THE LOST HUNTER. It changed;-his cabin roof o'erspread, Gleamed in the crackling fire, that shed His wife had clasped his hand, and now His child was prattling by, The hound crouched, dozing, near the blaze, That passed;-before his swimming sight Does not a figure bound, And a soft voice with wild delight Proclaim the lost is found? No, Hunter, no! 'tis but the streak Of whirling snow ;-the tempest's shriek No human aid is near; Never again that form will meet Thy clasped embrace-those accents sweet Speak music to thine ear. Morn broke ;-away the clouds were chased, The sky was pure and bright, And on its blue, the branches traced Their webs of glittering white. Its ivory roof the hemlock stooped, 235 236 THE LOST HUNTER. The pine its silvery tassel drooped, Down bent the burthened wood, And scattered round, low points of green Told where the thickets stood. In a deep hollow, drifted high A diamond blaze it shown; The little snow-bird chirping sweet Unsullied, smooth, and fair. It seemed like other mounds, where trunk Spring came with wakening breezes bland, And touched by her Ithuriel wand, Earth bursts its winter chains. In a deep nook, where moss, and grass A mother kneeling with her child, That there the lost had died. THE LOST AT SEA BY J. OTIS ROCKWELL. WIFE, who in thy deep devotion Hope no more-his course is done. Children, who as sweet flowers growing, Laugh amidst the sorrowing rains, Know ye many clouds are throwing Shadows on your sire's remains? Where the hoarse gray surge is rolling With a mountain's motion on, Dream ye that its voice is tolling For your father lost and gone? 238 THE LOST AT SEA. When the sun looked on the water, As a hero on his grave, Tinging with the hue of slaughter Where the giant currents rolled, And the violet sunbeams slanted, But the sleep that knows no dreaming, So we left him; and to tell thee That thy heart blood wildly flows, WHAT IS SOLITUDE. Children whose meek eyes inquiring Linger on your mother's face, Know ye that she is expiring, That ye are an orphan race? One within a grave of sorrow, WHAT IS SOLITUDE. BY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. NOT in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the sleeping echoes brood In caves untrod by men; Not by the sea-swept shore Where loitering surges break, Not on the mountain hoar, Not by the breezeless lake, Not in the desert plain Where man hath never stood, Whether on isle or main— Not there is solitude! 239 |