Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead,
And beldames muttered while prayers were said;
And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed
The damp earth down on the hunter's breast.

The seasons passed; and the autumn rain
And the colored forest returned again :
'Twas the very eve that the hunter died;
The winds wailed over the bare hill-side,
And the wreathing limbs of the forest shook
Their red leaves over the swollen brook.

There came a sound on the night-air then,
Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men,
And louder and shriller it rose again,

Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain;
And trembled alike the timid and brave,
For they knew that it came from the hunter's grave:

And, every year, when autumn flings
Its beautiful robe on created things,
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain,
And Cocheco's woods are yellow again,
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth,
Like the howl of a demon struggling forth.

WILLIAM O. B. PEABODY.

HYMN OF NATURE.

GOD of the earth's extended plains!

The dark green fields contented lie: The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky : The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,

Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,

Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To weave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry—
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings !
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.

For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;

Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn; But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.

BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf

Scarce whispers from the tree;

So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed! 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud

The sunset beam is cast!

'Tis like the memory left behind

When loved ones breathe their last.

And now,

above the dews of night,

The yellow star appears;

So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore,

And eyelids that are sealed in death
Shall wake to close no more.

THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT.

O SACRED star of evening, tell

In what unseen, celestial sphere,
Those spirits of the perfect dwell,

Too pure to rest in sadness here.