d along
To the black chasm within the rocky ledge.
We clustered round the mouth. A low, deep growl
Came from the depths. Two orbs of flashing fire
Glared in the darkness. Brace, the hunter, aimed
His rifle just between the flaming spots,
And fired. Fierce growls and gnashings loud of teeth
Blent with the echoes, and then all was still.
The spots were seen no more. A few had brought
Splinters of pine for torches, and the flint
Supplied the flame. With one hand grasping tight
A hatchet keen, the other a bright torch,
The dauntless hunter ventured, with slow steps,
Within the cavern. Soon a shout we heard,
And Brace appeared, with all his giant strength
Dragging a lifeless panther. In again
He passed, and then brought out a human form,
Mangled and crushed. A shriek pealed wild and high,
And, swooning, sank the wife upon the snow,
Beside the dead. With silent, deep-felt awe
We bore both to the hut. A sudden cloud
Rose frowning from the north, and deep and fierce
Howled the loosed tempest. From her death-like swoon,
Roused by our care, the hapless wife poured out
Her cries and wailings. Through the livelong night
We heard her moans and screams and ravings wild,
Blending with all those stern and awful tones
That the scourged forest yields. But morning dawned,
And brought the widowed and the broken heart
The peace of death. Beside the lonely hut,
Two graves were opened in the frozen snow,
And silence then fell deeply on the spot.
No more the smoke curled up. No more the axe
Rang in the mountain; and a few short years
Leveled the cabin with the forest-earth,
Midst spreading bushes, fern and waving grass.

INNOCENCE.

Let me, lamb-like, share caresses,
From thy hand that knows not stain;
Flowers that woo, the smile that blesses,
Hours that pass and leave no pain!

Be with me in sleeping, waking;
Be with me in toil and rest;
Living, thine; and, life forsaking,
Let me slumber on thy breast!

[Illustration: INNOCENCE]

A DRAMA OF REAL LIFE.

(IN A LETTER FROM N. P. WILLIS TO THE EDITOR OF GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.)

TO GEO. R. GRAHAM, ESQ.
_New York, December_ 1, 1847.

DEAR SIR,--By to-night's mail should go to you a
piece of mental statuary, which is yet in a marble