THE WABASH.

Here with the green wood for his temple dome,
This fragrant bank his consecrated shrine
Mayhap the pious votary oft hath come,
On nature's breast his sorrows to resign;
From day's dull avocations far to roam
With gazing on such loveliness as thine!

Soft, silent Wabash thy still waters glide
All heedless of my meditative lay!
But from the tranquil beauty of thy pride,
I'll glean such moral teachings as I may :-
Howe'er may vary Fortune's fickle tide,
Like thee in sweet content I'll wend my peaceful

way.

91

THE HAUNTED WOOD.

BY ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR.

I OFTEN Come to this lonely place,
And forget the stir of my restless race;
Forget the woes of human life,

The bitter pang and the constant strife,
The angry word and the cruel taunt,
The sight and the sound of guilt and want,
And the frequent tear by the widow shed,
When her infant asks in vain for bread.
All these I put from my mind aside,
And forget the offence of worldly pride.

It is said that the Spirits of buried men
Oft come to this wicked world again;
That the churchyard turf is often trod
By the unlaid tenants of tomb and sod,
That the midnight sea itself is swept,
By those who have long beneath it slept.

THE HAUNTED WOOD.

And they say of this old, mossy wood,
Whose hoary trunks have for ages stood,
That every knoll and dim-lit glade

Is haunted at night by its restless Shade.

It is told that an Indian King, whose name
Hath perished long from the scroll of fame,
And whose thousand warriors slumber low,
In equal rest, with the spear and bow,
Was wont to pursue the fallow deer,
And hold his feasts, and make merry here,
And seek his repose in the noontide heat,
By this noisy brook at my very feet-
And here, at the close of his sternest strife,
He finished his rude, and unquiet life.

It is said that on moonlight nights, the gleam
Of his battle Spear flits o'er this stream;
And they say there's a shiver along the grass
Where the restless feet of the Spectre pass,
And a rustle of leaves in the thicket's gloom
When he nods his dusky eagle plume.

93

And, methinks, I have heard his war-horn bray, Like the call of waters far away;

And the arrow whistle along the glade

Where the chieftain's giant bones are laid.

THE HAUNTED WOC

BY ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR.

I OFTEN come to this lonely p
And forget the stir of my re-
Forget the woes of human li
The bitter pang and the co
The angry word and the c:
The sight and the sound o
And the frequent tear by
When her infant asks in
All these I put from my
And forget the offence o

.e!

hered and sear,

art thou lingering here ?

done.

seen all

reposing in their tomb,

that knew thee in their bloom,

and fall!

voice of Spring,

thee into being, ne'er again

ce-nor the gentle Summer rain New verdure bring.