Yet, fair as thou art, thou shun'st to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side;

But windest away from haunts of men,
To quiet valley and shaded glen;

And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still.
Lonely-save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes with basket and brook,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look;
Or haply some idle dreamer, like me,
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee.
Still save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed,
And thy own wild music gushing out
With mellow murmur and fairy shout,
From dawn to the blush of another day,
Like traveller singing along his way.

That fairy music I never hear,

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight,
Darkened with shade or flashing with light-
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings—
But I wish that fate had left me free

To wander these quiet haunts with thee—
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along,
Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song.

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd,

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud

I often come to this quiet place,

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,
And gaze upon thee in silent dream;

For in thy lonely and lovely stream,

An image of that calm life appears
That won my heart in my greener years.

THE YELLOW VIOLET.

WHEN beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue bird's warble know,

The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower! I love in forest bare
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,

And streak'd with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk, But, 'midst the gorgeous blooms of May, I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them-but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower

That made the woods of April bright.

RICHARD H. DANA.

THE BUCCANEER.

THE island lies nine leagues away.

Along its solitary shore,

Of craggy rock and sandy bay,

No sound but ocean's roar,

Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home

Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

But when the light winds lie at rest,

And on the glassy, heaving sea,

The black duck, with her glossy breast,

Sits swinging silently;

How beautiful! no ripples break the reach,
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

And inland rests the green, warm dell;
The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the sabbath bell

Rings cheerful, far and wide,

Mingling its sounds with bleatings of the flocks,

That feed about the vale amongst the rocks.

Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat

In former days within the vale;

Flapp'd in the bay the pirate's sheet;
Curses were on the gale;

Rich goods lay on the sand, and murder'd men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

But calm, low voices, words of grace,
Now slowly fall upon the ear;

A quiet look is in each face,

Subdued and holy fear :

Each motion 's gentle: all is kindly done— Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won.

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee
Held in this isle unquestion'd sway,

A dark, low, brawny man was he—

His law" It is my way."

Beneath his thickset brows a sharp light broke

From small gray eyes; his laugh a triumph spoke.

Cruel of heart, and strong of arm,

Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil,
He little reck'd of good or harm,

Fierce both in mirth and toil;

Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were;
Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear.