And slowly Assabet takes on her charm,

Since him she most did love thou hast withdrawn
Beyond the wellsprings of perpetual day.
And now 'tis Laleham : from all noise and harm,
Blithe and boy-hearted, whither is he gone,
(Like them who fare in peace, knowing thy sway
Is over carls and kings,

He was too great to cease to be a child,

Too wise to be content with childish things,)

Having heard swing to the twin-leaved doors of gloom, Pillared with autumn dust from out the wild,

And carved upon with BEAUTY and FOREDOOM?

Awhile within the roaring iron house

He toiled to thrill the bitter dark with cheer; But ever the earlier prime wrapped his white soul In sure and flawless welfare of repose,

Kept like a rare Greek song through many a year With Chian terebinth,- -an illumined scroll

No injury can deface.

And men will toss his name from sea to sea
Along the wintry dusk a little space,

Till thou return with flight of swallow and sun

To weave for us the rain's hoar tracery,

With blossom and dream unravelled and undone.

We joy in thy brief tarrying, and beyond,
The vanished road's end lies engulfed in snow,
Far on the mountains of a bleak new morn.
Craving the light, yet of the dark more fond,
Abhorring and desiring do we go,—

A cruse of tears, and love with leaven of scorn,
Mingled for journeyed fare;

While in the vision of a harvest land

We see thy river wind, and looming there,
Death walk within thy shadow, proudly grim,
A little dust and sleep in his right hand,—
The withered windflowers of thy forest dim,

A WINDFLOWER.

BETWEEN the roadside and the wood,
Between the dawning and the dew,
A tiny flower before the wind,
Ephemeral in time, I grew.

The chance of straying feet came by,—
Nor death nor love nor any name
Known among men in all their lands,—
Yet failure put desire to shame.

To-night can bring no healing now,
The calm of yesternight is gone;
Surely the wind is but the wind,
And I a broken waif thereon.

How fair my thousand brothers wave
Upon the floor of God's abode :
Whence came that careless wanderer
Between the woodside and the road!

A. H. CHANDLER.

THE DEATH-SONG OF CHI-WEE-MOO.

EACH morn I wake, each morn I wake,

I hear the loon upon the lake

The heart is full of care, the heart is full of care, She cries, in notes of wild despair,

She, too, has lost, she, too, has lost-
Her breast, with mine, is tempest-tost-
A loving mate, a loving mate,

For whom, with me, she still doth wait.

Three moons ago, three moons ago—
What days-what nights of bitter woe!
They would not stay, they would not stay-
From "camp" and "lake" both sped away.

White shone the moon, white shone the moon-
Last night, again I heard the loon-

In sympathy, in sympathy,

She poured her sorrow out to me.

The sun so fair, the sun so fair,
Shines on the lake; and every where
The mated dove, the mated dove,
Re-sings all day her tale of love.

Oh, Manitou! Oh Manitou !

We both forgive them, though untrue-
Farewell! we cry-farewell! we cry—
'Tis our last death-song-we must die!

ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD.

THE CANOE.

My masters twain made me a bed
Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar,
Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder
Of dreams of rest; and me they spread
With furry skins, and laughing said,

"Now she shall lay her polished sides,
As queens do rest, or dainty brides,
Our slender lady of the tides!"

A WINDFLOWER.

BETWEEN the roadside and the wood,
Between the dawning and the dew,
A tiny flower before the wind,
Ephemeral in time, I grew.

The chance of straying feet came by,-
Nor death nor love nor any name
Known among men in all their lands,-
Yet failure put desire to shame.

To-night can bring no healing now,
The calm of yesternight is gone;
Surely the wind is but the wind,
And I a broken waif thereon.

How fair my thousand brothers wave
Upon the floor of God's abode :
Whence came that careless wanderer
Between the woodside and the road!

A. H. CHANDLER.

THE DEATH-SONG OF CHI-WEE-MOO.

EACH morn I wake, each morn I wake,

I hear the loon upon the lake—

The heart is full of care, the heart is full of care, She cries, in notes of wild despair.

She, too, has lost, she, too, has lost-
Her breast, with mine, is tempest-tost-
A loving mate, a loving mate,

For whom, with me, she still doth wait.

Three moons ago, three moons ago—
What days-what nights of bitter woe!
They would not stay, they would not stay—
From "camp" and "lake" both sped away.

White shone the moon, white shone the moon—
Last night, again I heard the loon-

In sympathy, in sympathy,

She poured her sorrow out to me.

The sun so fair, the sun so fair,
Shines on the lake; and everywhere
The mated dove, the mated dove,
Re-sings all day her tale of love.

Oh, Manitou! Oh Manitou !

We both forgive them, though untrue—
Farewell! we cry-farewell! we cry-
'Tis our last death-song-we must die!

ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD.

THE CANOE.

My masters twain made me a bed
Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar,
Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder
Of dreams of rest; and me they spread
With furry skins, and laughing said,
"Now she shall lay her polished sides,
As queens do rest, or dainty brides,
Our slender lady of the tides!"