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And his hut is ruined now
On the rocky mountain-brow;
The fathers' bones are all neglected,
And the children's hearts dejected.

Therefore, Indian people, flee
To the furthest western sea;
Let us yield our pleasant land
To the stranger's stronger hand;
Red men and their realms must sever;
They forsake them, and forever!



Chidhar The Prophet, ever young,
Thus loosed the bridle of his tongue.

I journeyed by a goodly town, Beset with many a garden fair, And asked with one who gathered down Large fruit how long the town was there. He spoke, nor chose his hand to stay, —"The town has stood for many a day, And will be here forever and aye."

A thousand years went by, and then
I went the selfsame road again.

No vestige of that town I traced, —
But one poor swain his horn employed, —
His sheep unconscious browsed and grazed,
I asked, "When was that town destroyed?
He spoke, nor would his horn lay by,
"One thing may grow and another die,
But I know nothing of towns, — not I."


A thousand years went by, and then
I passed the self-same place again.

There in the deep of waters cast
His nets one lonely fisherman,
And as he drew them up at last,
I asked him how that lake began.
He looked at me and laughed to say,
"The waters spring forever and aye,
And fish are plenty every day."

A thousand years went by, and then
I went the self-same road again.

I found a country wild and rude,
And, axe in hand, beside a tree,
The hermit of that solitude, —
I asked how old that wood might be.
He spoke, — "I count not time at all,
A tree may rise, a tree may fall,
The forest overlives us all."

A thousand years went on, and then
I passed the self-same place again.

And there a glorious city stood,

And, 'mid tumultuous market-cry,

I asked when rose the town, where wood,

Pasture and lake, forgotten lie.

They heard me not, and little blame,—

For them the world is as it came,

And all things must be still the same.

A thousand years shall pass, and then
I mean to try that road again.





R. C. Trench.

Some murmur, when their sky is clear

And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear

In their great heaven of blue;
And some with thankful love are filled, If but one streak of light,
One ray of God's good mercy, gild

The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,

In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,

And all good things denied;
And hearts in poorest huts admire

How Love has in their aid
(Love that not ever seems to tire)

Such rich provision made.


Weep not for broad lands lost;
Weep not for fair hopes crost;

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Weep not when limbs wax old;
Weep not when friends grow cold;
Weep not that Death must part
Thine and the best loved heart;

Yet weep, weep all thou can,—
Weep, weep, because thou art

A sin-defiled man.

SUNDAYS. —Henry Vaughan.

Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss;

Heaven once a week;
The next world's gladness prepossessed in this;

A day to seek;
Eternity in time; the steps by which

Wc climb above all ages; lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich
And full redemption of the whole week's flight;
The pulleys unto headlong man; time's bower;

The narrow way;
Transplanted paradise; God's walking hour;

The cool o' th' day;
The creature's jubilee; God's parle with dust;
Heaven here; man on those hills of myrrh and
Angels descending; the returns of trust;

A gleam of glory after six days' showers;
The church's love-feasts; time's prerogative

And interest,
Deducted from the whole , the combs and hive,

And home of rest;
The milky way chalked out with suns; a clue

That guides through erring hours, and in full story
A taste of heaven on earth; the pledge and cue
Of a full feast, and the out-courts of glory.


"Say, what remains when hope is iled?; She answered, "Endless weeping!" For in the herdsman's eye she read Who in his shroud lay sleeping.

AtEmbsay rung the matin-bell, The stag was roused on Barden-fell; The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, And down the Wharfe a hern was flying; When near the cabin in the wood, In tartan clad and forest-green, With hound in leash and hawk in hood, The Boy of Egremond was seen. Blithe was his song, a song of yore; But where the rock is rent in two, And the river rushes through, His voice was heard no more! 'T was but a step! the gulf he past; But that step, — it was his last! As through the mist he winged his way (A cloud that hovers night and day), The hound hung back, and back he drew The master and his merlin too.

* In the twelfth century, William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword, and was afterwards established there by his uncle, David of Scotland.

He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mother's answer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale. See Whitaker's History of Craven.

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