Ah! well known woods, and mountains, and skies, very clouds!―ye are lost to my eyes.

With the

I seek ye vainly, and see in your place

The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
A whirling ocean that fills the wall

Of the crystal heaven, and buries all.
And I, cut off from the world, remain

Alone with the terrible hurricane.

WILLIAM TELL.

A SONNET.

CHAINS may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee,
TELL, of the iron heart! they could not tame!
For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim
The everlasting creed of liberty.

That creed is written on the untrampled snow,

Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold, And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around,

Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught,

And to thy brief captivity was brought

A vision of thy Switzerland unbound.

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee
For the great work to set thy country free.

THE HUNTER'S SERENADE.

THY bower is finished, fairest!

Fit bower for hunter's bride

Where old woods overshadow
The green savanna's side.

I've wandered long, and wandered far,
And never have I met,

In all this lovely western land,

A spot so lovely yet.

But I shall think it fairer,

When thou art come to bless,

With thy sweet smile and silver voice,

Its silent loveliness.

For thee the wild grape glistens,

On sunny knoll and tree,

The slim papaya ripens

Its yellow fruit for thee.

For thee the duck, on glassy stream,
The prairie-fowl shall die,

My rifle for thy feast shall bring
The wild swan from the sky.
The forest's leaping panther,

Fierce, beautiful, and fleet,
Shall yield his spotted hide to be
A carpet for thy feet.

I know, for thou hast told me,
Thy maiden love of flowers;

Ah, those that deck thy gardens

Are pale compared with ours.

When our wide woods and mighty lawns

Bloom to the April skies,

The earth has no more gorgeous sight

To show to human eyes.

In meadows red with blossoms,

All summer long, the bee

Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs,
For thee, my love, and me.

Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens

Of ages long ago—

Our old oaks stream with mosses,

And sprout with mistletoe ;

And mighty vines, like serpents, climb

The giant sycamore;

And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries,

Cumber the forest floor;

And in the great savanna,

The solitary mound,

Built by the elder world, o'erlooks

The loneliness around.

Come, thou hast not forgotten

Thy pledge and promise quite,

With many blushes murmured,

Beneath the evening light.

Come, the young violets crowd my door,
Thy earliest look to win,

And at my silent window-sill
The jessamine peeps in.
All day the red-bird warbles,
Upon the mulberry near,

And the night-sparrow trills her song,
All night, with none to hear.