Here on this field of Minisink, No sound within the woods they heard, A shriek !-'tis but the panther's-nought Again upon the grass they droop, When burst the well-known whoop on whoop And bounding from their ambush'd gloom, In vain upsprung that gallant band In vain the rifle's skilful flash Scorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash; The hatchet hiss'd on high, And down they fell in crimson heaps, In vain they sought the covert dark, Till hope grew faint with dread; MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS. Years have pass'd by, the merry bee A skull is at my feet, though now It bids the wandering pilgrim think MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS. BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN. THE morn! the morn, this mountain breeze, What sweet and sad moralities Breathe from this air that comes to me. Look down, my spirit! see below, Why should'st thou linger there, and burn 21 22 MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS. Look round, my spirit! to these hills Thus when with firm-resolving breast, This darkling dawn, doth it not bring Canst thou not with unclouded eye, Canst thou not see that earth, its Spring Dost thou not see the eternal choir Light on each peak that wooes the sky, Then what sublimest music filled Rejoicing heaven and rising earth, And stars hymned forth creation's birth. SONG. See how the sun comes proudly on His glorious march! before our sight The swathing mists, their errand done, Are melting into morning light. He tips the peak, its dark clouds fly, On streams and lowlands at its feet. Lord! let thy rays thus pierce, illume Thus let thy light upon me rise, Far above earth, its toys and ties, SONG. BY J. R. DRAKE. Ob: 1820, æt. 25. NAY, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret Or repine that some traces remain of it yet 23 Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone Ere it taught me the way to adore, Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own, Because it was polished before? And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won, As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun, THE DEAD OF 1832. BY R. C. SANDS. Ob: 1832, æt. 33. Oн Time and Death! with certain pace, The cot, the palace, and the throne! Not always in the storm of war, Nor by the pestilence that sweeps In crowds the good and mighty go, And to those vast dim chambers hie :- Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie! |