Loud on that night was the thunder crash,
Sad was the voice of the wind,
Swift was the glare of the lightning flash,
And the whizz it left behind.
At morn when the pious brothers came
To give the body to ground,
The skull, the feet, and palms of her hands
Were all that they ever found.
Then the holy monks with ominous shake
Of the head, looked wond'rous sly,
While the breeze that waved their whiten'd locks,
Bore a pray'r for her soul on high.
P.S.
* * * * *
SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.
VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.
[There is a touching interest in the following narrative of the surrender
of certain tribes of the aborigines of Van Diemen's Land to the British
authorities. Some time since a war of extermination was commenced against
them by the colonists; but, happily for humanity, this atrocious attack,
which future historians may varnish over with "civilization," was a signal
failure; and the poor, simple creatures were still left to enjoy the woods
and caves and painted skins of savage life; not, however, without having
fiercely retaliated upon the colonists for the cruel treatment which they
experienced.]
The Oyster Bay and Big River tribes, the most sanguinary in the island,
have surrendered themselves to Mr. Robinson, by whose conciliatory
intervention the desirable event has been mainly brought about.
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