our loved ones are sleeping, and they shall sleep on. Ages hence, when strange people shall - when possess this land, and call it their home, these winding paths around the mountain, and the shining brook in the valley below, dear to all this tribe, shall be frequented by another race, who know us not, - then, in those days, when the winds come in from the big waters, the palefaced lad shall leave his sport in the forest, the damsel shall flee to the wigwam, the white man at the spring shall draw his blanket closer around him, and cast his melancholy glance toward the ocean; but even then our secret will be safe, for his feeble eyes shall never penetrate the veil that hangs around that aërial vault. "The honored father, in the midst of life's career; the happy husband; the young and joyous wife; the lovely maiden, her parents' pride; the loved of many hearts, shall sigh, and droop, and fade. Myriads shall bewail the piercing, chilling EAST WIND; but none shall ever know that it loitered in the halls of our dead, before encircling them in its cold embrace." On the following day, that small band of the Massachusetts nation were on their way toward the setting sun. THE TEACHING OF THE SENSES. THE eye is but a grated pane, Through which the clay-imprisoned soul We gaze and gaze, and sometimes dream Which makes the cheated dreamer start. We feel that these are signs- not things— And yearning fancy turns to faith, The ear doth catch sweet tones around Sweet, stolen string from heaven's lyre. And this is whispered to the heart; The rose regales, yet seems to cheat, Not satisfy, the sense it wooes; The jaded palate turns away From that which first it seemed to choose. The nerve with sweet sensation thrills; And leaves the sickened soul within Thus every sense exalts the soul,- They lift us to the mountain top, Where earth and heaven in contrast lie, And bid us spurn this lower sphere, And spread the wing for yonder sky! THE TORRENT BOW. YE mad, ye mighty waters, that do take With your tremendous voice, - have you, in your This glorious arch? Did this fair structure, which From your so wild despair? How wonderful, That, from the struggling of your loud, loud agony, This thing should have been born—this thing, so calm, So silent, so unchangeful! Welcome be Affliction's tears and heaviness of heart; And let the light grow dim that sparkles in That on a young cheek bloom; and let the heart High hopes are dead, if, from its beatings sad, |