way.

He stops near his bower-his eye perceives
Strange traces along the ground-

At once, to the earth his burden he heaves,
He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves,
And gains its door with a bound.

But the vines are torn on its walls that leart,
And all from the young shrubs there

By struggling hands have the leaves been rent,

And there hangs, on the sassafras broken and bent, One tress of the well known hair.

But where is she who at this calm hour,
Ever watched his coming to see,

She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower,
He calls-but he only hears on the flower
The hum of the laden bee.

It is not a time for idle grief,

Nor a time for tears to flow,

The horror that freezes his limbs is brief-
He grasps his war axe and bow, and a sheaf
Of darts made sharp for the foe.

And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet,
Where he bore the maiden away;

And he darts on the fatal path more fleet
Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet
O'er the wild November day.

'T was early Summer when Maquon's bride
Was stolen away from his door;

But at length the maples in crimson are dyed,
And the grape is black on the cabin side,-

And she smiles at his hearth once more.

But far in a pine grove, dark and cold,
Where the yellow leaf falls not,

Nor the Autumn shines in scarlet and gold,

There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould,
In the deepest gloom of the spot.

And the Indian girls, that pass that way,
Point out the ravisher's grave;

"And how soon to the bower she loved," they say,
"Returned the maid that was borne away
From Maquon the fond and the brave."

THE SOUL OF SONG.

Where lives the Soul of song?

Dwells it amid the city's festive halls?
Where crowd the eager throng,

Or where the wanderer's silent footstep falls?

Loves it the gay saloon,

Where wine and dances steal away the night,

And bright as summer noon

Burns round the pictured walls a blaze of light?

Seeks it the public square,

When victory hails the people's chosen son,

And loud applauses there

From lip to lip in emulous greetings run?

Dwells it amid the host,.

Who bear their crimson banners waving high;