And far within that summer-wood,
Among the leaves so green,
There flows a little gurgling brook,
The brightest e'er was seen.

There come the little gentle birds,
Without a fear of ill,

Down to the murmuring water's edge,
And freely drink their fill!

And dash about and splash about,
The merry little things;
And look askance with bright black eyes.
And flirt their dripping wings.

I've seen the freakish squirrel drop
Down from their leafy tree,
The little squirrels with the old,—
Great joy it was to me!

And down unto the running brook
I've seen them nimbly go;
And the bright water seemed to speak
A welcome kind and low.

The nodding plants they bowed their heads,
As if, in heartsome cheer,
They spake unto those little things,
""Tis merry living here!"

Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy!
I saw that all was good,

And how we might glean up delight
All round us, if we would!

And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there,
Beneath the old wood-shade,

And all day long has work to do,
Nor is, of aught, afraid.

The green shoots grow above their heads,

And roots so fresh and fine Beneath their feet, nor is there strife 'Mong them for mine and thine.

There is enough for every one,
And they lovingly agree;
We might learn a lesson, all of us,
Beneath the green-wood tree!

HALLOWED BE THY NAME.

LIST to the dreamy tone that dwells
In rippling wave or sighing tree;
Go, hearken to the old church bells,

The whistling bird, the whizzing bee.
Interpret right, and ye will find

"Tis "power and glory" they proclaim: The chimes, the creatures, waters, wind, All publish, "hallowed be thy name!"

The pilgrim journeys till he bleeds,
To gain the altar of his sires;
The hermit pores above his beads,

With zeal that never wanes nor tires;

But holiest rite or longest prayer

That soul can yield or wisdom frame,

What better import can it bear

Than, "FATHER! hallowed be thy name!"

LOW SHE LIES, WHO BLEST OUR EYES.

The savage kneeling to the sun,

To give his thanks or ask a boon ;

The raptures of the idiot one,

Who laughs to see the clear round moon;
The saint well taught in Christian lore;

The Moslem prostrate at his flame-
All worship, wonder, and adore;

All end in," hallowed be thy name!"

Whate'er may be man's faith or creed,
Those precious words comprise it still :
We trace them on the bloomy mead,
We hear them in the flowing rill.
One chorus hails the Great Supreme;
Each varied breathing tells the same.
The strains may differ; but the theme

Is, "FATHER! hallowed be thy name!"

153

LOW SHE LIES, WHO BLEST OUR EYES.

Low SHE lies, who blest our eyes

Through many a sunny day :

She may not smile, she will not rise,

The life hath past away!

Yet there is a world of light beyond,

Where we neither die nor sleep;

She is there, of whom our souls were fond,—
Then wherefore do we weep?

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright
She scarce seemed made to die.

154

LOW SHE LIES, WHO ELEST OUR EYES.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,

Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow,—
Then wherefore do we weep?

Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was a gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone,
There is silence still and deep;

Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne,—
Then wherefore do we weep?

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe,
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all,—

And her glossy golden hair!

But though that lid may never wake

From its dark and dreamless sleep,

She is gone where young hearts do not break,-
Then wherefore do we weep?

That world of light with joy is bright,

This is a world of woe:

Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,

Because we dwell below?

We will bury her under the mossy sod,

And one long bright tress we 'll keep ;
We have only given her back to God,—
Ah! wherefore do we weep?

ORIANA.

"Where was she?-'Mid the people of the wild,—
By the red hunter's fire.—An aged Chief,
Whose home look'd sad,—for therein dwelt no child,
Had borne her in the stillness of her grief
To his lone cabin: and that gentle guide
By faith and sorrow rais'd and purified,—
To the blest Cross her Indian fosterers led,
Until their prayers were one.'

MRS. HEMANS.

AMONG the customs which distinguished the natives of our country, ere the originality of their character became prostrated, and its energies broken, few were more unique and interesting, than the ceremony of adoption. This was the selection of an individual to fill the place of some near relative removed by death. It was more generally the resort of families bereaved of a son, and the choice was often from among prisoners taken in battle. It has been known to snatch the victim from the stake, and to encircle him with all the domestic charities. The transferred affection of parents was often, in such cases, most ardent and enduring. Especially if any resemblance existed between the buried and the adopted object, mothers were prone to cherish an idolatry of tenderness. Instances have been recorded in which the most ancient national animosities,