And in her desolate agony she cast Her form beside Love’s shivered treasure there, And cried, “Oh, God! my life of life is past! And I am left alone with my despair.” Hark! from the lute one low, melodious sigh Thrilled to her heart a sad yet sweet reply. Then through the darkness rose a voice in prayer, “My Father! I have sinned ’gainst Thine and Thee. The idol, whom I deemed so grandly fair That its proud presence hid thy heaven from me, Shorn of his glory, shrunk to common clay, Behold for him and for my heart I pray. “Take _Thou_ the lute—the shattered lute of love— And teach my faltering hand to tune it right To some dear, holy hymn—which, like a dove, From silver fetters freed, may cleave the night, And fluttering upward to thy starlit throne Die at _Thy_ heart with blissful music moan.” * * * * * THE CAPTIVE OF YORK. BY STELLA MARTIN. The winter of 1692 was no mild specimen of the climate of the New England wilds. The settlers on the inhospitable coast of Maine found its severity to exceed all their apprehensions. The few comforts which they had as yet been able to gather around them, were inadequate to the wants of that long and dreary season. Many fell victims of hardships and despondency; while not a few toiled on, cheerful and uncomplaining examples of endurance and suffering. It was perhaps more fortunate for the northern settlements than their pioneers, that they were commenced in summer, for the cold and inclemency of their early winters were enough to sadden the heart, and blast the hopes of the most visionary dreamer. The stranger who built his rude open hut in pleasant June, fanned by cool breezes during his summer toil, wot not that a few months would bring a bleakness of which he had little conception. The settlements on the Piscataqua are among the oldest in Maine; and to those who first selected the romantic site of the now beautiful village of York, it seemed enchanted land. Primeval forests covered the whole country through which the Piscataqua and its Naiad Sisters wound their way to the sea. The delicate foliage of the beech and poplar, the deep sombre green of the hemlock and fir, the pale, graceful willow, and the bright emerald maple, all blended to form a perfect forest robe, as yet untouched by the devastating hand of man. Bald peaks lent wildness to the scene, already diversified by the commanding banks of the rivers which lay calmly mirrored in their deep, clear waters. No wonder the early adventurers looked with rapturous delight upon the broad bays studded with islands, the green promontories and quiet harbors into which the streams widening their channels, gradually lost themselves in the Atlantic. The sea-fowl bathed its drooping plumage unmolested on the