I had been tossing through the restless night— Sleep banished from my pillow—and my brain Weary with sense of dull and stifling pain— Yearning, and praying for the blessed light. My lips moaned thy dear name, beloved one; Yet I had seen thee lying still and cold, Thy form bound only by the shroud’s pure fold, For life with all its suffering was done. Then agony of loneliness o’ercame My widowed heart—night would fit emblem seem For the evanishing of that bright dream: The heavens were dark—my life henceforth the same. No hope—its pulse within my breast was dead. No light—the clouds hung heavily o’erhead. II.—DAYBREAK. Once more I sought the casement. Lo! a ray, Faint and uncertain, struggled through the gloom, And shed a misty twilight on the room; Long watched-for herald of the coming day! It brought a thrill of gladness to my breast. With clasped hands, and streaming eyes, I prayed, Thanking my God for light, though long delayed— And gentle calm stole o’er my wild unrest. “Oh, soul!” I said, “thy boding murmurs cease; Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall, Thy Father’s hand is guiding thee through all— His love will bring a true and perfect peace. Look upward once again, though drear the night; Earth may be darkness—Heaven will give thee light.” * * * * * PIONEERS OF WESTERN NEW YORK. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. High was the homage senates paid To the plumed conquerors of old, And freely at their feet were laid Rich piles of flashing gems and gold. Proud History exhausted thought— Glad bards awoke their vocal reeds, While Phidian hands the marble wrought In honor of their wondrous deeds: But our undaunted pioneers Have conquest more enduring won, In scattering the night of years, And opening forests to the sun: And they are victors nobler far Than the helmed chiefs of other times, Who rolled their chariots of war In other lands, and distant climes. Earth groaned beneath those mail-clad men, Bereft of beauty where they trod— And wildly rose, from hill and glen, Loud, agonizing shrieks to God. Purveyors to the carrion-bird, Blood streamed from their uplifted swords, And while the crash of states was heard Swept on their desolating hordes. Then tell me not of heroes fled— Crime renders foul their boasted fame!