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THE LOST HUNTER.

235

It changed ;-his cabin roof o'erspread,

Rafter, and wall, and chair,
Gleamed in the crackling fire, that shed

Its warmth, and he was there;
His wife had clasped his hand, and now
Her gentle kiss was on his brow,

His child was prattling by,
The hound crouched, dozing, near the blaze,
And through the pane's frost-pictured haze

He saw the white drifts fly.

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,

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THE LOST HUNTER.

The pine its silvery tassel drooped,

Down bent the burthened wood,
And scattered round, low points of green
Peering above the snowy scene

Told where the thickets stood.

In a deep hollow, drifted high

A wave-like heap was thrown;
Dazzlingly in the sunny sky

A diamond blaze it shown;
The little snow-bird chirping sweet
Dotted it o'er with tripping feet,

Unsullied, smooth, and fair.
It seemed like other mounds, where trunk
And rock amid the wreaths were sunk,

But oh! the dead was there.

Spring came with wakening breezes bland,

Soft suns and melting rains,
And touched by her Ithuriel wand,

Earth bursts its winter chains.
In a deep nook, where moss, and grass
And fern-leaves wove a verdant mass-

Some scattered bones beside,
A mother kneeling with her child,
Told by her tears and wailings wild

That there the lost had died.

THE LOST AT SEA

BY J. OTIS ROCKWELL.

WIFE, who in thy deep devotion

Puttest up a prayer for one, Sailing on the stormy ocean,

Hope no more—his course is done. Dream not, when upon thy pillow,

That he slumbers by thy side ; For his corse beneath the billow

Heaveth with the restless tide.

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

Every blue and leaping wave,
Under the majestic ocean,

Where the giant currents rolled,
Slept thy sire without emotion

Sweetly by a beam of gold.

And the violet sunbeams slanted,

Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendours haunted

Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming,

Sparkled through his raven hair; But the sleep that knows no dreaming,

Bound him in its silence there.

So we left him; and to tell thee

Of our sorrow and thine own,
Of the wo that then befell thee,

Come we weary and alone.
That thine eye is quickly shaded,

That thy heart blood wildly flows,
That thy cheek's clear hue is faded,

Are the fruits of these new woes.

WHAT IS SOLITUDE.

239

Children whose meek eyes inquiring

Linger on your mother's face, Know ye that she is expiring,

That ye are an orphan race? God be with you on the morrow,

Father, mother—both no more; One within a grave of sorrow,

One upon the ocean's floor!

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 !

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