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ADIEU TO FRANCE
ADIEU to France! my latest glance
How long, alas, I cannot tell,
The hours fleet fast, and on the mast
And on the sky-line eyes will fail
On, then! before the tides and gale,
What doom I meet, my heart will beat
Be present to my mind alway.
And this should be my latest view,
Fair France, loved France, my France, adieu !
Salut à la France, salut !
THE mountain peaks put on their hoods,
And the long shadows of the woods
As like a fiend he flitteth by ;
THE GALLANT FLEET
A GALLANT fleet sailed out to sea With the pennons streaming merrily.
On the hulls the tempest lit,
And the foaming fierce sea-horses
FROM "TECUMSEH: A DRAMA"
LEFROY IN THE FOREST
THIS region is as lavish of its flowers
Fadeless as love and truth-the fairest form
That ever sun-shower washed with sudden rain.
This golden cradle is the Moccasin Flower, Wherein the Indian hunter sees his hound; And this dark chalice is the Pitcher-Plant, Stored with the water of forgetfulness. Whoever drinks of it, whose heart is pure, Will sleep for aye 'neath foodfull asphodel, And dream of endless love.
There was a time on this fair continent When all things throve in spacious peacefulness.
The prosperous forests unmolested stood, For where the stalwart oak grew there it lived
Long ages, and then died among its kind. The hoary pines - those ancients of the earth
Brimful of legends of the early world, Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued ;
And all things else illumined by the sun,
Vanished in silent darkness with the day. The prairie realm - vast ocean's paraphrase
Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory, No civilized barbarian trenched for gain. And all that flowed was sweet and uncor
And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail. And all the wild life of this western world Knew not the fear of man; yet in those woods,
And by those plenteous streams and mighty lakes,
And on stupendous steppes of peerless plain, And in the rocky gloom of canyons deep, Screened by the stony ribs of mountains hoar Which steeped their snowy peaks in purging cloud,
And down the continent where tropic suns Warmed to her very heart the mother earth,
And in the congealed north where silence self
Ached with intensity of stubborn frost, There lived a soul more wild than barba
Which through long reaches of the prairie wound,
Then melted slowly into upland vales, Lingering, far - stretched amongst the spreading hills.
Brock. What charming solitudes! And life was there!
Lefroy. Yes, life was there! inexplicable life,
Still wasted by inexorable death.
There had the stately stag his battle-field
Beset by glittering eyes and hurrying feet. The dancing grouse, at their insensate sport,
Heard not the stealthy footstep of the fox;
The gopher on his little earthwork stood, With folded arms, unconscious of the fate That wheeled in narrowing circles overhead,
And the poor mouse, on heedless nibbling bent,
Marked not the silent coiling of the snake. At length we heard a deep and solemn sound
Erupted moanings of the troubled earth
UP, my dogs, merrily,
Come into your places
There, stretch out your traces,
And off, at a canter.
Up, my dogs, cheerily,
Come, follow your master; Or to-night we may wearily, Tired and drearily,
Travel, not knowing
What moment disaster May sweep in the storm-blast, And over each form cast
A shroud in its blowing.
On, my dogs, steadily,
Though keen winds are shifting
Them straight in your faces;
Your feet, keep your paces; For yet we shall weather The blizzard together,
Though evil our case is.
Sleep, my dogs, cosily,
A BLOOD-RED RING HUNG ROUND THE MOON
A BLOOD-RED ring hung round the moon, Hung round the moon. Ah me! Ah me!
I heard the piping of the Loon,
He left me in the early morn,
The early morn. Ah me! Ah me! The feathers swayed like stately corn, So like the corn. Ah me!
A fierce wind swept across the plain,
They crushed in blood the hated race,
TO A HUMMING BIRD IN A GARDEN
BLITHE playmate of the Summer time,
Com'st thou from forests of Peru,
Thou scannest me with doubtful gaze,
Secure from harm or danger.
Now here, now there, thy flash is
Like some stray sunbeam darting,
With scarce a second's space between
Mate of the bird that lives sublime
Suspended by thy slender bill,
Sweet blooms thou lov'st to rifle ;
Surely the honey-dew of flowers
Or why, through burning August hours,
What though thy throatlet never rings