inquire for that which is durable and unchangeable, and to seek for its security where alone it is to be found. While the green and glossy leaves stand thickly on the trees, we walk beneath them in shadow, and only see the earth, and the things which grow out of it ; — but when the leaves begin to fall, the light comes in, the view is opened upward, and we behold the ever blue and vaulted sky. The goodliness of man and his glory, are they not likewise apt to conceal the goodliness and glory which are above, infinitely above them? When they fade and are shaken down, a new radiance visits our eye, the sunbeams shine in by day and the moonbeams and starbeams by night, and heaven is revealed to the soul, which looks up, watches, and adores.

BLOODY BROOK.

BY GEORGE LUNT.

"September 18th, 1674, Capt. Lathrop, with a number of teams and eighty young men, the flower of Essex county, went to bring a quantity of grain from Deerfield; on their return they stopped to gather grapes at the place afterwards known as Bloody Brook. They were assailed by a body of Indians, amounting to seven or eight hundred, who were lying in wait for their approach. Seventy of their number were slain and afterwards buried in one grave: never had the country seen such a bloody hour. It is said that there was scarcely a family in Essex which did not feel the blow."

BY BLOODY BROOK, at break of day,

When glanced the morn on scene more fair!
Rich pearl-dew on the greensward lay,
And many a bright flower flourish'd there :

The holy forest, all around,

Was hush as summer's sabbath noon,
And through its arches breath'd no sound
But Bloody Brook's low bubbling tune.

And rich with every gallant hue

The old trees stretch their leafy arms,
And o'er them all the morning threw
A tenderer glow of blushing charms;
And varying gold and softest green,

And crimson like the summer rose,
And deeper, through the foliage screen,
The mellow purple lives and glows.

By night, alas, that fearful night!
How sinks my heart the tale to tell!
All, all was gone, that morning light

Saw blooming there so passing well:
Those cluster'd flowers, o'er all their pride
A thousand furious steps had trod,
And many a brave heart's ebbing tide
For pearly dew-drops stained the sod.

But hark! that sound you scarce may hear, Amidst the dry leaves scatter'd there,—

Is it the wild-wolf's step of fear?

Or fell snake, stealing to his lair?

Ah me, it is the wild-wolf's heart,

With more than wolfish vengeance warm,

Ah me, it is the serpent's art

Incarnate in the human form!

And now 'tis still! No sound to wake

The primal forest's awful shade, –
And breathless lies the covert brake,
Where many an ambush'd form is laid:
I see the red-man's gleaming eye,—
Yet all so hush'd the gloom profound,
The summer birds flit heedless by,
And mocking nature smiles around.

Yet hark, again! a merry note

Comes pealing up the quiet stream; And nearer still the echoes float, –

The rolling drum, the fife's loud scream! Yet careless was their march, the while,

They deem no danger hovering near,

And oft the weary way beguile

With sportive laugh and friendly jeer.

Pride of their wild, romantic land,

In the first flush of manhood's day,
It was a bright and gallant band,

Which trod that morn the venturous way.
Long was the toilsome march,— and now
They pause along the shelter'd tide,
And pluck from many a cluster'd bough
The wild-fruits by the pathway side.

As if the very fiends of Hell,

Burst from the wild-wood depths, were here!

The flame, the shot, the deadly gasp, –

The shout,- - the shriek,

the panting breath, —

The struggle of that fearful clasp,

When man meets man for life or death!

All, all were here! No manlier forms

Than theirs, the young, the brave, the fair,—

No bolder hearts life's current warms

Than those that poured it nobly there! In the dim forest's deep recess,

From hope, from friends, from succour far, Fresh from home's smile and dear caress, They stood to dare the unequal war!

Ah, gallant few! No generous foe

Had met you by that crimson'd tide;

Vain even despair's resistless blow, —

As brave men do and die,—they died! Yet not in vain, —a cry, that shook

The inmost forest's desert glooms, Swelled o'er their graves, until it broke In storm around the red-man's homes!

But beating hearts, far, far away,

Broke, at their story's fearful truth,— And maidens sweet, for many a day,

Wept o'er the vanish'd dreams of youth:

By the blue distant ocean-tide,

Wept, years, long years, to hear them tell,

How by the forest's lonely side

The FLOWER OF ESSEX fell!

And that sweet nameless stream, whose flood,
Grew dark with battle's ruddy stain,
Threw off the tinge of murder's blood
And flowed as bright and pure again :
But that wild day, - its hour of fame,
Stamped deep its history's crimson tears,
'Till BLOODY BROOK became a name
To stir the hearts of after years!