Up! sleepers, up! away, away,
A canopy of smoke is o'er you;
Fierce, fiery streamers round you play,
savage is before

The fiercer

you.

Perchance, some home-fraught dream of joy,
In slumber's silken chain had bound them ;-
They wake, 'tis but to hear the cry,

Of savage slaughter raging round them!

They wake, 'tis but to see the arm

Of death above each brow impending Vain, vain each shriek of wild alarm;

And vain each prayer for life ascending.

They died, as Christian martyrs die,

Their latest thought to God was given

One shuddering thrill of agony,

Then everlasting life in heaven!

And perished all? One matron fled,
Escaping both the brand and arrow;
And through the midnight forest sped,

Weary and weak, in pain and sorrow.

Nor fled alone-in wild distress,
A little one she fondly pressed,
Slumbering in blest unconsciousness,
Rocked by the throbbings of her breast.

For where the work of death was rife ;
Midst savage yell and hopeless prayer,
She boldly sought the thickest strife,

And found that infant slumbering there.

Trembling, beneath a shed she crept,

The babe still hushed upon her bosom, Restrained her bursting heart, nor wept, Fearing to wake her beauteous blossom.

And from her wretched hiding place,

Heard every yell of savage slaughter;

And closer clasped in her embrace,

The babe she deemed her fair-haired daughter.

At length the long night passed away,

The morning rose in all its glory,

But smouldering ruins met its ray,
And corpses cold and pale and gory.

A midnight stillness reigned around,

The savage

foe had fled afar;

The mountain stream with moaning sound, Went wailing by the field of war.

Up rose that matron young and pale,
With trembling limb and beating heart-
Why burst that wild shriek on the gale?—
And whence that horror-speaking start?

Oh! that the bitterness-the tears,

A life of common woe hath in itThat agony, too much for years,

Should be concentered in a minute!

She gazed upon that infant's face,

With speechless, hopeless, wild despair; Clasped to her breast in fond embrace, An Indian babe lay nestling there!

Whom can she seek, or whither roam,

Bereft of sister, husband, brother!

On the wide world without a home,

A widowed wife, a childless mother!

66

Help me, my God"—she knelt in prayer,

Her tearful eye she upward raises; Her all of earth and heaven was there, Upon, around the throne of Jesus.

Her prayer was heard-one lingering foe,
Was God's commissioned messenger;
Unseen the hand-unfelt the blow,

That ope'd the gates of heaven to her.

O! bliss, unutterable bliss

The blood-bought gift of Christ our Saviour! Earth's joy is false and fleeting-this, Pure, boundless, perfect, and for ever!