Praise his courage and his wisdom:
Would he come again for arrows
To the falls of Minnehaha?
On the mat her hands lay idle,
And her eyes were very dreamy.

Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, Heard a rustling in the branches;

And with glowing cheek and forehead,
With the deer across his shoulders,
Suddenly from out the woodlands
Hiawatha stood before them.

Straight the ancient arrow-maker
Looked up gravely from his labor,
Laid aside the unfinished arrow,
Bade him enter at the doorway;
Saying, as he rose to meet him,
"Hiawatha, you are welcome!"

At the feet of Laughing Water
Hiawatha laid his burden,

Threw the red deer from his shoulders;
And the maiden looked up at him,
Looked up from her mat of rushes,
Said with gentle look and accent,
"You are welcome, Hiawatha!"

Very spacious was the wigwam,

Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened,
With the gods of the Dacotahs
Drawn and painted on its curtains;
And so tall the doorway, hardly
Hiawatha stooped to enter,
Hardly touched his eagle feathers
As he entered at the doorway.
Then uprose the Laughing Water,
From the ground fair Minnehaha,
Laid aside her mat unfinished,
Brought forth food and set before them,
Water brought them from the brooklet,
Gave them food in earthen vessels,
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood,
Listened while the guest was speaking,
Listened while her father answered;
But not once her lips she opened,
Not a single word she uttered.

Yes, as in a dream she listened

To the words of Hiawatha,

As he talked of old Nokomis,

Who had nursed him in his childhood,

As he told of his companions, –

Chibiabos the musician,

And the very strong man, Kwasind,

And of happiness and plenty

In the land of the Ojibways,

In the pleasant land and peaceful.

Mr. Whittier, the Quaker Poet, has lived in Amesbury since 1840. As editor of "The New-England Weekly Review," "Pennsylvania Review," and contributor to "The National Era" and "The Atlantic Monthly," he has everywhere devoted himself to the cause of truth and justice. No poet has spoken with more tenderness for humanity, or waged war more constantly and more defiantly with error and oppression. His intense hatred of wrong, and inexhaustible sympathy for struggling manhood, are always expressed with remarkable force and beauty in his prose and poetry.

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS.

Mogg Megom," 1836; "Tent on the Beach; " " Voices of Freedom; ""Barefoot Boy;' "Old Portraits and Modern Sketches; ""Songs of Labor, and Other Poems;" Snowbound." Poems in three volumes, or complete in one.

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.

O FRIENDS with whom my feet have trod
The quiet aisles of prayer!
Glad witness to your zeal for God
And love of man I bear.

I trace your lines of argument:
Your logic, linked and strong,
I weigh as one who dreads dissent,
And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds:
Against the words ye bid me speak
My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?
Who talks of scheme and plan?
The Lord is God: he needeth not
The poor device of man.

I walk, with bare, hushed feet, the ground
Ye tread with boldness shod:

I dare not fix with mete and bound
The love and power of God.

Ye praise his justice even such
His pitying love I deem.

Ye seek a king: I fain would touch
The robe that hath no seam.

Ye see the curse which overbroods
A world of pain and loss :
I hear our Lord's beatitudes,
And prayer upon the cross.

More than your schoolmen teach, within
Myself, alas! I know:

Too dark ye can not paint the sin,

Too small the merit show.

I bow my forehead to the dust;
I vail mine eyes for shame;

And urge, in trembling self-distrust,
A prayer without a claim.

I see the wrong that round me lies;
I feel the guilt within;

I hear, with groan and travail-cries,
The world confess its sin.

Yet, in the maddening maze of things,
And tossed by storm and flood,
To one fixed stake my spirit clings:
I know that God is good.

Not mine to look where cherubim
And seraphs may not see;
But nothing can be good in him
Which evil is in me.

The wrong that pains my soul below
I dare not throne above.

I know not of his hate: I know
His goodness and his love.

I dimly guess, from blessings known,
Of greater out of sight;
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own
His judgments, too, are right.

I long for household voices gone;
For vanished smiles I long:
But God hath led my dear ones on,
And he can do no wrong.

I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.

And, if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,
The bruised reed he will not break,
But strengthen and sustain.

No offering of my own I have,

Nor works my faith to prove :
I can but give the gifts he gave,
And plead his love for love.

And so beside the silent sea
I wait the muffled oar:

No harm from him can come to me
On ocean or on shore.

I know not where his islands lift
Their fronded palms in air :
I only know I can not drift
Beyond his love and care.

O brothers! if my faith is vain,
If hopes like these betray,
Pray for me that my feet may gain
The sure and safer way.

And thou, O Lord! by whom are seen
Thy creatures as they be,
Forgive me if too close I lean
My human heart on thee.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA.

"SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,

Who is losing? who is winning? Are they far? or come they near?
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.”

"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls.
Blood is flowing; men are dying: God have mercy on their souls!"
"Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain-rain.”

Holy Mother, keep our brothers! Look, Ximena! look once more! " "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,

Bearing on in strange confusion friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountaincourse."

"Look forth once more, Ximena ! ” "Ah! the smoke has rolled away
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray.
Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;
There the Northern horses thunder with the cannon at their heels.

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Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat, and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall: Like a plowshare in the fallow through them plows the Northern ball.”

Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on. "Speak, Ximena, speak, and tell us who has lost and who has won.” "Alas, alas! I know not: friend and foe together fall :

O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain!
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise:
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!

"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee: Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst

thou see?

O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal! look once more
On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy, mercy! all is o'er!"