Here on this field of Minisink,
Fainting they sought the river's brink
Where cool waves gush'd along ;

No sound within the woods they heard,
But murmuring wind and warbling bird.

A shriek !-'tis but the panther's-nought
Breaks the calm sunshine there,
A thicket stirs !-a deer has sought
From sight a closer lair;

Again upon the grass they droop,

When burst the well-known whoop on whoop
Shrill, deafening on the air,

And bounding from their ambush'd gloom,
Like wolves the savage warriors come.

In vain upsprung that gallant band
And seized their weapons by,
Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand,
Alas! 'twas but to die;

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,
Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps.

In vain they sought the covert dark,
The red knife gash'd each head,
Each arrow found unerring mark,
Till earth was pil'd with dead.
Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hear
Some voice and footstep meet her ear,

Till hope grew faint with dread;
Long did she search the wood-paths o'er,
That voice and step she heard no more.

MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS.

Years have pass'd by, the merry bee
Hums round the laurel flowers,
The mock-bird pours her melody
Amid the forest bowers;

A skull is at my feet, though now
The wild rose wreathes its bony brow,
Relic of other hours.

It bids the wandering pilgrim think
Of those who died at Minisink.

MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

THE morn! the morn, this mountain breeze,
How pure it seems, from earth how free;

What sweet and sad moralities

Breathe from this air that comes to me.

Look down, my spirit! see below,
Earth darkly sleeps were shades prevail,
Or wakes to tears that vainly flow,
Or dreams of hopes that surely fail.

Why should'st thou linger there, and burn
With passions like these fools of time?
Unfold thy wings, their follies spurn,
And soar to yon eternal clime.

21

22

MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS.

Look round, my spirit! to these hills
The earliest sunlight lends its ray ;
Morning's pure air these far heights fills,
Here evening holiest steals away.

Thus when with firm-resolving breast,
Though bound to earth thou liv'st on high,
Shalt thou with earlier light be blest,
More purely live, more calmly die.

This darkling dawn, doth it not bring
Visions of former glory back?
Arouse, my spirit! plume thy wing,
And soar with me on holier track.

Canst thou not with unclouded eye,
And fancy-rapt, the scene survey,
When darkness bade its shadows fly,
And earth rose glorious into day?

Canst thou not see that earth, its Spring
Unfaded yet by death or crime,
In freshest green, yet mellowing
Into the gorgeous Autumn's prime ?

Dost thou not see the eternal choir

Light on each peak that wooes the sky,
Fold their broad wings of golden fire,
And string their seraph minstrelsy?

Then what sublimest music filled

Rejoicing heaven and rising earth,
When angel harps the chorus swelled,

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,
He walks its sides, and shades retreat;
He pours his flood of radiancy

On streams and lowlands at its feet.

Lord! let thy rays thus pierce, illume
Each dim recess within my heart;
From its deep darkness chase all gloom,
And to its weakness strength impart.

Thus let thy light upon me rise,
Here let my home for ever be;

Far above earth, its toys and ties,
Yet humbly kneeling, Lord, to thee!

SONG.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Ob: 1820, æt. 25.

NAY, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret
That another awakened thy sigh,

Or repine that some traces remain of it yet
In the beam of that eloquent eye.

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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,
It but fits it the better for bliss ;

As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun,
Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.

THE DEAD OF 1832.

BY R. C. SANDS.

Ob: 1832, æt. 33.

Oн Time and Death! with certain pace,
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning, in your awful race,

The cot, the palace, and the throne!

Not always in the storm of war,

Nor by the pestilence that sweeps
From the plague-smitten realms afar,
Beyond the old and solemn deeps:

In crowds the good and mighty go,

And to those vast dim chambers hie :-
Where, mingled with the high and low,

Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie!