A foliage world of glittering dyes
Gleams brightly on the air,
As though a thousand sunset skies,
With rainbows, blended there;
Each leaf an opal, and each tree
A bower of varied brilliancy,
And all one general glare

Of glory, that o'erwhelms the sight
With dazzling and unequalled light.

Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, here
The birch and maple twine,
The beech its orange mingles near
With emerald of the pine;

And e'en the humble bush and herb
Are glowing with those tints superb,
As though a scattered mine

Of gems, upon the earth were strewn,
Flashing with radiance, each its own.

All steeped in that delicious charm
Peculiar to our land,

Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm,
When Indian Summer's hand

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,
While on the hemlock's crown

The sentry pigeon guards from foes

The flock that dots the neighbouring boughs.

See! on this edge of forest lawn,
Where sleeps the clouded beam,
A doe has led her spotted fawn
To gambol by the stream;
Beside yon mullein's braided stalk
They hear the gurgling voices talk,
While, like a wandering gleam,
The yellow-bird dives here and there,
A feathered vessel of the air.

On, through the rampart walls of rock
The waters pitch in white,

And high, in mist, the cedars lock
Their boughs, half lost to sight
Above the whirling gulf—the dash
Of frenzied floods, that vainly lash
Their limits in their flight,
Whose roar the eagle, from his peak,
Responds to with his angriest shriek.

Stream of the age-worn forest! here
The Indian, free as thou,

Has bent against thy depths his spear,
And in thy woods his bow;

The beaver built his dome; but they,
The memories of an earlier day,

Like those dead trunks, that show
What once were mighty pines-have fled
With Time's unceasing, rapid tread.

THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

WEND, love, with me, to the deep woods wend,
Where, far in the forest, the wild flowers keep,
Where no watching eye shall over us bend

Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.
Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue,
Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit,
From the safron orchis and lupin blue,

And those like the foam on my courser's bit.

One steed and one saddle us both shall bear,
One hand of each on the bridle meet;
And beneath the wrist that entwines me there

An answering pulse from my heart shall beat.
I will sing thee many a joyous lay,

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,
And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams
Through the branches around our lodge that meet.

Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend,
Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep,
Where no watching eye shall over us bend,

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,
I'll wad ye curse the vera city

From which I write a braid Scots ditty
Afore I learn it;

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
And write it straight.

Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather
Wi' a hale sheet, of muir and heather
O' burns, and braes, and sic like blether,
To you a feast;

But stop! ye will not light on either
This time at least.

Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie,
Then drap your lip and glower surly;
Troth! gif ye do, I'll tell ye fairly,
Ye'll no be right;

We've made our jaunt a bit too early
For sic a sight.

What it may be when summer deeds
Muir shaw and brae, wi' bonnie weeds
Sprinkling the gowan on the meads
And broomy knowes,

I dinna ken; but now the meads
Scarce keep the cows.

For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted,
A few bit pines and larches planted,
And thae, wee, knurlie, blastic, stuntit
As e'er thou sawest;

Row but a sma' turf fence anent it,
Hech! there's a forest.

For streams, ye'll find a puny puddle
That would na float a shull bairn's coble,
A cripple stool might near hand hobble
Dry-baughted ever;
Some whinstone crags to mak' it bubble,
And there's a river.

And then their cauld and reekie skies,
They luke ower dull to Yankee eyes;
The sun ye'd ken na if he's rise
Amaist the day;

Just a noon blink that hardly dries

The dewy brae.

Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women,
Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman,

For luver's heart or blade of foeman

O'er baith victorious;

E'en common sense, that plant uncommon, Grows bright and glorious.