Peace be to those whose graves are made
Beneath the bright and silver sea!
Peace that their relics there were laid,
With no vain pride and pageantry.

THE INDIAN HUNTER.

WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in,
And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin,
And the ploughshare was in its furrow left,
Where the stubble land had been lately cleft,
An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow,
Looked down where the valley lay stretched below.

He was a stranger there, and all that day
Had been out on the hills, a perilous way,
But the foot of the deer was far and fleet,
And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet,
And bitter feelings passed o'er him then,
As he stood by the populous haunts of men.

The winds of autumn came over the woods,
As the sun stole out from their solitudes;
The moss was white on the maple's trunk,
And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk,
And ripened the mellow fruit hung, and red
Where the trees withered leaves around it shed.

The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
And the sickle cut down the yellow corn;
The mower sung loud by the meadow side,
Where the mists of evening were spreading wide;
And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.

Then the hunter turned away from that scene,
Where the home of his fathers once had been,
And heard, by the distant and measured stroke,
That the woodman hewed down the giant oak-
And burning thoughts flashed over his mind,
Of the white man's faith, and love unkind.

The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white,-
A footstep was heard in the rustling brake,
Where the beech overshadowed the misty lake,
And a mourning voice, and a plunge from shore,
And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.

When years had passed on, by that still lake side,
The fisher looked down through the silver tide,
And there on the smooth yellow sand displayed,
A skeleton wasted and white was laid,

And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow,
That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow.

The Courtship of Miles Standish.

I.

MILES STANDISH.

IN the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish, the Puritan Captain.

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,— Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,

While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.

Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;

Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.

Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,

Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not Angles, but Angels."

Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,

Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth :

"Look at these arms," he said, "the warlike weapons that hang here

Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,

Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles
Standish

Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the
Flemish morasses."

Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:

Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of

the bullet;

He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"

Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the

stripling:

"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging:

That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent

adage;

So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,

Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!" This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the

sunbeams

Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a

moment.

Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued: "Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the

purpose,

Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic, Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen.

Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians; Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better,

Let them come, if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or

pow-wow,

Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!" Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape,

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapoury breath of the east wind,

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the

ocean,

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the land

scape.

Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion,

Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded:

"Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Stan

dish;

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside; She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower. Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown

there,

Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, Lest they should count them and see how many already have

perished!"

Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among

them

Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding; Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar, Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the

Bible.

Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful