« AnteriorContinuar »
The swain with his oxen proceeds to the valley,
Whose seven years sabbath concludes,
Is chased to Canadia's deep woods.
But laughs and is jocund as we;
Carve “Washington," on every tree.
And drop in its current the line,
Ah, no! 't is an evil design.
Sport on, little fishes, your lives are a treasure
Which I can destroy, but not give ; Methinks it's at best a malevolent pleasure
To bid a poor being not live.
How lucid the water! its soft undulations
Are changeably ting'd by the light ;
Presents a new heaven to sight.
With plumage just dipp'd in rich dies;
There, see the freed bird how it flies!
But whither am I and my little dog straying ?
Too far from our cottage we roam ;
Come, Daphne, come let us go home.
RETURN TO TOMHANICK.
Hail, happy shades ! though clad with heavy snows,
Or has the grubbing swine, by furies led,
Ah me! that spot with blooms so lately graced,
Farewell, my Plutarch! farewell, pen and muse! Nature exults—shall I her call refuse ? Apollo fervid glitters in my face, And threatens with his beam each feeble grace: Yet still around the lovely plants I toil, And draw obnoxious herbage from the soil ; Or with the lime-twigs little birds surprise, Or angle for the trout of many dyes.
But when the vernal breezes pass away, And loftier Phæbus darts a fiercer ray, The spiky corn then rattles all around, And dashing cascades give a pleasing sound; Shrill sings the locust with prolonged note, The cricket chirps familiar in each cot. The village children, rambling o'er yon hill, With berries all their painted baskets fill. They rob the squirrel's little walnut store, And climb the half exhausted tree for more ; Or else to fields of maize nocturnal hie, Where hid, the elusive water-melons lie; Sportive, they make incisions in the rind, The riper from the immature to find; Then load their tender shoulders with the prey, And laughing bear the bulky fruit away.
MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES.
This lady was the daughter of Mrs Bleecker, and her poems were published in the same volume with those of her mother, in 1793.
Nile's beauteous waves, and Tiber's swelling tide
Have been recorded by the hand of Fame, And various floods, which through eartlı’s channels glide,
From some enraptured bard have gain'd a name; E’en Thames and Wye have been the poet's theme,
And to their charms hath many an harp been strung, Whilst, Oh! hoar genius of old Hudson's stream,
Thy mighty river never hatlı been sung : Say, shall a female string her trembling lyre,
And to thy praise devote the adventurous song? Fired with the theme, her genius shall aspire,
And the notes sweeten as they float along. Where rough Ontario's restless waters roar,
And hoarsely rave around the rocky shore;
And reign the tyrants of the surging lake;
MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES.
He said, and, waving high his dripping hand ;
Through many a "blooming wild” and woodland green,
The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray ; Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen,
And now through arching willows steal away: Then bursting on the enamor'd sight once more,
Gladden some happy peasant's rude retreat; And passing youthful Troy's commercial shore,
With the hoarse Mohawk's roaring surges meet. Oh, beauteous Mohawk! 'wildered with thy charms,
The chilliest heart sinks into rapturous glows; While the stern warrior, used to loud alarms,
Starts at the thunderings of thy dread Cohoes. Now more majestic rolls the ample tide,
Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade, And many a stately dome, in ancient pride, And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head,
There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand,
The honeyed buck-wheat's clustering blossoms view, Dripping rich odors, mark the beard-grain bland,
The loaded orchard, and the flax field blue. Albania's gothic spires now greet the eye;
Time's hand hath wiped their burnish'd tints away, And the rich fanes which sparkled to the sky,
'Reft of their splendors, mourn in cheerless grey. There many an ancient structure tottering stands ;
Round the damp chambers mouldy vapors creep, And feathery-footed Silence folds her hands,
While the pale genii of the mansion sleep. Yet thither Trade's full freighted vessels come;
Thither the shepherds mercantile resort: There Architecture late hath raised her dome,
And Agriculture's products fill her port.
The copse of hazle, and the tufted bank,
The jutting rock, oferhung with ivy dank;
Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam ;
The bending willow weeping o'er the stream, The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow.
Low sunk between the Alleganian hills,
For many a league the sullen waters glide,
And the deep murmur of the crowded tide, With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills. On the green summit of yon lofty clift
A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow, Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift,
Tremendous falls in the white surge below. Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far,
Around it mountains vast their forests rear, And long ere day hath left his burnish'd car,
The dews of night have shed their odors there. There hangs a louring rock across the deep ;
Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around; Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep,
While Horror startles at the fearful sound. The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze,
Glide through these winding rocks with airy sweep: Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees,
And sloping pastures speck'd with fleecy sheep.