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THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR.
BUT and in the river is winding
The links of its long, red
Only, at times, a smoke-wreath
With the drifting cloud-rack joins,The smoke of the hunting-lodges
Of the wild Assiniboins !
Drearily blows the north wind
From the land of ice and snow ; The eyes that look are weary,
And heavy the hands that row.
And with one foot on the water,
And one upon the shore,
The Angel of Shadow gives warning
That day shall be no more.
Is it the clang of wild-geese?
Is it the Indian's yell, That lends to the voice of the north wind
The tones of a far-off bell ?
The voyageur smiles as he listens
To the sound that grows apace; Well he knows the vesper ringing
Of the bells of St. Boniface.
The bells of the Roman Mission,
That call from their turrets twain, To the boatmen on the river,
To the hunter on the plain!
Even so in our mortal journey
The bitter north winds blow, And thus upon life's Red River
Our hearts, as oarsmen, row.
And when the Angel of Shadow
Rests his feet on wave and shore, And our eyes grow dim with watching
And our hearts faint at the oar;
Happy is he who heareth
The signal of his release
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
HOME FOR THE WEARY.
H ERE is an hour of peaceful sex rest,
To mourning wanderers given;
There is a tear for souls distressed, A balm for every wounded breast :
'Tis found above-in heaven.
There is a home for weary souls,
By sin and sorrow driven,-
And all is drear—but heaven.
There faith lifts up her cheerful eye
To brighter prospects given ;
And all serene-in heaven.