A foliage world of glittering dyes Of glory, that o'erwhelms the sight Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, here And e'en the humble bush and herb Of gems, upon the earth were strewn, All steeped in that delicious charm Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm, Has filled the valley with its smoke, And wrapped the mountain in its cloak, While, timidly and bland, The sunbeams struggle from the sky, And in long lines of silver lie. The squirrel chatters merrily, The nut falls ripe and brown, And gem-like from the jewelled tree The leaf comes fluttering down; And restless in his plumage gay, From bush to bush loud screams the jay, The sentry pigeon guards from foes The flock that dots the neighbouring boughs. See! on this edge of forest lawn, On, through the rampart walls of rock And high, in mist, the cedars lock Stream of the age-worn forest! here Has bent against thy depths his spear, The beaver built his dome; but they, Like those dead trunks, that show THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. WEND, love, with me, to the deep woods wend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. And those like the foam on my courser's bit. One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, While the winds that over the prairie play Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride. Our home shall be by the cool bright streams, Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. A POET'S EPISTLE. [Written in Scotland to Fitz-Greene Halleck, Esq.] BY J. R. DRAKE. "WEEL, Fitz, I'm here; the mair's the pity, From which I write a braid Scots ditty But gif ye canna mak it suit ye, Ye ken ye'll burn it. My grunzie's got a twist until it Thae damn'd Scotch aighs sae stuff and fill it I doubt, wi' a' my doctor skill, it 'll keep the gait, Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather But stop! ye will not light on either Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie, We've made our jaunt a bit too early What it may be when summer deeds I dinna ken; but now the meads For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted, Row but a sma' turf fence anent it, For streams, ye'll find a puny puddle And then their cauld and reekie skies, Just a noon blink that hardly dries The dewy brae. Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women, For luver's heart or blade of foeman O'er baith victorious; E'en common sense, that plant uncommon, Grows bright and glorious. |