And the day passed on, and the sun came down
To the hills of the west like an angel's crown;
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill,
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill,

Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled

All over the west like a wave of gold.

Yet he came not back-though the stars gave forth Their wizard light to the silent earth;

And his wife looked out from the lattice dim,

In the earnest manner of fear for him;

And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood

To welcome his father back from the wood!

He came not back-yet they found him soon
In the burning light of the morrow's noon,
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death,
Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath;
And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet,
Crouched silent and sad at the hunter's feet.

He slept in death;-but his sleep was one
Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon;
For his brow was black, and his open eye
Was red with the sign of agony;—

And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim,

That an evil deed had been done on him.

They buried him where his fathers laid,

By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade;

Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead,
And beldames muttered while prayers were said;
And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed
The damp earth down on the hunter's breast.

The seasons passed; and the autumn rain
And the colored forest returned again :
'Twas the very eve that the hunter died;
The winds wailed over the bare hill-side,
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook
Their red leaves over the swollen brook.

There came a sound on the night-air then,
Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men,
And louder and shriller it rose again,
Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain;
And trembled alike the timid and brave,
For they knew that it came from the hunter's

And, every year, when autumn flings
Its beautiful robe on created things,
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain,
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again,
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth,
Like the howl of a demon struggling forth.

grave:

WILLIAM O. B. PEABODY.

HYMN OF NATURE.

GOD of the carth's extended plains!

The dark green fields contented lie:

The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky :

The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,

Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,

Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To weave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry-
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.

For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;

Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn; But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace

The beauty of the world below.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.

BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf

Scarce whispers from the tree;

So gently flows the parting breath,

When good men cease to be.