JOY IN BELIEVING.

"God desireth to have no slaves in his family."-Rev. Dr. Hawes.

MAN asketh homage. When his foot doth stand

On earth's high places, he exacteth fear

From those who serve him. His proud spirit loves
The quick observance of an abject eye

And cowering brow. His dignity, he deems,
Demands such aliment-and he doth show
Its evanescence, by the food he seeks

To give it nutriment. Yea, more than this—
He o'er his brother rules, with scourge and chain,
Treading out Nature's charities, till life
To madness tortur'd, or in misery crush'd,
Goes, an accusing spirit, back to God.

-But He, the Eternal Ruler, willeth not
The slavery of the soul. His claim is love,
A filial spirit, and a song of praise.

It doth not please him, that his servants wear

The livery of mourning. Peace is sown
Along their pilgrim path—and holy hopes
Like birds of Paradise, do sweetly pour
Melodious measures—and a glorious faith
Springs up o'er Jordan's wave. Say, is it meet
For those who wear a Saviour's badge, to sigh
In heathen heaviness, when earthly joys
Quench their brief taper? or go shrinking down
As to a dungeon, when the gate of Death
Opes its low valve, to show the shining track
Up to an angel's heritage of bliss?

INDIAN GIRL'S BURIAL.

"In the vicinity of Montrose, Wisconsin Territory, the only daughter of an Indian woman of the Sac tribe, died of lingering consumption, at the age of eighteen. A few of her own race, and a few of the pale-faces were at the grave, but none wept, save the poor mother."-Herald of thE UPPER MISSISSIPPI.

A VOICE upon the prairies

A cry of woman's woe,

That mingleth with the autumn blast

All fitfully and low;

It is a mother's wailing;

Hath earth another tone

Like that with which a mother mourns

Her lost, her only one?

Pale faces gather round her,

They mark'd the storm swell high
That rends and wrecks the tossing soul,
But their cold, blue eyes are dry.

Pale faces gaze upon her,

As the wild winds caught her moan,

But she was an Indian mother,

So she wept her tears alone.

Long o'er that wasted idol,

She watch'd, and toil'd, and pray'd,
Though every dreary dawn reveal'd
Some ravage Death had made,
Till the fleshless sinews started,
And hope no opiate gave,

And hoarse, and hollow grew her voice,

An echo from the grave.

She was a gentle creature,

Of raven eye and tress,

And dove-like were the tones that breath'd

Her bosom's tenderness,

Save when some quick emotion,
The warm blood strongly sent,
To revel in her olive-cheek
So richly eloquent.

I said Consumption smote her,
And the healer's art was vain,
But she was an Indian maiden,

So none deplor'd her pain;

None, save that widow'd mother,
Who now by her open tomb,
Is writhing like the smitten wretch
Whom judgment marks for doom.

Alas! that lowly cabin,

That bed beside the wall,

That seat beneath the mantling vine,

They're lone and empty all.

What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn

That ripeneth on the plain?

Since she for whom the board was spread

Must ne'er return again.

Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden,

Nor let thy murmuring shade

Grieve that those pale-brow'd ones with scorn

Thy burial rite survey'd ;

There's many a king whose funeral

A black-rob'd realm shall see,

For whom no tear of grief is shed

Like that which falls for thee.

Yea, rest thee, forest maiden!

Beneath thy native tree;

The proud may boast their little day

Then sink to dust like thee: