among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.
THE LORD OF HOSTS IS WITH US;
THE GOD OF JACOB IS OUR REFUGE.

Psalm XLVI.

A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good
things: and an evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil
things. But I say unto you that every idle word that men shall speak,
they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.

St. Matthew, XII.

INDIAN SUMMER

By the purple haze that lies
On the distant rocky height,
By the deep blue of the skies,
By the smoky amber light
Through the forest arches streaming,
Where Nature on her throne sits dreaming,
And the sun is scarcely gleaming
Through the cloudless snowy white,--
Winter's lovely herald greets us,
Ere the ice-crowned giant meets us.

A mellow softness fills the air,--
No breeze on wanton wings steals by
To break the holy quiet there,
Or make the waters fret and sigh,
Or the yellow alders shiver,
That bend to kiss the placid river,
Flowing on and on forever;
But the little waves are sleeping,
O'er the pebbles slowly creeping,
That last night were flashing, leaping,
Driven by the restless breeze,
In lines of foam beneath yon trees.

Dressed in robes of gorgeous hue,
Brown and gold with crimson blent.
The forest to the waters blue
Its own enchanting tints has lent;--
In their dark depths, lifelike glowing,
We see a second forest growing,
Each pictured leaf and branch bestowing
A fairy grace to that twin wood,
Mirrored within the crystal flood.

'Tis pleasant now in forest shades;
The Indian hunter strings his bow,
To track through dark entangling glades
The antlered deer and bounding doe,
Or launch at night the birch canoe,
To spear the finny tribes that dwell
On sandy bank, in weedy cell,
Or pool, the fisher knows right well--
Seen by the red and vivid glow
Of pine torch at his vessel's bow.

This dreamy Indian summer-day,
Attunes the soul to tender sadness;
We love--but joy not in the ray--
It is not summer's fervid gladness,
But a melancholy glory,
Hovering softly round decay,
Like swan that sings her own sad story,
Ere she floats in death away.
The day declines; what splendid dyes,
In fleckered