And o'er these woods and waters broke
The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak,
As, brightly on the voyager's eye,
Weary of forest, sea, and sky,
Breaking the dull continuous wood,
The Merrimack roll'd down his flood;
Mingling that clear pellucid brook
Which channels vast Agioochook-
When spring-time's sun and shower unlock
The frozen fountains of the rock,
And more abundant waters given
From that pure lake, 'The Smile of Heaven,'
Tributes from vale and mountain side-
With ocean's dark, eternal tide!
On yonder rocky cape, which braves
The stormy challenge of the waves,
Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood,
The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood,
Planting upon the topmost crag
The staff of England's battle-flag;
And, while from out its heavy fold
Saint George's crimson cross unroll'd,
Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare,
And weapons brandishing in air,
He gave to that lone promontory
The sweetest name in all his story;
Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters,
Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters
Who, when the chance of war had bound
The Moslem chain his limbs around,
Wreath'd o'er with silk that iron chain,
Sooth'd with her smiles his hours of pain,
And fondly to her youthful slave
A dearer gift than freedom gave.
But look!-the yellow light no more
Streams down on wave and verdant shore;
And clearly on the calm air swells
The distant voice of twilight bells.
From Ocean's bosom, white and thin
The mists come slowly rolling in;
Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim,
Amidst the sea-like vapour swim,
While yonder lonely coast-light set
Within its wave-wash'd minaret,
Half quench'd, a beamless star and pale,
Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!
Vale of my fathers!-I have stood
Where Hudson roll'd his lordly flood;
Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade
Along his frowning Palisade;
Look'd down the Appalachian peak
On Juniata's silver streak;
Have seen along his valley gleam
The Mohawk's softly-winding stream;
The setting sun, his axle red
Quench darkly in Potomac's bed;
And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner
Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna;
Yet, wheresoe'er his step might be,
Thy wandering child look'd back to thee!
Heard in his dreams thy river's sound
Of murmuring on its pebbly bound,
The unforgotten swell and roar
Of waves on thy familiar shore;
And seen amidst the curtain'd gloom
And quiet of my lonely room,
Thy sunset scenes before me pass;
As, in Agrippa's magic glass,
A WINTER MORNING.
The loved and lost arose to view,
Remember'd groves in greenness grew;
And, while the gazer lean'd to trace,
More near, some old familiar face,
He wept to find the vision flown—
A phantom and a dream alone!
BY ANDREWS NORTON.
THE keen, clear air-the splendid sight—
We waken to a world of ice;
Where all things are enshrined in light,
As by some genie's quaint device.
"Tis winter's jubilee this day
His stores their countless treasures yield; See how the diamond glances play,
In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field.
The cold, bare spot where late we ranged,
The naked woods are seen no more;
This earth to fairy land is changed,
With glittering silver sheeted o'er.
A shower of gems is strew'd around;
The flowers of winter, rich and rare; Rubies and sapphires deck the ground,
The topaz, emerald, all are there.
The morning sun, with cloudless rays,
His powerless splendour round us streams; From crusted boughs, and twinkling sprays, Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams.
A WINTER MORNING.
With more than summer's beauty fair,
The trees in winter's garb are shown;
What a rich halo melts in air,
Around their crystal branches thrown!
And yesterday-how changed the view
From what then charm'd us; when the sky
Hung, with its dim and watery hue,
O'er all the soft, still prospect nigh.
The distant groves, array'd in white,
Might then like things unreal seem,
Just shown a while in silvery light,
The fictions of a poet's dream;
Like shadowy groves upon that shore
O'er which Elysium's twilight lay,
By bards and sages famed of yore,
Ere broke on earth heaven's brighter day.
Ó, GOD of Nature! with what might
Of beauty, shower'd on all below,
Thy guiding power would lead aright
Earth's wanderer all thy love to know!
BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.
O WILD, enchanting horn! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, Till a new melody is born
Wake, wake again, the night
Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
With still stars burning on her azure crown,
Intense and eloquently bright.
Night, at its pulseless noon!
When the far voice of waters mourns in song, And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long Barks at the melancholy moon.
Hark! how it sweeps away, Soaring and dying on the silent sky,
As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, With lone halloo and roundelay!
Swell, swell in glory out!
Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart,
my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start,
As boyhood's old remember'd shout.
O! have ye heard that peal,
From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, Or from the guarded field and warrior tents,
Like some near breath around you steal?
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