As if each deeply furrowed trace
Of earthly years to show.
Alas! that sceptred mortal's race
Had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept

By many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests, round him that slept,
Sang mass for the parted soul;

And solemn were the strains they poured
Through the stillness of the night,

With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang,

As of steel-girt men the tread,

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hushed awhile,
As by the torch's flame,

A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle
With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look,
An eagle glance and clear;

But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook
When he stood beside the bier!

He stood there still with a drooping brow,

And clasped hands o'er it raised;

For his father lay before him low,

It was Cœur de Lion gazed!

And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast;

But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppressed!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain.
Men held their breath in awe,

For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he recked not that they saw.

He looked upon the dead,
And sorrow seemed to lie,--

A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.

He stooped and kissed the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay,

Till bursting words-yet all too weak-
Gave his soul's passion way.

"O father! is it vain,

This late remorse and deep?

Speak to me, father, once again!
I weep,-behold, I weep!

Alas! my guilty pride and ire.

Were but this work undone,
I would give England's crown, my sire,
To hear thee bless thy son.

"Speak to me! mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirred!
Hear me, but hear me !-father, chief,
My king, I must be heard!

Hushed, hushed,-how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus, woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!

"Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!

And father, father! but for me,

They had not been so white!
I bore thee down, high heart, at last!
No longer couldst thou strive;-
Oh, for one moment of the past,

To kneel and say,—' Forgive!'

"Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne e'er seen;

And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;

And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war, the bravest heart.

Oh, ever the renowned and loved

Thou wert, and there thou art!

"Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!

The times I've sported at thy side,
And climbed thy parent knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire, I see thee lie;

How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!"

THE BIBLE IN HARMONY WITH TEMPERANCE.

And does that blessed Book of books, which none
But bold bad men despise, its sanction give
To poisonous alcoholic wines? And
Can the Christian plead a Bible charter
For the use of that which history, science,
Reason, and experience, all combined
On amplest scale, have fairly, fully proved
To be inimical to man? Hath God
By inspiration taught frail, erring men
To venture on an awful precipice,

Where danger lurks at every step? Hath he
Whose workmanship we are, no more regard
Or care paternal for his creature man,
Than thus to jeopardize, on ruin's brink,
The fair and beauteous fabric of his hand,
Whence shine creative wisdom, power, and skill,
In lines of brighter hue than all the vast
Of nature's splendid scenery can boast?
Can it be thought that He, whose boundless love
Evolved redemption's scheme of grace immense,
And laid upon his own all-potent arm
The mighty undertaking,-can it be

That He approves the use of that which tends
With constant, uniform, and powerful sway,
To mar, pervert, and frustrate all his work?
Did that same Jesus, from heaven sent

On God-like mission of eternal love,

To spoil the powers of darkness, death, and hell,
And lift from ruin's vortex of despair,

A prostrate, helpless, dying, rebel world,―
Did he, by precept or example, stamp

A signature divine upon that cup

Which, as “a mocker" sparkles to deceive?
Did he, the famous Galilean King,

When first he showed his wonder-working arm,
And poured the glory of his Father forth
At Cana's holy, blest, connubial feast,—
Did he the copious water-plenished jars
Defile with poisonous adder-stinging wine,
And palm upon that unsuspecting group
A serpent sparkling in a raging cup?
And did the holy, harmless, spotless Lamb
Who gave his life for all, a ransom vast,

And sealed with blood the cov'nant of his grace,-
Did he the parting "cup of blessing" fill

With lust-inspiring wine? Did he command

His loved and loving ones to shadow forth
His dying passion and undying love,

By drinking at his sacred board of that
Which, as a second curse, since the old flood,

Has spread a tide of moral pestilence

O'er all the earth,-'neath whose corrupting stream
PROPHET and PRIEST and SAINT. have sunk o'erwhelmed,
And with unnumbered millions found, alas!

Perdition's deepest, darkest, direst hell?

Nay, Christian! startle not; no skeptic's sneer,
Or scowl of infidel, or jest profane,

Is couched beneath the queries now proposed.
We take with firm confiding trust and love
The sacred volume, and revere the page
Whose hallowed verities unfold to man
His nature, origin, and destiny.

We joyously adore and venerate
The God of heaven and earth, and lowly bow
Before his throne, as suppliants for his grace;
With faith unfeigned we take salvation's cup,
And call upon the name of him by whom
Redemption's price was paid for all our race.
It is because we thus revere God's word,
And venerate our Father's holy name,
And cling with faith and love to Jesus' cross,
That we would seek to wipe away

The stain, which infidels would be well pleased to view
Upon the mirror of eternal truth.

THE AMERICAN INDIAN.-CHARLES SPRAGUE. Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race

of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. Here the wigwam blaze

beamed on the tender and helpless, the council fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky shores. Here they warred; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying deathsong, all were here; and when the tiger strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace.

Here, too, they worshiped; and from many a dark bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of the universe he acknowledged in every thing around. He beheld him in the star that sunk in beauty behind his lonely dwelling; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his mid-day throne; in the flower that snapped in the morning breeze; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirlwinds; in the timid warbler that never left its native grove; in the fearless eagle whose untired pinion was wet in clouds; in the worm that crawled at his feet; and in his own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious source he bent in humble, though blind, adoration.

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came, a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The former were sown for you; the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the character of a great continent, and blotted forever from its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of nature, and the children of education have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. Here and there a stricken few remain; but how unlike their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors! The Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing, the theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone! and his degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us how miserable is man when the foot of the conqueror is on his neck.