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THE MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.
GOD moves in a mysterious way,
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
Deep in unfathomable mines
He treasures up His bright designs,
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for his
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
The bud may have a bitter taste,
Blind Unbelief is sure to err,
God is his own Interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
BURIAL OF THE INDIAN GIRL.
["The only daughter of an Indian woman in Wisconsin territory, died of lingering consumption at the age of eighteen. A few of her own race, and a few of the whites were at her grave; but none wept save the poor mother."Herald of the Upper Mississippi.]
A WAIL upon the Prairies,
cry of woman's woe,
That mingled with the autumn-blast,
All fitfully and low!
It is a mother's wailing!
Hath earth another tone,
Like that with which a mother mourns
Pale faces gather round her,
They mark the storm swell high,
As the wild winds caught their moan,
But she was an Indian mother,
So she wept those tears alone.
Long, o'er that wasting idol,
She watch'd, and toil'd, and pray'd:
And hoarse and hollow grew her voice,
An echo from the grave.
She was a gentle creature,
Of raven eye and tress;
And dove-like were the tones that breathed
Her bosom's tenderness;
Save when some quick emotion
The warm blood strongly sent,
I said consumption smote her,
Alas! that lowly cabin,—
That couch beside the wall,—
That seat beneath the mantling vine,
They're lone and empty all!
What hand shall pluck the tall green corn
That ripeneth on the plain,
Since she for whom the board was spread
Must ne'er return again?
Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden !
Nor let thy murmuring shade
Grieve that those pale-brow'd ones with scorn
Thy burial rite survey'd :
There's many a king whose funeral
Yes, rest thee, forest maiden,
The proud may boast their little day,
But there's many a one whose funeral
HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN,
6. P. R. James.
SLOW, slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, Thy course of beneficence done;
As glorious go down to the ocean's warm breast As when thy bright race was begun.