her sisterhood can suffer by long lives of penance. Let her say that in my extremity I denied not the cross, but died courageously." Allewemi promised all she asked, and faithfully performed his promise.

A child of faith-a martyr does not perish without the ministry of celestial spirits. The expression of despair vanished from Françoise's face. A supernatural joy beamed from her eyes, which were cast upward-her spirit seemed eager to spring from its prison-house-she mounted the pile most cheerfully, and standing erect and undaunted, "Happy am I," she exclaimed, "thus permitted to die in my own country, and by the hand of my kindred, after the example of my Saviour, who was nailed to the cross by his own people." She then pressed the crucifix to her lips, and signed to her executioners to put fire to the pile. They stood motionless with the firebrands in their hands-Françoise appeared to be a voluntary sacrifice, not a victim.

Her father was maddened by her victorious constancy. He leaped upon the pile, and tearing the crucifix from her hands, he drew his knife from his girdle, and made an incision on her breast in the form of a cross-"Behold!" he said, the sign thou lovest-the sign of thy league with thy fa

ther's enemies-the sign that made thee deaf to the voice of thy kindred."

"Thank thee, my father!" replied Françoise, with a triumphant smile; “I might have lost the cross thou hast taken from me, but this which thou hast given me, I shall bear even after death."

The pile was fired-the flames curled upwards; and the IROQUOIS MARTYR perished.

A

LEGEND OF THE FOREST.

WHAT time o'er western field and flood,
The eagle and lion poured out their blood,
And St. George's cross, as it waved on high,
Paled in Columbia's starry sky:-

A youthful soldier of the band,

Who, for their homes and native land,
Went forth to ward the deadly blow,
Aimed by their country's ancient foe,—
By the moon's pale light, in moody dream,
Strayed near Niagara's torrent stream,
And wrapt in thoughts of minstrel lore,
Thus mused along the sounding shore:-
"Alas for the days of other times!
"Alas for the wonders of elder climes!
"Here's all of torrent, and land, and lake,
"That might the poet's raptures wake,
"But where's the spirit, the mystic soul,

"To warm, to stir, and give life to the whole!
"With scenes like these were there mingled aught
"That tradition told or that history taught,

"Had but the classic soil been trod

66 By the foot of hero or demi-god,

"And for cabin of bark or modern town,

"Were there tower and temple toppling down,— "Rapt by association's spell,

"How might our bardic numbers swell.

"But can inspiration e'er be drawn,

"From groves that never knew nymph or faun?
"No Dryad e'er haunted those towering trees,
"And yon stream never dreamed of Naiades;
"Not a fay, like the elves of Arthur's days,
"E'er danced the round by our fire-flies' blaze;
"The eastern magi deny our right,

"To a single genius of lamp or light;
"The sylph, if ever sylph there were,
"Has melted away into native air;
"And below the daring miner's cave,
"The gnome lies locked in his golden grave.

"But hence, ye fancies wild and vain!

"Lo, living heroes press the plain;

"Away ye shadows of the past!

"A mightier spirit rides the blast,
"FREEDOM, our genius, tried and true,

"Whom yet the old world never knew."

He paused, for the signal bugle rung,

And abroad, from the answering drum, was flung

The loud tattoo over hill and dell,

To his cares, the soldier's sweet farewell.

He turned from the shore-when lo, at his side,
Stalked a forest chief in his warrior pride:
A moment-the glittering blade was drawn:
A moment-the figure was faded and gone.
Was it fancy? No matter, the watch-fire's light,
Through brake and thicket led him aright;
And, the lonely sentinel's challenge past,
He gained the silent camp at last,

Where his comrades in careless slumbers lay,
Nor dream'd of the morrow's deadly fray.
In his buffalo robe, thrown loosely around,
He cast himself on the frosted ground;
And courted sleep on a soldier's bed,

With the shantee's shelter o'er his head,

And his feet outstretched toward the glowing brand,

And his faithful weapon graspt in his hand.

Did he dream: he thought that through all that night,

The shadowy warrior sat in his sight,
And still, as he made attempt to rise,
Held him there with his glassy eyes.
Of gigantic frame he seemed,-his dress
Of an age and a nation none might guess;
He spake in a language strange and uncouth,
Yet 'twas understood by the charmed youth,
Who felt, as he heard the spell-like strain,
Its meaning burned upon his brain.