And seldom had his parting ray

To light a lovelier scene, been given, Since first he trod his radiant way Across the azure vault of heaven.

For not on hill and vale and stream,
And glittering leaf and sacred tower
Alone, was shed his evening beam,—
It lit devotion's hallowed hour.

For there was heard the solemn bell,
That told of peace and rest and prayer;

And there arose the anthem's swell,

And holy words were spoken there.

And there the forest-warrior stood,

With bow unstrung and humbled pride;

And longing there for heavenly food,

The dark browed matron pressed his side.

And tottering age and vigorous youth,

And childhood with its steadfast gaze, Heard wondrous words of heavenly truth,

And knelt in prayer and joined in praise.

And o'er the heaven-directing page,
The man of God enraptured hung;
While wisdom's aphorisms sage

Distilled like honey from his tongue.

And many a holy look was given,
To him that bent that look above;

His brow was bright with light from heaven, His soul with heaven's all-brightening love.

And had he ever known an hour,
Less holy, less serene than this—
If sin's dark shade or sorrow's shower,
Had ever stained that brow of his,

Like yon

dark thunder-cloud 'tis past, And brilliantly upon its breast,

Through tears of woe had mercy cast,
A glittering bow of peace and rest!

Why had this holy wanderer come,
O'er desert-land and pathless sea?
Why had he left his own bright home-
His father-land, famed Germany?

Why far into this desert wild,
From the refined abodes of men,
With his loved wife and only child,
Sought he the distant forest glen?

His hopes had bridged the boundless deepThe gulf 'twixt earth and Eden's bowers; And his heart longed to lead Christ's sheep From Dead-sea fruits to Eden's flowers.

Nor he alone-for she who strove-
And lingered on Moriah's hill,
When stronger nerves, but weaker love,
Had left the foe to do his will-

Yes, she whose panegyric is,

Last at the cross, first at the grave, Had shared his toil and deemed it bliss, The sons of savage sires to save.

And that young matron's brow was fair, Half hid 'neath locks of golden sheen

And lovely as a thing of air,

Was little, rosy Wilhelmine.

With wavy curls of flaxen hair

And forehead rising pure and high ;— And breast as mountain's snow-wreaths fair,And eyes like stars in winter's sky;

Fair, buoyant, bright and beautiful—
A brilliant thing of smiles and bliss—
A soul, of heaven's own light too full,
To linger in a world like this.

And soon was that immortal flower-
That bud of beauty, lent, not given,
From blighting sin and sorrow's shower
Transplanted safe to bloom in heaven!

PART II.

'Twas night-the skies were cloudless blue,

And all around was hushed and still,

Save paddle of the light canoe,

And wailing of the whip-poor-will,

The moon was like a silver thread,

Just sinking in the green wood's bosom ; And swift from heaven the night-dews sped, With pearly gifts for leaf and blossom.

And soft as balmy dews of night,
Upon the beauteous blossom's breast
Came slumber, and her finger light
On every closing eyelid pressed.

"Twas noon of night-no sound arose-
The weary eye forgot its weeping;
And wrapped in bonds of bland repose,
The aged and the young lay sleeping.

But hark! upon the startled air,
Wild, unexpected howlings rise;

The lurid conflagration's glare

Is brightening all the midnight skies.

Up! sleepers up! awake, and fly,

By the dread lamp your foes have lighted!

To the dark-green wood's bosom hie;

Your homes are gone-your hopes are blighted!