Of him alone she thought, whose languid head
Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell;

Memory of aught but him on earth was fled,
While heavily she felt his life-blood well

Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound,
Yet hoped, still hoped!-Oh! from such hope how long
Affection wooes the whispers that deceive,

Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong, And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe The blow indeed can fall! So bow'd she there, Over the dying, while unconscious prayer

Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight down, Veining the pine-stems thro' the foliage brown, And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place,

Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face,

Whereby she caught its changes: to her eye,

The eye that faded look'd through gathering haze,

Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony,

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze,

When voice was not: that fond sad meaning pass'd—

She knew the fulness of her wo at last!

One shriek the forests heard,—and mute she lay,
And cold; yet clasping still the precious clay

To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death!
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth,
Many and sad! but airs of heavenly breath

Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth

Is far apart.

Now light, of richer hue

Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew; The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play'd, Bright-colour'd birds with splendour cross'd the shade, Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke

Into young life and joy all happy things.

And she too woke from that long dreamless trance, The widow'd Edith: fearfully her glance

Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange,

And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change
Flash'd o'er her spirit, ev'n ere memory swept
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept ;
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled,
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough,
With all its whispers, wav'd not o'er her now,—
Where was she? Midst the people of the wild,
By the red hunter's fire: an aged chief,

Whose home look'd sad-for therein play'd no child—
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief,

To that lone cabin of the woods; and there,

Won by a form so desolately fair,

Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung,

O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung,

While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye,

The ancient warrior of the waste stood by,

Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head,
And leaning on his bow.

D

And life return'd,

Life, but with all its memories of the dead,

To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore
The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore,
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair,
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air,
Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon

Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen
A daughter to the land of spirits go,

And ever from that time her fading mien,

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, Had haunted their dim years; but Edith's face Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place, And they again seem'd parents. Oh! the joy, The rich, deep blessedness-tho' earth's alloy, Fear, that still bodes, be there-of pouring forth The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and worth

Of strong affection, in one healthful flow,

On something all its own!—that kindly glow,

Which to shut inward is consuming pain,

Gives the glad soul its flowering time again,
When, like the sunshine, freed.—And gentle cares
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs

Who lov'd her thus:—her spirit dwelt, the while,
With the departed, and her patient smile

Spoke of farewells to earth;—yet still she pray'd,
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace

Brightly recording that her dwelling-place

Had been among the wilds; for well she knew
The secret whisper of her bosom true,

Which warn'd her hence.

And now, by many a word

Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd,

By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn,

Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dim,