He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood Roaring and crackling on its path, He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot, And darkening thick the day Hurl'd whizzing on its way. His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd, The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, And, with its moaning cry, Its pond-built Venice by. Humble the lot, yet his the race, When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who cumber'd Bunker's height of red, AN AMERICAN FOREST IN SPRING. Now fluttering breeze, now stormy blast, But, sweet Spring! where art thou? And seek the blazing hearth. We leave the stifling room! Spring, glorious Spring, has come! Are leaping off in showers; And Nature, in her brightening looks, A few soft, sunny days have shone, A bright-green tinge succeeds the brown, Off to the woods! a pleasant scene! Beautiful blossom! first to rise A sudden roar-a shade is cast- They wheel in distant flight. Amid the creeping pine, which spreads More soft the breezes pass, The thresher whistles in the glen, Has clothed the forest now, Night brings her soft, sweet moon; THE LOST HUNTER. NUMB'D by the piercing, freezing air, And burden'd by his game, The hunter, struggling with despair, Dragg'd on his shivering frame; The rifle he had shoulder'd late Was trail'd along, a weary weight; His pouch was void of food; The hours were speeding in their flight, And soon the long, keen, winter night Would wrap the solitude. Oft did he stoop a listening ear, Sweep round an anxious eye,No bark or axe-blow could he hear. No human trace descry. His sinuous path, by blazes, wound An antler'd dweller of the wild Had met his eager gaze, And far his wandering steps beguiled Within an unknown maze; Stream, rock, and run-way he had cross'd, By which he used to roam; And now, deep swamp and wild ravine A dusky haze, which slow had crept The trunks and boughs, a mottled screen The laurel tufts, that drooping hung And the sear beech-leaves still that clung, As surging near it pass'd, And, bursting with a roar, and shock As o'er it whistled, shriek'd, and hiss'd, Caught by its swooping wings, Barb'd, as it seem'd, with stings; Like drifting smoke, and now Here, plunging in a billowy wreath, Seem'd through his nerves to fly, As the dread torpor crawling came Reason forsook her shatter'd throne,- In sunshine, leaves, and flowers; He heard the deer's low bleat; It changed; his cabin roof o'erspread, Its warmth, and he was there; His child was prattling by, The hound crouch'd, dozing, near the blaze, That pass'd;-before his swimming sight And a soft voice, with wild delight, No, hunter, no! 'tis but the streak Never again that form will meet, Morn broke-away the clouds were chased, Their webs of glittering white. Down bent the burden'd wood, Told where the thickets stood. A wave-like heap was thrown, A diamond blaze it shone; Unsullied, smooth, and fair, It seem'd, like other mounds, where trunk Spring came with wakening breezes bland, Earth bursts its winter-chains. In a deep nook, where moss and grass WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. [Born, 18121 WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH was born in the town of Woodstock, in Connecticut, on the second day of February, 1812. His paternal ancestors came to this country from Wales; and on both sides he is descended from the stern old Puritan stock, being on the mother's a lineal descendant of Governor BRADFORD, whose name appears conspicuously and honourably in the early annals of Massachusetts. An intermediate descendant, the grandfather of Mr. BURLEIGH, served with credit under WASHINGTON, in the war of the Revolution. Such ancestral recollections are treasured, with just pride, in many an humble but happy home in New England. In his infancy, Mr. BURLEIGH's parents removed to Plainfield, in his native state, where his father was for many years the principal of a popular academy, until the loss of sight induced him to abandon his charge, before his son had attained an age to derive much benefit from his instructions. He retired to a farm, and the boy's time was mainly devoted to its culture, varied by the customary attendance in a district-school through the wintermonths, until he was sixteen, when he proposed to become an apprentice to a neighbouring clothier, but abandoned the idea after two weeks' trial, from an inveterate loathing of the coarseness and brutality of those among whom he was set to labour. Here, however, while engaged in the repulsive cares of his employment, he composed his first sonnet, which was published in a gazette printed in the vicinity. Returning to his father's house, he in the following summer became an apprentice to a village printer, whom he left after eight months' tedious endurance, leaving in his "stick" a fare well couplet to his master, which is probably membered unforgivingly to this day. He did n however, desert the business, of which he ha thus obtained some slight knowledge, but co tinued to labour as half-apprentice, journeyman, sub-editor, etc., through the next seven years during which he assisted in the conduct of pe haps as many periodicals, deriving thereby li fame and less profit. In December, 1834, while editor of "The Literary Journal," in the city of Schenectady, he married an estimable womar, who has since "divided his sorrows and doubled his joys." In July, 1836, abandoning the printing business for a season, he commenced a new career as a public lecturer, under the auspices of a phi lanthropic society, and in his new employment he continued for two years. At the close of that period he assumed the editorship of "The Christian Wit ness," at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, which he held two years and a half, when he resigned it, to take charge of "The Washington Banner," a gazette published at Allegheny, on the opposite side of the Ohio. Between this duty, and the study of the law, his time is now divided. His contributions to the periodical literature of the country commenced at an early age, and have been continued at intervals to the present day. "The New Yorker" was for years his favourite medium of communication with the public. A collection of his poems appeared in Philadelphia, early in 1840. ELEGIAC STANZAS. SHE hath gone in the spring-time of life, Ere her sky had been dimm'd by a cloud,' While her heart with the rapture of love was yet rife, And the hopes of her youth were unbow'dFrom the lovely, who loved her too well; From the heart that had grown to her own; From the sorrow which late o'er her young spirit fell, Like a dream of the night she hath flown; And the earth hath received to its bosom its trustAshes to ashes, and dust unto dust. The spring, in its loveliness dress'd, Will return with its music-wing'd hours, And the flowers her grave-sod above, Though the sleeper beneath recks it not, Meet emblems are they of the pure one and bright, Ay, the spring will return--but the blossom Shall come back when the winter is o'er; In our desolate chambers no more! As the bird to its sheltering nest, When the storm on the hills is abroad, Where the sorrows of earth never more With a gladness unmingled with pain; And its thirst shall be slaked by the waters which spring, Like a river of light, from the throne of the KING! NIGHT, stern, eternal, and alone, Girded with solemn silence round, Sat brooding o'er the vast profound- Then moved upon the waveless deep The quickening Spirit of the LORD, Before the Everlasting Word! Wore like a king his crown of light- How queenly look'd the star-gemm'd night! Bursting from choirs celestial, rang In concert with the heavenly throng; Creator! let thy Spirit shine The darkness of our souls within, From the forbidden paths of sin; JUNE. JUNE, with its roses-June! The gladdest month of our capricious year, Of the bright leaping waters, as they pass Earth, at her joyous coming, The overarching sky Weareth a softer tint, a lovelier blue, Hiding the sunshine in their vapoury breast, A deeper melody, Pour'd by the birds, as o'er their callow young Watchful they hover, to the breeze is flungGladsome, yet not of glee Music heart-born, like that which mothers sing Above their cradled infants slumbering. On the warm hill-side, where Crushing the gather'd fruit in playful mood, A deeper blush is given To the half-ripen'd cherry, as the sun The truant schoolboy looks with longing eyes, The farmer, in his field, Draws the rich mould around the tender maize; An ample harvest, and around his hearth Poised on his rainbow-wing. The butterfly, whose life is but an hour, Born for the sunshine and the summer-day, Dance to the merry tune Of birds, and waters, and the pleasant shout I feel it were not wrong To deem thou art a type of heaven's clime, Sweep not the sky along; The flowers-air-beauty-music-all are thine, SPRING. THE sweet south wind, so long Wakes unto us, and laughingly sweeps by, The labourer at his toil Feels on his cheek its dewy kiss, and lifts Borne from the blossoming gardens of the south- The bursting buds look up To greet the sunlight, while it lingers yet Opens its azure cup Meekly, and countless wild flowers wake to fling Torpid so long within his wintry tomb, And the lithe snake crawls forth from caverns chill, THE strife is o'er-Death's seal is set And darken'd by the spoiler, Death: Upon the brow so deathly cold. The strife is o'er! The loved of years, To whom our yearning hearts had grown, Hath left us, with life's gathering fears To struggle darkly and alone; Gone, with the wealth of love which dwe For life eternal is her dower! STANZAS, WRITTEN ON VISITING MY BIRTH-PLACE WE are scatter'd-we are scatter'd Though a jolly band were we! Some sleep beneath the grave-sod, And some are o'er the sea; We are scatter'd-we are scatter'd!- In the joyousness of youth- Are faded from our track! In its passionless embrace- Is brooding o'er the heart, How fondly do we gaze Of childhood's fleeting days! The happiness--the happiness Of boyhood must depart; Then comes the sense of loneliness Upon the stricken heart! |