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Rude was the garb, and strong the frame,

Of him who plied his ceaseless toil :
To form that garb, the wild-wood game

Contributed their spoil ;
The soul that warmed that frame, disdained
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned

Where men their crowds collect;
The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,

This forest tamer decked.

The paths which wound ’mid gorgeous trees,

The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers, The winds that swelled their harmonies

Through those sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast — the green

arcade, The nestling vale — the grassy glade,

Dark cave and swampy lair ;
These scenes and sounds majestic, made

His world, his pleasures, there.

His roof adorned a pleasant spot,

'Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not,

Throve in the sun and rain.
The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,
The low — the bleat — the tinkling bell,

All made a landscape strange,

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Which was the living chronicle

Of deeds that wrought the change.

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The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge,

The rose of Summer spread its glow, The maize hung out its Autumn fringe,

Rude Winter brought his snow;
And still the lone one laboured there,
His shout and whistle woke the air,

As cheerily he plied
His garden spade, or drove his share

Along the hillock's side.

He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood

Roaring and crackling on its path,
And scorching earth and melting wood,

Beneath its greedy wrath;
He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot,
Trampling the pine tree with its foot,

And darkening thick the day
With streaming bough and severed root,

Hurled whizzing on its way.

His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,

The grim bear hushed his savage growl,
In blood and foam the panther gnashed

His fangs, with dying howl;
The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,




Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,

And with its moaning cry,
The beaver sank beneath the wound

Its pond-built Venice by.

Humble the lot, yet his the race !

When Liberty sent forth her cry,
Who thronged in Conflict's deadliest place,

To fight — to bleed - to die.
Who cumbered Bunker's height of red,
By hope, through weary years were led,

And witnessed York Town's sun
Blaze on a Nation's banner spread,

A Nation's freedom won.

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"La rose cueillie et le cour gagne ne plaisent qu'un jour.”

The maiden sat at her busy wheel,

Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth

Her bosom's harmless glee.
Her song was in mockery of love,

And oft I heard her say, “ The gathered rose, and the stolen heart

Can charm but for a day.”

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,

And her lip so full and bright, And I sighed to think that the traitor love,

Should conquer a heart so light: But she thought not of future days of wo,

While she carolled in tones so gay; “ The gathered rose and the stolen heart,

Can charm but for a day.”

A year passed on, and again I stood

By the humble cottage-door ;

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The maid sat at her busy wheel,

But her look was blithe no more ;
The big tear stood in her downcast eye,

And with sighs I heard her say,
“ The gathered rose, and the stolen heart

Can charm but for a day.”

Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye,

And made her cheek so pale ;
The maid had forgotten her early song,

While she listened to love's soft tale.
She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,

It had wasted her life away :
And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,

Had charmed but for a day.

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