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48. Mourn not for her! for what hath life to give That should detain her ready spirit here? Thinkest thou that it were worth a wish to live, Could wishes hold her from her proper sphere? That simple heart, that innocence sincere The world would stain. Fitter she ne'er could be For the great change ; and now that change is near,

Oh who would keep her soul from being free? Maiden beloved of Heaven, to die is best for thee !

49. She hath past away, and on her lips a smile Hath settled, fix'd in death. Judged they aright, Or suffered they their fancy to beguile The reason, who believed that she had sight Of Heaven before her spirit took its flight; That Angels waited round her lowly bed ; And that in that last effort of delight,

When lifting up her dying arms, she said, I come ! a ray from heaven upon

her face was shed ?

50.
St. Joachin's had never seen a day
Of such profuse and general grief before,
As when with tapers, dirge, and long array
The Maiden's body to the grave they bore.
All eyes, all hearts, her early death deplore;
Yet wondering at the fortune they lament,
They the wise ways of Providence adore,

By whom the Pastor surely had been sent
When to the Mondai woods upon his quest he went.

51.
This was, indeed, a chosen family,
For Heaven's especial favour mark'd, they said ;
Shut out from all mankind they seem'd to be,
Yet mercifully there were visited,
That so within the fold they might be led,
Then call’d away to bliss. Already two
In their baptismal innocence were dead ;

The third was on the bed of death they knew, And in the appointed course must presently ensue.

52. Theymarvell’d, therefore, when theyouth once more Rose from his bed and walk'd abroad again ; Severe had been the malady, and sore The trial, while life struggled to maintain Its seat against the sharp assaults of pain : But life in him was vigorous ; long he lay Ere it could its ascendancy regain,

Then when the natural powers resumed their sway All trace of late disease past rapidly away.

53. The first inquiry when his niind was free, Was for his sister. She was gone, they said, Gone to her Mother, evermore to be With her in Heaven. At this no tears he shed, Nor was he seen to sorrow for the dead; But took the fatal tidings in such part As if a dull unfeeling nature bred

His unconcern; for hard would seem the heart To which a loss like his no suffering could impart.

54. How little do they see what is, who frame Their hasty judgement upon that which seems! Waters that babble on their

way proclaim A shallowness: but in their strength deep streams Flow silently. Of death Yeruti deems Not as an ill, but as the last great good, Compared wherewith all other he esteems Transient and void: how then should thought in

trude Of sorrow in his heart for their beatitude ?

;

55. While dwelling in their sylvan solitude Less had Yeruti learnt to entertain A sense of age than death. He understood Something of death from creatures he had slain But here the ills which follow in the train Of age had first to him been manifest, ... The shrunken form, the limbs that move with pain,

The failing sense, infirmity, unrest, That in his heart he said to die betimes was best.

56. Nor had he lost the dead: they were but gone Before him, whither he should shortly go. Their robes of glory they had first put on; He, cumber'd with mortality, below Must yet abide awhile, content to know He should not wait in long expectance here. What cause then for repining, or for woe ?

Soon shall he join them in their heavenly sphere, And often, even now, he knew that they were near.

57. 'T was but in open day to close his eyes, And shut out the unprofitable view Of all this

weary

world's realities, And forthwith, even as if they lived anew, The dead were with him ; features, form and hue, And looks and gestures were restored again : Their actual presence in his heart he knew ;

And when their converse was disturb’d, oh then How flat and stale it was to mix with living men !

58.
But not the less, whate'er was to be done,
With living men he took his part content,
At loom, in garden, or a-field, as one
Whose spirit wholly on obedience bent,
To every task its prompt attention lent.
Alert in labour he among the best;
And when to church the congregation went,

None more exact than he to cross his breast, And kneel, or rise, and do in all things like the rest.

59. Cheerful he was, almost like one elate With wine, before it hath disturb’d his

power Of reason. Yet he seem'd to feel the weight Of time; for always when from yonder tower He heard the clock tell out the passing hour, The sound appeared to give him some delight: And when the evening shades began to lower,

Then was he seen to watch the fading light As if his heart rejoiced at the return of night.

60.
The old man to whom he had been given in care,
To Dobrizhoffer came one day and said,
The trouble which our youth was thought to bear
With such indifference hath deranged his head.
He says that he is nightly visited ;
His Mother and his Sister come and say
That he must give this message from the dead,

Not to defer his baptism, and delay
A soul upon the earth which should no longer stay.

61.
A dream the Jesuit deem'd it; a deceit
Upon itself by feverish fancy wrought;
A mere delusion which it were not meet
To censure, lest the youth's distemper'd thought
Might thereby be to farther error brought;
But he himself its vanity would find,
They argued thus, if it were noticed not.

His baptism was in fitting time design'd
The Father said, and then dismiss'd it from his mind.

62. But the old Indian came again ere long With the same tale, and freely then confest His doubt that he had done Yeruti wrong ; For something more than common seem'd imprest; And now he thought that certes it were best From the youth's lips his own account to hear, Haply the Father then to his request

Might yield, regarding his desire sincere, Nor wait for farther time if there were aught to fear.

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