Still shines the moon--still halts the panting storm, It moves again--the shadow shapes to form, Lo! where yon bank shelves gradual, and the ray Silvers the reed, it cleaves its vigorous way!-- Saved from the deep, but happier far to save, The foeman wrests the foeman from the grave! Still shines the moon--still halts the storm!--above His sons, looks down divine the Father-Love! Upon the Indian's breast droops Arden's head, Its marble beauty rigid as the dead. What skill so fondly tends the soul's eclipse, Chafes the stiff limb, and breathes in breathless lips? Wooes back the flickering life, and when, once more, The ebbing blood the wan cheek mantles o'er; When stirs the pulse, when opes the glazing eye, What voice of joy finds listeners in the sky? "Bless thee, my God!--this mercy thine!--he lives: Look in my heart, forgive, for it forgives!" Then, while yet clear the heaven, he flies--he gains The nearest roof--prompt aid his prayer obtains; Well known the noble stranger's mien--they bear To the rude home, and ply the zealous care; Life with the dawn comes sure, if faint and slow, And all night long the foeman watch'd the foe! Day dawns on earth, still darkness wraps the mind; Sleep pass'd, the waking is a veil more blind: The soul, scared roughly from its mansion, glides O'er mazy wastes through which the meteor guides. The startled menial, who, alone of all The hireling pomp that swarms in Arden's hall, Attends his lord,--dismay'd lest one so high, A rural Galen should permit to die, Departs in haste to seek the subtler skill Which from the College takes the right to kill; And summon Lucy to the solemn room To watch the father's life,--fast by the mother's tomb. Meanwhile such facile arts as nature yields, Draughts from the spring and simples from the fields, Learn'd in his savage youth, the Indian plies; The fever slakes, the cloudy darkness flies; O'er the vex'd vision steals the lulling rest, And Arden wakes to sense on Morvale's breast! On Morvale's breast!--and through the noiseless door A fearful footfall creeps, and lo! once more Thou look'st, pale daughter, on thy father's foe! Not with the lurid eye and menaced blow; Not as when last, between the murtherous blade And the proud victim, gleam'd the guardian maid-- Thy post is his!--that breast the prop supplies That thine should yield;--as thine so watch those eyes, Wistful and moist, that waning life above; Recal the Heathen's hate!--behold the Christian's love! The learned leech proclaims the danger o'er; When life is safe, can Fate then harm no more?