But from my subject I have strayed;
Kind Heaven much mercy has displayed
In naming which should silent be,
When wives and husbands disagree.
To His blest word I you may commend,
Adieu.- -Your faithful, scribbling friend,
At a recent lecture, delivered by Mr. Catlin, on the manners and customs of the Indians, the following circumstance was related. A portrait of a very beautiful Indian girl had been painted by Mr. C., and a copy of it solicited for the purpose of hanging it up in the fort where he had been staying. Soon after the girl died. After her decease, her father went to the fort to solicit the picture of his daughter; he entreated earnestly for it, and said he had brought with him ten horses, which were at the gate,-his lodge, with every thing of value in it, and the whole he offered to give for the picture. It is scarcely necessary to add that he was put in possession of it. The following has been suggested by the circumstance:
Ay! take it-to thine Indian home,
The priceless treasure bear;
And may its gentle aspect still
The storms of sorrow there.
Stern chief! thy child is rent away,
We cannot give thee back
The light that made thy path so fair
Along life's changing track.
Yet take the semblance picture true,
By skill unerring traced;
Take all that's left thee of thy joy,
And be the relic placed
Where oft thine eye shall calmly rest,
When dimmed with age forlorn,
When earthly lights are fading fast,
And thou canst only mourn.
"T will lead thee back to brighter days,
When she was with thee yet,
Like some mild star she was to thee,
And though that star has set,
Its fading light will linger still,
To make the vision blest
That greets the past-exploring eye,
And gives the spirit rest.
Go to thy forest home, O chief!
Bear this sweet gift away,
Sad is thine heart for thy lost one,
Thine anguish who shall stay?
And take thy proffered treasures back,
The stranger heeds them not;
All unmolested be thy path
To thine own native spot.
And when within the home she loved,
Thou seest the image fair,
Of her whose voice so late was heard
In joyous accents there,
O! think thee of that world unseen,
Where dwell the lost-the dead-
And may sweet hopes upon thee dawn,
Though earthly joy has fled!
BY MONTGOMERY.
There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.
The storm that rends the wintry sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.
I long to lay this weary head.
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.
For misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild!
I perish! Oh, thou mother earth!
Take home thy child.
On thy dear lap, these limbs reclined,
Shall gently moulder into thee,
Nor leave the smallest trace behind
Resembling me.
Hark! a strange voice salutes mine ear!
My pulse, my brain runs wild! I rave!
Ah! who art thou, whose voice I hear?
I am the grave.
The grave that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide;
Ah! listen, I will speak no more,
Be silent pride.
Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn,
The victim of consuming care?
Is thy distracted conscience torn
By fell despair?
Do foul misdeeds of former times.
Sting with remorse thy guilty breast?
And ghosts of unforbidden crimes
Murder thy rest?
I charge thee live, repent and pray
In dust, thy sinfulness deplore;
There yet is mercy, go thy way
And sin no more.
Art thou a mourner? hast thou seen
The joys of innocent delights,
Endearing days, forever flown,
And tranquil nights?
Ah! live, and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past,
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will
For peace at last.
Art thou a wanderer? hast thou seen
O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark?
A ship-wrecked traveller, hast thou been
Misfortune's mark?
Though long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemned in wretchedness to roam;
Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port,
A quiet home.
Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be,
Confess thy folly; kiss the rod,
And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of God.
A bruised reed he will not break,
Afflictions all his children feel,
He wounds them for his mercy's sake,
He wounds to heal.
Now, traveller in this vale of tears
To realms of everlasting light,
Through time's dark wilderness of fears,
Pursue thy flight.
The sun a semblance is of fire-
A shining meteor in the sky;
Thy soul, immortal as its sire,
Shall never die.
Ah! what is man? extremes how wide
In his mysterious nature joined !
The flesh to worms and dust allied,
The soul immortal and divine.
Divine at first, a holy flame
Kindled by Heaven's inspiring breath,
Till sin with power prevailing came;
Then followed darkness, shame and death.
But God's own son, amazing grace,
Assumed our nature as his own,
Obeyed, and suffered in our place,
Then took it with him to his throne.
Now, what is man, when grace reveals
The virtue of a Savior's blood?
Again a life divine he feels,
Despises earth, and walks with God.
And what, in yonder realms above,
Is ransomed man ordained to be?
With honor, holiness and love,
No seraph more adorned than he.
Nearest the throne, and first in song,
Man shall his hallelujahs raise,
While wondering angels round him throng, And swell the chorus of his praise.
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