HYMN

OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.

"Thanks be to God for the mountains."

HOWITT's Book of the Seasons.

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,

Our God, our fathers' God!

Thou hast made thy children mighty,

By the touch of the mountain sod.
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

We are watchers of a beacon
Whose light must never die ;
We are guardians of an altar
'Midst the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

For the dark resounding caverns,

Where thy still, small voice is heard;

For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirr'd;
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

The royal eagle darteth

On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master, Seeks there his wild delights; But we, for thy communion,

Have sought the mountain sod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God!

The banner of the chieftain,
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves:

Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom's last abode;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

For the shadow of thy presence,

Round our camp of rock outspread;

For the stern defiles of battle,

Bearing record of our dead;

For the snows and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial-sod;

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!

THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY."

"But by my wrongs and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski's breath

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!"

Indian Song in "Gertrude of Wyoming."

SCENE. The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees. HERRMANN, the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight.

Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone swift canoe

Shooting across the waters ?-No, a flash
From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark

Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze

Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,

Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know

Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.

Of what is solitude! In hours like this,

There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,

On the home path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,

The cluster'd faces of his children shine

To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill'd!—Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnize
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!

Hark! a step,

An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound—
Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass
Gliding so serpent-like.

[He comes forward, and meets an Indian

warrior armed.

Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form

Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye Discerns thy face.

Enonio.

My father speaks my name.

Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase

returned?

The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?

Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler prey Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave The lone path free.

Herrmann. The forest way is long

From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak

Of these things further.

Enonio.

Tell me not of rest!

My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift.-
I must begone.

Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior, thou must stay!

The Mighty One hath given me power to search
Thy soul with piercing words—and thou must stay,
And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart
Be grown thus restless, is it not because
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up
Some burning thought of ill ?—

Enonio, (with sudden impetuosity.) How should I rest?

Last night the spirit of my brother came,
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak,
And said, "Avenge me!"—In the clouds this morn
I saw the frowning colour of his blood-
And that, too, had a voice.—I lay at noon
Alone beside the sounding waterfall,

And through its thunder-music spake a tone-
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves—

And said " Avenge me!"—Therefore have I raised
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again,

That I may send the shadow from

my couch,