The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;

Their voices I could hear,

And yet the words they uttered seemed to change

Their meaning to my ear.

For the one face I looked for was not there,

The one low voice was mute;

Only an unseen presence filled the air,

And baffled my pursuit.

Now, I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream

Dimly my thought defines;

I only see a dream within a dream-
The hill-top hearsed with pines.

I only hear above his place of rest
Their tender undertone,

The infinite longings of a troubled breast,
The voice so like his own.

There in seclusion and remote from men

The wizard hand lies cold,

Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,
And left the tale half told.

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,
And the lost clew regain?

The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower
Unfinished must remain !

EVANGELINE AND THE INDIAN WOMAN.

ONCE, as they sat by their evening fire there silently entered Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered.

Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome

Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them

On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers.

But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison,

Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light

Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in

their blankets.

Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated

Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains and reverses. Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, She in her turn related her love and all its disasters.

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious horror

Passed through her brain, she spake and repeated the tale of the

Mowis;

Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden,
But when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam,
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the
forest.

Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation,

Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom. That, through the pines, o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of

the twilight,

Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden,
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest,
And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people.
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the en-
chantress.

Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,
Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor

Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the wood

land.

With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers.