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TO A WATERFALL.

Leaping from rock to rock,
Unwearied your eternal course ye hold;
The rainbow tints your eddying waves unfold,

The hues of sunset mock !

• Why choose this pathway rude, These cliffs by gray and ancient woods o'ergrown? Why pour your music to the echoes lone

Of this wild solitude ?

The mead in green array, With silent beauty wooes your loved embrace ; Would lead you through soft banks, with devious grace,

Along a gentler way.

There, as ye onward roam, Fresh leaves would bend to greet your waters bright:Why scorn the charms that vainly court your sight,

Amid these wilds to foam ?

Alas! our fate is oneBoth ruled by wayward fancy !-All in vain I question both! My thoughts still spurn the chain-

Ye-heedless—thunder on!

THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land !

Stout-hearted dames were they ; With nerve to wield the battle-brand,

And join the border-fray. Our rough land had no braver,

In its days of blood and strifeAye ready for severest toil,

Aye free to peril life.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land !

On old Kan-tuc-kee's soil, How shared they, with each dauntless band,

War's tempest and Life's toil ! They shrank not from the foeman

They quailed not in the fightBut cheered their husbands through the day,

And soothed them through the night.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land !

Their bosoms pillowed men! And proud were they by such to stand,

In hammock, fort, or glen.
To load the sure old rifle-

To run the leaden ball-
To watch a battling husband's place,

And fill it should he fall :

Their monument !-where does it stand?

Their epitaph !—who reads?
No braver dames had Sparta,

No nobler matrons Rome-
Yet who or lauds or honours them,

Evin in their own green home!

The Mothers of our Forest-Land !

They sleep in unknown graves :
And had they borne and nursed a band

Of ingrates, or of slaves,
They had not been more neglected !

But their graves shall yet be found,
And their monuments dot here and there

“The Dark and Bloody Ground.”

BONG

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT

Dost thou idly ask to hear

At what gentle seasons Nymphs relent, when lovers near

Press the tenderest reasons ? Ah, they give their faith too oft

To the careless wooer; Maidens' hearts are always soft;

Would that men's were truer !

Woo the fair one, when around

Early birds are singing;
When, o'er all the fragrant ground,

Early herbs are springing :
When the brookside, bank, and grove,

All with blossoms laden,
Shine with beauty, breathe of love,

Woo the timid maiden.