Thus still, whene'er the good and just Close the dim eye on life and pain, Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust Till the pure spirit comes again.

Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, His servant's humble ashes lie,

Yet God has marked and sealed the spot, To call its inmate to the sky.

A WALK AT SUNSET.

WHEN insect wings are glistening in the beam Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,

Wander amid the mild and mellow light; And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay, Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.

Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now Go'st down in glory? ever beautiful

And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist

cool,

Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid sky.

Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard

The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird.

They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won ; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died,

Went to bright isles beneath the setting

sun;

Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson

air.

So, with the glories of the dying day,

Its thousand trembling lights and changing

hues,

The memory of the brave who passed away

Tenderly mingled ;-fitting hour to muse On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed

Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead.

For ages, on the silent forests here,

Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them; in their shade the

deer

Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim.

Nor tree was felled in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods.

Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst

look,

For ages on their deeds in the hard chase, And well-fought wars; green sod and silver

brook

Took the first stain of blood; before thy face The warrior generations came and passed, And glory was laid up for many an age to last.

Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze Goes down the west, while night is press

ing on,

And with them the old tale of better days,

And trophies of remembered power, are gone.