But 'mid the toils that press her sore—
The spirit-wants of 'wildered ones— These buds must often miss the dew,
And plead in vain for constant suns.
She sees their smiles, their music hears,
And feels affection's holy thrall; But duty's voice, from out the skies,
In sweeter tones, is heard o'er all.
To Western climes, illumed by truth,
And blest with learning's sacred flowers, These blossoms of her heart must go,
To bloom henceforth in stranger bowers.
She leads them to the waiting ship;
She kneels in anguish on the deck, And while she breathes a silent prayer,
Their arms like tendrils twine her neck.
She tears her from the loved away,
Whom she on earth no more may see, And looking up to heaven, exclaims,
"My Saviour, I do this for thee!"
Then hastens to her task again,
The pleasant task her Saviour's given, That, finished all, she may ascend,
And lure the distant ones to heaven.
A KIND-HEARTED CHIPPEWA.
Both men and women belie their nature
When they are not kind.
Bailey's Festus.