The painted savage, who amid the crowd Has stood unmoved for days, awakes to life; His giant breast in wild commotion heaves, His heart would speak, nor wait to reach his lips; He stands and vainly calls to his relief His savage nature; but, alas! ’tis gone. Then falling on his face amid the woods That often echoed to his war-whoop fell, He casts his weapons at his Savior’s feet, And lays aside his garments stained with blood. His voice in accents of his soul now speaks, His eyes with tears of deep contrition stream, And from a trembling tongue in transport breaks, Sweet Alleluia to the King of Kings! The angel hovering o’er that forest scene, Bears up the tidings on exulting wing, And soon from the high pinnacles of bliss, The Seraph harps in sweetness make response, Alleluia! The thrilling song in gentle murmuring falls Upon the anxious ear, like music heard On the calm ocean at the midnight hour; Speaks to the broken heart in whispers sweet, An dies away amid the forest hum, Alleluia! The night has come, and one by one the lights Go out amid the trees, and the vast multitude Is hushed in sleep. — The harvest moon sails up its cloudless way, Full round and red—the farmer’s evening friend, Lengthening the hours of labor, when the hand Finds more than it can do within the day. How gently falls its light upon the plains, The quiet lake, and music-breathing woods; The wakened bird mistakes it for the dawn, And in the bush begins her matin song. A moment rings the solitary strain, And then no sound is wafted to the ear, Save the wild whisper of the dying wind, Or distant foot-fall of some prowling beast.