Now she had come at early dawn,
    Laden with rich perfume,
  To shed her tears beside his form—­
    Her fragrance round his tomb.

  But, lo! he lives; O, glad surprise! 
    Has ris’n from the grave;
  And now, before her ravish’d eyes,
    Proclaims his power to save.

  May you, who bear that gentle name,
    This Saviour’s call obey;
  And he will lead you by his grace,
    To realms of endless day.

  Mary had followed to the cross—­
    Had sought him at the tomb;
  So may you follow, seek and find;
    He calls—­“there still is room.”

A Long Night in the Eighteenth Century.

The hardy and enterprising inhabitants, who first penetrated the eastern forests, to fell their hardy oaks, and build up settlements, in the then remote east, had many difficulties to encounter, which later generations know nothing of.  In the latter part of the eighteenth century, two families lived in their log cabins, in the interior of the forest.  They had each a small cleared spot of land, that amply repaid their labor, by its rich productions.  The morning sun, as he shed his rising beams over the long range of forest trees, glanced smilingly upon their little cultivated spot,

  “That bloomed like Eden, in the world’s first spring;”

and they were contented and happy.  The dense forest trees, waving in the blast, or gently bowing their lofty heads before the milder breeze, made music not unlike the dash of Ocean on his winding shore.

They were far from the abodes of men.  The fashions, the vanities and the pleasures of life, held no despotic sway in their breasts.  They pursued “the even tenor of their ways,” rising before the sun, and retiring almost with his sinking beams.

The cows and sheep went forth to crop the green herbage and luxurious grass, heralding their approach by tinkling bells.

No roads were made, and the citizens pursued their way by trees, stripped of little pieces of bark, by friendly Indians, who went as guides to the pale faces, that had come into their territories, purchased their lands, and distributed the deadly fire-water among them, thus adding fury to their already ferocious natures.

The men were both house carpenters, and one of them a wheelwright; so they were frequently called upon to leave their homes, and go to some distant part, where a new settlement was springing up, to fill the place of the forest trees, that had fallen before the woodman’s axe.

In the spring of 1773, the settlement upon the banks of the Kennebec river, now called Gardiner (but then bearing the Indian name of Cobbessy), was progressing rapidly.  A saw mill was to be erected upon this rapid stream, that had rolled on for centuries, through the towering forest, only bearing the Indian’s light canoe, as it floated over its glassy surface, and the dipping of the paddle, in the dark rolling stream, awoke an answering echo in her wild forest haunts.