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SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reack. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle
If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,--
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,—of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and Hush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her
cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us,—and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Icard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.
On sunny slope and beechen swell,
Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone ; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall
, gray forest; and a band
They sang, that by his native bowers
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And tlie broad belt of shells and beads.
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.
They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, --and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.