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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
Looks dimly forth on earth and sky,
Yet deeming all a heaven-writ scroll.

We gaze and gaze, and sometimes dream
That these may satisfy the heart;
But, lo! an after longing comes,

Which makes the cheated dreamer start.

We feel that these are signs- not things—
Prophetic visions cast before;

And yearning fancy turns to faith,
Making us sure of something more.

The ear doth catch sweet tones around
From woman's tongue and Eol's choir;
Yet this earth-music is but one

Sweet, stolen string from heaven's lyre.

And this is whispered to the heart;
For, though the raptured sense be blest
With song, a yearning wish will rise
For something still to fill the breast.

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;
Yet languor comes to claim its turn,

And leaves the sickened soul within
For something better still to yearn.

Thus every sense exalts the soul,-
Bestows a transient draught of bliss,
Then breaks the cup, to make us thirst
For surer, purer joys than this.

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
Your desperate, headlong course adown the steep
And ragged precipice, deafening the ear

With your tremendous voice, - have you, in your
Impetuosity, thus formed this bright,

This glorious arch? Did this fair structure, which
Doth with such silent majesty spread out
Its arms, so angel-like, above the rocks
And boiling foam, derive its heavenly being

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
A laughing eye; and let the roses fade

That on a young cheek bloom; and let the heart
Tremblingly beat in sorrow, that its young,

High hopes are dead, if, from its beatings sad,
Faith, steadfast faith, in the unbounded love
And wisdom of our God, hath its sublime
Existence. Yes, ah! welcome be to me
The torrent of affliction, if the bow
Of pious resignation thence be born.

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