BESIDE his path the beauteous Hudson rolled
In silent majesty. The silvery mist,
Like the soft incense of an eastern fane,
Went sparkling upward, gloriously wreathing
In the sun-light. And the keen-eyed eagle,
From his high aerie mid the crags, looked down
In majesty, where stood the lonely one,

In silence, musingly

'Would it were thus

With me. My spirit shares not now, as wont,
In the wild majesty of nature here.

Methinks there is some weight within, sinking

My better thoughts. Would now that I might lead
Some gallant battle charge-where the wild trump
Enkindles valor, and the free winds swell
My country's banner.'

*

ANDRE.

67

It was a lowly room;

And the stern heavy tread, that by the door
Went to and fro, told it the captive's cell.

And he was there; the same, with his high brow,
And soul-disclosing eye;—and he was doomed :-
But on his face a smile seemed gathering,
And the fixed gaze marked that a wakeful dream
Had borne him far away. And now he saw
His father's home, in its old stateliness,

Amid the bending trees; and the bright band
Of his young sisters, with their voices gay,
Echoing there, like some glad melody.
And then another form, bewildering

Each thought, came rising up in peerless grace,
But dimly seen, like forms which sleep creates.
His breath grew quicker, and his only thought
Dwelt upon her, as seen in that last hour,—
Her full dark eye on his, and the closed lip
Just quivering with a tender smile, with which
The proud young thing would veil her parting grief,
And check her trembling voice, that did outsteal,
Like witching tones upborne upon the wind
Of summer night-telling of her high trust.
But suddenly a change was on his face,
And then he paced the room in agony

At one dark thought. 'Twas not that he must die;

But that he should not die a soldier's death:
Alas, and shall she hear it, that bright one
That ever saw him in her dreams, rise up
Like the young eagle to the sun?

The morning came,

And he stood up to die ;-the beautiful
And brave-the loved one of a sunny home-
To die as felons die ;-yet proudly calm,

With his high brow unmoved. And the full soul

Beamed in his eye unconquered, and his lip

Was motionless, as is the forest leaf

In the calm prelude to the storm.

He died;

And the stern warriors, to his country foes,

Wept for his fate. And who, that e'er had hopes,

Weeps not for him, meeting such misery

In glory's path?

GATHERING OF THE COVENANTERS.

BY GEORGE F. MAGOUN.

No proud cathedral bell the prayer-call bearing,
Swung solemnly within its lofty tower,

All sights and sounds, and their true hearts unerring
Proclaimed the hour.

The sunset-wane of day's resplendent glory,
Wrote on the clouds in roseate letters there,
Like some fine limner famed in ancient story,
"To prayer! To prayer!"
The breeze that waved the meek, dew-dripping

flowers,

And breathed inspiring fragrance on the air,

A murmur sent through all their blossomy bowers,

"To prayer! To prayer!"

Not mid the pomp of serried arch and column
They led their meek and reverent array;
Where all was wild, yet Sabbath-like and solemn,
They turned to pray.

Wild, and yet Sabbath-like! Huge rocky masses Were piled that yawning cavern-temple round, Where the fierce earthquake in its rifting passes A home had found!

The Patriarch came, his long white locks revealing
Time's sway of joy and sorrow, hope and fear,
And the wee infant tottered from his dwelling
Of scarce a year.

The mother came. Her woman's heart will falter As priestly hands her baptized infant lift,

And still the white-robed maidens at the altar

Blush at the gift!

Stay!--A swift banner-plaid went

flashing

High o'er the rocky verge with sudden gleam,

And sullenly a heavy stone fell plashing

Upon the stream!