Many years ago two children, daughters of a person residing in this province, were lost in the woods. What had been their fate none knew —no trace of them could be found until, after a long period of time had elapsed, one of them was discovered among some Indians, by whom they had been taken, and with whom this one had remained, the other having joined another tribe. She appeared an Indian squaw in every respect—her complexion had been stained as dark as theirs—her costume was the same, but she had blue eyes. This excited suspicion, which proved to be correct. The story of the lost children was remembered, which event occurred thirty years before. With some difficulty she was induced to meet her mother, her only remaining parent. The tide of time swept back from the mother's mind, and she hastened to embrace the child of her memory, but, alas! the change. There existed for her no love in the bosom of the lost one. Her relatives wishing to reclaim her from her savage life, earnestly besought her to remain with them, but their ways were not as her's—she felt as a stranger with them, and rejoined the Indian band, with whom she still remains.
At early morn a mother stood,Her hands were raised to heaven.And she praised Almighty GodFor the blessings He had given;But far too deep were theyEncircled in her heart,—Too deep for human weal,For earth and love must part.She looked with hope too brightOn the forms that by her bent,And loved, by far too fondly,Those treasures God had sent.They bound her to the earth,With love's own golden chain,How were its bright links severedBy the spirit's wildest pain?She parted the rich tresses,And kissed each snowy brow,And where, oh! happy mother,Was one so blest as thou?The summer sun was shiningAll cloudless o'er the lea,When forth her children bounded,In childhood's summer glee.They strayed along the woody banks,All fringed with sunny green,Where, like a silver serpent,The river ran between.Their glad young voices rose,As they thought of flower or bird,And they sang the joyous fanciesThat in each spirit stirred.Oh! sister, see that humming bird;Saw ye ever ought so fair?With wings of gold and ruby,He sparkles through the air;Let us follow where he fliesO'er yonder hazel dell,For oh! it must be beautifulWhere such a thing can dwell.Yet to me it seemeth still,That his rest must be on high;Methinks his plumes are bathedIn the even's crimson sky:How lovely is this earth,Where such fair things we see,And yet how much more gloriousThe power that bids them be!Nay, sister, let us stayWhere those water lilies float,So spotless and so pureLike a fairy's pearly boat.Listen to the melodyThat cometh soft and low,As through the twining tendrilsThe water glides below.Perchance 'twas in a spot like this,And by a stream as mild,Where the Jewish mother laidHer gentle Hebrew child.Then rested they beneath the trees,Where, through the leafy shade,In ever-changing radiance,The broken sun-light played;And spoke in words, whose simple truthRevealed the guileless soul,Till softly o'er their sensesA quiet slumber stole.Lo! now a form comes glancingAlong the waters blue,And moored among the liliesLay an Indian's dark canoe.The days of ancient feud were gone.The axe was buried deep.And stilled the red man's warfare,In unawaking sleep.Why stands he then so silently,Where those fair children lie?And say, what means the flashingOf the Indian's eagle eye?He thinks him of his lonely spouse,Within her forest glade;Around her silent dwellingNo children ever played.No voice arose to greet himWhen he at eve would come,But sadness ever hoveredAround his dreary home.Oh! with those lovely rose-budsWere my lone hearth-stone blest,My richest food should cheer them,My softest furs should rest.Their kindred drive us onward,Where the setting sunbeams shine;They claim our father's heritage,Why may not these be mine?He raised the sleeping children,Oh! sad and dreary day!And o'er the dancing watersHe bore them far away.He wiled their hearts' young feelingsWith words and actions kind,And soon the past went fadingAll dream-like from their mind.Oh! brightly sped the beaming sunAlong his glorious way,And feathery clouds of golden lightAround his parting lay.In beauty came the holy stars,All gleaming mid the blue,It seemed as o'er the lovely earthA blessed calm they threw.A sound of grief aroseOn the dewy evening air,It bore the bitter anguishOf a mortal's wild despair;A wail like that which soundedThroughout Judea's land,When Herod's haughty minionsObeyed his dark command.The mourning mother weptBecause her babes were not,Their forms were gone for everFrom each familiar spot.Oh! had they sought the river,And sunk beneath its wave;Or had the dark recessesOf the forest been their grave.The same deep tinge of sorrow,Each surmise ever bore;Her gems from her were taken;Of their fate she knew no more.Long years of withering woe went on,Each sadly as the last,To other's ears the theme becameA legend of the past.But she, oh! bright she cherishedTheir memory enshrined,With all a mother's fondnessAnd fadeless truth entwined.Many a hope she treasuredIn sorrow's gloom had burst,But still her spirit knewNo grieving like the first.Along her faded foreheadThe hand of time had crost,And every furrow toldHer mourning for the lost.With such deep love within her,What words the truth could give,Howe'er she heard the tidings—"Thy children yet they live."But one alone was near,And with rushing feelings wild,The aged mother flewTo meet once more her child.A moment passed away—The lost one slowly came,And stood before her there—A tall and dark-browed dame.Far from her swarthy foreheadHer raven hair was roll'd;She spoke to those around her,Her voice was stern and cold:"Why seek ye here to bind me,I would again be free;They say ye are my kindred—But what are ye to me?My spring of youth was pastWith the people of the wild:And slumber in the green-woodMy husband and my child.'Tis true I oft have seen yeIn the visions of the night;But many a shadow comesFrom the dreamer's land of light.If e'er I've been among ye,Save in my wandering thought,The memory has passed away—Ye long have been forgot."And were not these hard words to comeTo that fond mother's heart,Who through such years of agonyHad kept her loving part.Her wildest wish was granted—Her deepest prayer was heard—Yet it but served to show herHow deeply she had err'd.The mysteries of God's high willMay not be understood;And mortals may not vainly ask,To them, what seemeth good.With spirit wrung to earth,In grief she bowed her head:"Oh! better far than meet thee thus,To mourn thee with the dead."But, think ye, He who comfortedThe widowed one of Nain—Who bade the lonely HagarWith hope revive again?Think ye that mother's trusting loveShould bleed without a balm?No! o'er the troubled spiritThere came a blessed calm.Amid the savage relicsAround her daughter flung,Upon her naked bosomA crucifix there hung.And though the simple IndianFalse tenets might enthral—Yet, 'twas the blessed symbolOf Him who died for all.And the mourner's heart rejoicedFor the promise seemed to say—She shall be thine in Heaven,When the world has passed away.Tho' now ye meet as strangers,Yet there ye shall be one;And live in love for ever,When time and earth are gone.
At early morn a mother stood,Her hands were raised to heaven.And she praised Almighty GodFor the blessings He had given;But far too deep were theyEncircled in her heart,—Too deep for human weal,For earth and love must part.She looked with hope too brightOn the forms that by her bent,And loved, by far too fondly,Those treasures God had sent.They bound her to the earth,With love's own golden chain,How were its bright links severedBy the spirit's wildest pain?She parted the rich tresses,And kissed each snowy brow,And where, oh! happy mother,Was one so blest as thou?The summer sun was shiningAll cloudless o'er the lea,When forth her children bounded,In childhood's summer glee.They strayed along the woody banks,All fringed with sunny green,Where, like a silver serpent,The river ran between.Their glad young voices rose,As they thought of flower or bird,And they sang the joyous fanciesThat in each spirit stirred.Oh! sister, see that humming bird;Saw ye ever ought so fair?With wings of gold and ruby,He sparkles through the air;Let us follow where he fliesO'er yonder hazel dell,For oh! it must be beautifulWhere such a thing can dwell.Yet to me it seemeth still,That his rest must be on high;Methinks his plumes are bathedIn the even's crimson sky:How lovely is this earth,Where such fair things we see,And yet how much more gloriousThe power that bids them be!Nay, sister, let us stayWhere those water lilies float,So spotless and so pureLike a fairy's pearly boat.Listen to the melodyThat cometh soft and low,As through the twining tendrilsThe water glides below.Perchance 'twas in a spot like this,And by a stream as mild,Where the Jewish mother laidHer gentle Hebrew child.Then rested they beneath the trees,Where, through the leafy shade,In ever-changing radiance,The broken sun-light played;And spoke in words, whose simple truthRevealed the guileless soul,Till softly o'er their sensesA quiet slumber stole.Lo! now a form comes glancingAlong the waters blue,And moored among the liliesLay an Indian's dark canoe.The days of ancient feud were gone.The axe was buried deep.And stilled the red man's warfare,In unawaking sleep.Why stands he then so silently,Where those fair children lie?And say, what means the flashingOf the Indian's eagle eye?He thinks him of his lonely spouse,Within her forest glade;Around her silent dwellingNo children ever played.No voice arose to greet himWhen he at eve would come,But sadness ever hoveredAround his dreary home.Oh! with those lovely rose-budsWere my lone hearth-stone blest,My richest food should cheer them,My softest furs should rest.Their kindred drive us onward,Where the setting sunbeams shine;They claim our father's heritage,Why may not these be mine?He raised the sleeping children,Oh! sad and dreary day!And o'er the dancing watersHe bore them far away.He wiled their hearts' young feelingsWith words and actions kind,And soon the past went fadingAll dream-like from their mind.
Oh! brightly sped the beaming sunAlong his glorious way,And feathery clouds of golden lightAround his parting lay.In beauty came the holy stars,All gleaming mid the blue,It seemed as o'er the lovely earthA blessed calm they threw.A sound of grief aroseOn the dewy evening air,It bore the bitter anguishOf a mortal's wild despair;A wail like that which soundedThroughout Judea's land,When Herod's haughty minionsObeyed his dark command.The mourning mother weptBecause her babes were not,Their forms were gone for everFrom each familiar spot.Oh! had they sought the river,And sunk beneath its wave;Or had the dark recessesOf the forest been their grave.The same deep tinge of sorrow,Each surmise ever bore;Her gems from her were taken;Of their fate she knew no more.Long years of withering woe went on,Each sadly as the last,To other's ears the theme becameA legend of the past.But she, oh! bright she cherishedTheir memory enshrined,With all a mother's fondnessAnd fadeless truth entwined.Many a hope she treasuredIn sorrow's gloom had burst,But still her spirit knewNo grieving like the first.Along her faded foreheadThe hand of time had crost,And every furrow toldHer mourning for the lost.With such deep love within her,What words the truth could give,Howe'er she heard the tidings—"Thy children yet they live."But one alone was near,And with rushing feelings wild,The aged mother flewTo meet once more her child.A moment passed away—The lost one slowly came,And stood before her there—A tall and dark-browed dame.Far from her swarthy foreheadHer raven hair was roll'd;She spoke to those around her,Her voice was stern and cold:"Why seek ye here to bind me,I would again be free;They say ye are my kindred—But what are ye to me?My spring of youth was pastWith the people of the wild:And slumber in the green-woodMy husband and my child.'Tis true I oft have seen yeIn the visions of the night;But many a shadow comesFrom the dreamer's land of light.If e'er I've been among ye,Save in my wandering thought,The memory has passed away—Ye long have been forgot."And were not these hard words to comeTo that fond mother's heart,Who through such years of agonyHad kept her loving part.Her wildest wish was granted—Her deepest prayer was heard—Yet it but served to show herHow deeply she had err'd.The mysteries of God's high willMay not be understood;And mortals may not vainly ask,To them, what seemeth good.With spirit wrung to earth,In grief she bowed her head:"Oh! better far than meet thee thus,To mourn thee with the dead."But, think ye, He who comfortedThe widowed one of Nain—Who bade the lonely HagarWith hope revive again?Think ye that mother's trusting loveShould bleed without a balm?No! o'er the troubled spiritThere came a blessed calm.Amid the savage relicsAround her daughter flung,Upon her naked bosomA crucifix there hung.And though the simple IndianFalse tenets might enthral—Yet, 'twas the blessed symbolOf Him who died for all.And the mourner's heart rejoicedFor the promise seemed to say—She shall be thine in Heaven,When the world has passed away.Tho' now ye meet as strangers,Yet there ye shall be one;And live in love for ever,When time and earth are gone.
In the days of the early settling of the country, marriages were attended with a ceremony called stumping. This was a local way of publishing the banns, the names of the parties and the announcement of the event to take place being written on a slip of paper, and inserted on the numerous stumps bordering the corduroy road, that all who ran might read, though perchance none might scan it save some bewildered fox or wandering bear; the squire read the ceremony from the prayer-book, received his dollar, and further form for wedlock was required not. Now they order these things differently. A wedding is a regular frolic, and generally performed by a clergyman (though a few in the back settlements still adhere to the custom of their fathers), a large party being invited to solemnise the event. The last winter we were in the country we attended one some distance from home; but here, while flying along the ice paths, distance is not thought of. Nothing can be more exhilarating than sleigh-riding, the clear air bracing the nerves, and the bells ringing gladly out. These bells are worn round the horse's neck and on the harness, to give warning of the sleigh's approach, which otherwise would not be heard over the smooth road. The glassy way was crowded with skaters, gliding past with graceful ease and folded arms, "as though they trod on tented ground." We soon reached our destination, and found assembled a large and joyous party. The festival commenced in the morning, and continued late. The fare was luxuriant, and the bride, in her white dress and orange blossoms (for, be it known, such things are sometimes seen, even in this region of spruce and pine), looked asall brides do, bashful and beautiful. The "grave and pompous father," and busy-minded mother, had a look which, though concealed, told that at heart they rejoiced to see their "bairn respeckit like the lave," and "all indeed went merry as a marriage bell." We and some others left at midnight. The air was piercingly cold, and the bear skins in which we were wrapped soon had a white fringe, where fell the fast congealing breath. There was no moon, and the stars looked dim, in the fitful gleam of the streamers of the aurora borealis, which were glancing in corruscations of awful grandeur along the heavens, now throwing a blood red glare on the snow, their pale sepulchral rays of green or blue imparting a ghastly horror to the scene, or arranging themselves like the golden pillars of some mighty organ, while, ever and again, a wild unearthly sound is heard, as if swords were clashing. Those mysterious northern lights, whose appearance in superstitious times was supposed to threaten, or be the forerunner, of dire calamity; and no wonder was it, for even now, with all the light science has thrown upon such things, there is attached to them, seen as they are in this country, a feeling of dread which cannot all be dispelled.
Travelling on the ice is not altogether free from danger; and even when it is thought safe, there are places where it is dangerous to go. The best plan of avoiding these is to follow the track of those who have gone before—never, but with caution, and especially at night, striking out a new one.
One of the parties who accompanied us wished to reach the shore. There was a path which, thoughrather longer, would have led him safely to it, but he determined to strike across the unmarked ice, to where be wished to land. All advised him to take the longer way, but he was resolute, and turned his horse's head from us. The gallant steed bounded forward—the golden light was beaming from the sky—and we paused to watch his progress. A fearful crashing was heard—then a sharp crack, and sleigh, horse, and rider vanished from our sight. 'Twas horrible to see them thus enclosed in that cold tomb.
Assistance was speedily sought from the shore, but ere it came I heard the horrid shout of "steeds that snort in agony," while the blue sulphurous flash from above showed the man struggling helplessly among the breaking ice. Poles were placed from the solid parts to where he was, and he was rescued. He was carried to the nearest house, and with some difficulty restored to warmth. The sleighing rarely passes without many such accidents occurring, merely through want of caution.
When the balmy breezes of spring again blew ever New Brunswick, circumstances had arisen which induced me to leave it, and though I loved it not as my native land, I sighed to go, so much of kindness and good feeling had I enjoyed among its dwellers; and I stood on the vessel's deck, gazing on it till the green trees and white walls of Partridge-Island faded in the distance, and the rolling waves of the Bay of Fundy, throwing me into that least terrestrial of all maladies, the "mal du mer," rendered me insensible of all sublunary cares.