THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP.

Low tones of thunder from the mountain top,
Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills
In deep and solemn peal,-while lurid flashes
Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom.
Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crash
Burst on the startled ear ;-the earth, convulsed,
Groaned from its solid centre-forests shook
For leagues around, and by the sudden gleam
Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot,

A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent
From top to base-and where so late had smiled
Green boughs and blossoms-yawned a frightful chasm,
Filled with unnatural darkness. From afar

The distant roar of waters then was heard;

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They came with gathering sweep-o'erwhelming all
That checked their headlong course; the rich maize field,—
The low-roofed hut-its sleeping inmates-all—

Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin.

Morn looked upon the desolated scene

Of the Great Spirit's anger-and beheld

Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks :—

And men looked on in silence and in fear,

And far removed their dwellings from the spot,

Where now no more the hunter chased his prey,

Or the war-whoop was heard. Thus years went on :
Each trace of desolation vanished fast;

Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread

With fresh green foliage, and the swelling earth

Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides.

The river passed majestically on

Through his new channel-verdure graced his banks;---
The wild bird murmured sweetly as before
In its beloved woods,—and nought remained,-
Save the wild tales which chieftains told,-

To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.

SONG OF THE HERMIT TROUT.

BY W. P. HAWES.

Down in the deep

Dark holes I keep,

And there in the noontide I float and sleep,
By the hemlock log,

And the springing bog,

And the arching alders, I lie incog.

The angler's fly

Comes dancing by,

But never a moment it cheats my eye;
For the hermit trout

Is not such a lout

As to be by a wading boy pulled out.

King of the brook,

No fisher's hook

Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook;
But here I lie,

And laugh as they try;

Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!

But when the streams,

With moonlight beams,

Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,

Then, then look out

For the hermit trout;

For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams.

TO MAY.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, jun.

COME, gentle May!

Come with thy robe of flowers,

Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers;
Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day,

From their imprisoning and mysterious night,
The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.

Come, wondrous May!

For at the bidding of thy magic wand,

Quick from the caverns of the breathing land,
In all their green and glorious array

They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail
Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.

Come, vocal May!

Come with thy train, that high

On some fresh branch pour out their melody;
Or carolling thy praise the live-long day,

Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling,
'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.

Come, sunny May!

Come with thy laughing beam,

What time the lazy mist melts on the stream,

Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power.

Come, holy May!

When sunk behind the cold and western hill,
His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill,
And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay;
Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be
Like a pure temple consecrate to thee.

Come, beautiful May!

Like youth and loveliness,

Like her I love; Oh, come in thy full dress,
The drapery of dark winter cast away;
To the bright eye and the glad heart appear,
Queen of the Spring and mistress of the year.

Yet, lovely May!

Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhyme
To spurn the gilded mockeries of time,

The heartless pomp that beckons to betray,
And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year,
Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

And let me too, sweet May!

Let thy fond votary see,

As fade thy beauties, all the vanity

Of this world's pomp ; then teach, that though decay In his short winter, bury beauty's frame,

In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway,

Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same.

TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

BIRD of the lone and joyless night—
Whence is thy sad and solemn lay?
Attendant on the pale moon's light,
Why shun the garish blaze of day?

When darkness fills the dewy air,
Nor sounds the song of happier bird,
Alone amid the silence there

Thy wild and plaintive note is heard.

Thyself unseen-thy pensive moan
Poured in no loving comrade's ear-
The forest's shaded depths alone
That mournful melody can hear.

Beside what still and secret spring,

In what dark wood, the livelong day, Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away.

Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me, That life's deceitful gleam is vain ;

And well the lesson profits thee,

Who will not trust its charms again!

Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill, To listening night when mirth is o'er :

I, heedless of the warning, still

Believe, to be deceived once more!