For the shadow of thy presence,

Round our camp of rock outspread ;

For the stern defiles of battle,

Bearing record of our dead;

For the snows and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial sod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.*

But by my wrongs and by my wrath,

To-morrow Areouski's breath

That fires yon Heaven with storms of death,
Shall guide me to the foe!

Indian Song in "Gertrude of Wyoming."

SCENE-The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees. HERRMANN, the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight.

Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone

swift canoe

Shooting across the waters ?-No, a flash

*Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.

From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again

In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark

Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze

Comes through the forest. In this new, strange

world,

Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems

The mighty melancholy of the woods!

The desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own father-land,

Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know

Of what is solitude! In hours like this,

There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage hearths Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,

To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,

On the home path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,

The clustered faces of his children shine

To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!

Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope

By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,

Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be filled!-Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnize
My lonely life, if for thine altar here

In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win

The offering of one heart, one human heart,

Bleeding, repenting, loving!

Hark! a step,

An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound

'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass

Gliding so serpent-like.

[He comes forward and meets an Indian

warrior armed.

Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form

Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye

Discerns thy face.

Enonio.

My father speaks my name.

Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase

returned?

The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?

Enonio.

The warrior's arrow knows of nobler

prey

Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave

The lone path free.

Herrmann.

The forest way is long

From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile

Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak

Of these things further.

Enonio.

Tell me not of rest!

My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift.—

I must begone.

Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior, thou must

stay!

The Mighty One hath given me power to search Thy soul with piercing words—and thou must stay,

And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart

Be

grown thus restless, is it not because