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THE HUNTER'S VISION.

And friends-the dead-in boyhood dear,
There lived and walked again,

And there was one who many a year
Within her grave had lain,

A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride—
His heart was breaking when she died:

Bounding, as was her wont, she came
Right towards his resting-place,

And stretched her hand and called his name,
With that sweet smiling face.

Forward, with fixed and eager eyes,

The hunter leaned in act to rise:

Forward he leaned, and headlong down
Plunged from that craggy wall,

He saw the rocks, steep, stern and brown,

An instant, in his fall;

A frightful instant-and no more,

The dream and life at once were o'er.

TO THE MOCKING BIRD.

BY ALBERT PIKE.

THOU glorious mocker of the world! I hear Thy many voices ringing through the glooms Of these green solitudes-and all the clear, Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear, And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs Of vanished nations rolls thy music tide. No light from history's starlike page illumes The memory of those nations-they have died. None cares for them but thou-and thou mayst sing, Perhaps, o'er me-as now thy song doth ring Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.

Thou scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave

The world's turmoil and never-ceasing din,

Where one from other's no existence weaves,

Where the old sighs, the young turns gray and grieves,

Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within:

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TO THE MOCKING BIRD.

And thou dost flee into the broad green woods,
And with thy soul of music thou dost win
Their heart to harmony-no jar intrudes
Upon thy sounding melody. Oh, where,

Amid the sweet musicians of the air,

Is one so dear as thee to these old solitudes?

Ha! what a burst was that! the Eolian strain
Goes floating through the tangled passages
Of the lone woods-and now it comes again—
A multitudinous melody-like a rain
Of glossy music under echoing trees,
Over a ringing lake; it wraps the soul
With a bright harmony of happiness-

Even as a gem is wrapped, when round it roll Their waves of brilliant flame-till we become, Ev'n with the excess of our deep pleasure, dumb, And pant like some swift runner clinging to the goal.

I cannot love the man who doth not love,
(Even as men love light,) the song of birds:
For the first visions that my boy-heart wove,
To fill its sleep with, were, that I did rove
Amid the woods—what time the snowy herds
Of morning cloud fled from the rising sun,
Into the depths of heaven's heart; as words
That from the poet's tongue do fall upon

TO THE MOCKING BIRD.

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And vanish in the human heart; and then

I revelled in those songs, and sorrowed, when

With noon-heat overwrought, the music's burst was done.

I would, sweet bird! that I might live with thee,
Amid the eloquent grandeur of the shades,

Alone with nature-but it may not be;

I have to struggle with the tumbling sea

Of human life, until existence fades

Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar
Thro' the thick woods and shadow-chequered glades,

While nought of sorrow casts a dimness o'er
The brilliance of thy heart-but I must wear,
As now, my garmenting of pain and care-
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.

Yet why complain?-What though fond hopes deferred Have overshadowed Youth's green paths with gloom! Still, joy's rich music is not all unheard,—

There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird!

To welcome me, within my humble home ;—

There is an eye with love's devotion bright,

The darkness of existence to illume!

Then why complain?-When death shall cast his blight Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest

Beneath these trees-and from thy swelling breast,

O'er them thy song shall pour like a rich flood of light.

TO A SHOWER.

BY JAMES WILLIAM MILLER.

THE pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
By fits it plashing falls

On twangling leaf and dimpling pool—
How sweet its warning calls!

They know it-all the bosomy vales,
High slopes, and verdant meads;
The queenly elms and princely oaks
Bow down their grateful heads.

The withering grass, and fading flowers,
And drooping shrubs look gay;
The bubbly brook, with gladlier song,

Hies on its endless way;

All things of earth-the grateful things!

Put on their robes of cheer,

They hear the sound of the warning burst,

And know the rain is near.