THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. BY W. G. SIMMS. 'Tis a wild spot and hath a gloomy look; And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growth Crowd on the dank, wet earth; and, stretched at length Slumbers, half-buried in the sedgy grass, Beside the green ooze where he shelters him. A whooping crane erects his skeleton form, To apprehension, as they hear his cry, Dash up from the lagoon, with marvellous haste, The steel-jawed monster, from his grassy bed, Which straight receives him. You behold him now, THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. His ridgy back uprising as he speeds, In silence to the centre of the stream, -but seeks in vain In aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge,- - 275 THE SONG OF THE STROMKERL. BY PARK BENJAMIN. [The Swedes delight to tell of the Stromkerl, or boy of the stream, who haunts the glassy brocks that steal gently through green meadows, and sits on the silver waves at moonlight, playing his harp to the elves who dance on the flowery margin.—W. Irving.) COME, dance, elfins, dance! for my harp is in tune, Each lily that bends to the breast of my stream, Will in ecstacy wake, like a bride from her dream, When my tones stir the dark plumes of silence and night. My silken winged bark shall career by the shore, THE SONG OF THE STROMKERL. The banks of my stream are enamelled with flowers 277 Come, shake from their petals the sweet, starry dew; Such music and incense can only be ours, While clear falls the summer sky's curtain of blue! Come, queen of the revels-come, form into bands Let your dainty feet glance to my wave-wafted strain! 'Tis the Stromkerl who calls you, the boy of the stream I hear the faint hum of your voices afar :Come, dance! I will play till the morn's rosy beam Into splendour shall melt the last lingering star! A SKETCH. BY CAROLINE GILMAN. THE gay saloon was thronged with grace and beauty, While astral rays shone out on lovely eyes, And lovely eyes looked forth a clearer beam. Fashion was there-not in her flaunting robes, Lavish of charms-but that fair sprite, who moulds All to her touch, yet leaves it nature still. The light young laugh came reed-like on the ear, And smiles, too graceful for a sound, passed out Catching the gracious word of courtesy, |