Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there

sate

One young and fair; and oh! how desolate!
But undismay'd; while sank the crimson light,
And the high cedars darken'd with the night.
Alone she sate: tho' many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,
Were sever'd from her need and from her wo,

Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot Combat had rag'd, and brought the valiant low, And left them, with the history of their lot, Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene

4

For her whose home of other days had been
Midst the fair halls of England! but the love

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast but fear,

And by its might upborne all else above,

She shrank not-mark'd not that the dead were

near.

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
Is far apart.

birth

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.

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 miên,

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