Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill,
Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still,
And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill
From Salmon River.

Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made
Their spells by moonlight; or beneath the shade
That shrouds sequestered rock, or darkening glade,
Or tangled dell.

Here Philip came, and Miantonimo,

And asked about their fortunes long ago,

As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show
Old Samuel.

And here the black fox roved, and howled, and shook
His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook
For earthly fox;

Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear,
And his soft peltry, stript and dressed, to wear,
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair

Transfer him to a box.

Such are the tales they tell.

'Tis hard to rhyme

About a little and unnoticed stream,

That few have heard of-but it is a theme

I chance to love;

And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed,
And whistle to the note of many a deed
Done on this river-which, if there be need,
I'll try to prove.

THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER.

THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER.

How cold, how beautiful, how bright,

The cloudless heaven above us shines; But 'tis a howling winter's night,

"Twould freeze the very forest pines!

"The winds are up, while mortals sleep; The stars look forth when eyes are shut; The bolted snow lies drifted deep

Around our poor and lonely hut.

"With silent step and listening ear,

With bow and arrow, dog and gun, We'll mark his track, for his prowl we hear, Now is our time!-come on, come on!"

O'er many a fence, through many a wood, Following the dog's bewildered scent,

In anxious haste and earnest mood,

The Indian and the white man went.

The gun is cocked, the bow is bent,

The dog stands with uplifted paw, And ball and arrow swift are sent,

Aimed at the prowler's very jaw.

The ball, to kill that fox, is run

Not in a mould by mortals made! The arrow which that fox should shun Was never shaped from earthly reed!

The Indian Druids of the wood

Know where the fatal arrows growThey spring not by the summer flood, They pierce not through the winter snow!

Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose
Was never once deceived till now?
And why, amid the chilling snows,
Does either hunter wipe his brow?

For once they see his fearful den,
"Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves
By night around the homes of men,
By day-along the stream it loves.

Again the dog is on his track,

The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, They may not, though they would, look back, They must go forward-forward still.

Onward they go, and never turn,
Spending a night that meets no day;
For them shall never morning sun
Light them upon their endless way.

The hut is desolate, and there

The famished dog alone returns;
On the cold steps he makes his lair,
By the shut door he lays his bones.

Now the tired sportsman leans his gun
Against the ruins of the site,
And ponders on the hunting done

By the lost wanderers of the night.

And there the little country girls

Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, And tell, while dressing their sunny curls, Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.

A HEALTH.

I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns, the idol of past years.

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ; But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's but hers.

I filled this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon

Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such

a frame,

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

A PICTURE-SONG.

How may this little tablet feign the features of a face, Which o'er-informs with loveliness its proper share of space; Or human hands on ivory enable us to see

The charms that all must wonder at, thou work of gods, in thee!

But yet, methinks, that sunny smile familiar stories tells,
And I should know those placid eyes, two shaded crystal wells;
Nor can my soul, the limner's art attesting with a sigh,
Forget the blood that decked thy cheek, as rosy clouds the sky.

They could not semble what thou art, more excellent than fair,
As soft as sleep or pity is, and pure as mountain air;
But here are common, earthly hues, to such an aspect wrought,
That none, save thine, can seem so like the beautiful of thought.

The song I sing, thy likeness like, is painful mimicry
Of something better, which is now a memory to me,
Who have upon life's frozen sea arrived the icy spot,
Where men's magnetic feelings show their guiding task forgot.

The sportive hopes, that used to chase their shifting shadows on,
Like children playing in the sun, are gone-for ever gone;
And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted mind,
Like Janus when his gates were shut, looks forward and behind.

Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone, Which has resounded since, when struck, a breaking harpstring's tone;

And thus my heart, though wholly now from early softness free, If touched, will yield the music yet it first received of thee.