Far in the forest's heart, unknown,
Except to sun and breeze,
Where solitude her dreaming throne
Has held for centuries;
Chronicled by the rings and moss
That tell the flight of years across
The seamed and columned trees,
This lovely streamlet glides along
With tribute of eternal song!
Now, stealing through its thickets deep
In which the wood-duck hides,
Now, picturing in its basin sleep
Its green pool-hollowed sides,
Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps,
There, 'mid some wild abyss it sweeps,
And foaming, hoarsely chides;
Then slides so still, its gentle swell
Scarce ripples round the lily's bell.
Nature, in her autumnal dress
Magnificent and gay,
Displays her mantled gorgeousness
To hide the near decay,
Which, borne on Winter's courier breath,
Warns the old year prepare for death,
When, tottering, seared, and gray,
Ice-fettered, it will sink below
The choking winding-sheet of snow.
A blaze of splendour is around,
As wondrous and as bright
As that, within the fairy ground,
Which met Aladdin's sight.
The sky, a sheet of silvery sheen
With breaks of tenderest blue between,
As though the summer light
Was melting through, once more to cast
A glance of gladness ere it passed.
The south-west airs of ladened balm
Come breathing sweetly by,
And wake amid the forest's calm
One quick and shivering sigh,
Shaking, but dimpling not the glass
Of this smooth streamlet, as they pass--
They scarcely wheel on high
The thistle's downy, silver star,
To waft its pendent seed afar.
Dream-like the silence, only woke
By the grasshopper's glee,
And now and then the lazy stroke
Of woodcock[K] on the tree:
And mingling with the insect hum,
The beatings of the partridge drum,
With frequently a bee
Darting its music, and the crow
Harsh cawing from the swamp below.
A foliage world of glittering dyes
Gleams brightly on the air,
As though a thousand sunset skies,
With rainbows, blended there;
Each leaf an opal, and each tree
A bower of varied brilliancy,
And all one general glare
Of glory, that o'erwhelms the sight
With dazzling and unequalled light.
Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, here
The birch and maple twine,
The beech its orange mingles near
With emerald of the pine;
And e'en the humble bush and herb
Are glowing with those tints superb,
As though a scattered mine
Of gems, upon the earth were strewn,
Flashing with radiance, each its own.
All steeped in that delicious charm
Peculiar to our land,
Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm,
When Indian Summer's hand
Has filled the valley with its smoke,
And wrapped the mountain in its cloak,
While, timidly and bland,
The sunbeams struggle from the sky,
And in long lines of silver lie.
The squirrel chatters merrily,
The nut falls ripe and brown,
And gem-like from the jewelled tree
The leaf comes fluttering down;
And restless in his plumage gay,
From bush to bush loud screams the jay,
While on the hemlock's crown
The sentry pigeon guards from foes
The flock that dots the neighbouring boughs.
See! on this edge of forest lawn,
Where sleeps the clouded beam,
A doe has led her spotted fawn
To gambol by the stream;
Beside yon mullein's braided stalk
They hear the gurgling voices talk,
While, like a wandering gleam,
The yellow-bird dives here and there,
A feathered vessel of the air.
On, through the rampart walls of rock
The waters pitch in white,
And high, in mist, the cedars lock
Their boughs, half lost to sight
Above the whirling gulf--the dash
Of frenzied floods, that vainly lash
Their limits in their flight,
Whose roar the eagle, from his peak,
Responds to with his angriest shriek.
Stream of the age-worn forest! here
The Indian, free as thou,
Has bent against thy depths his spear,
And in thy woods his bow;
The beaver built his dome; but they,
The memories of an earlier day,
Like those dead trunks, that show
What once were mighty pines--have fled
With Time's unceasing, rapid tread.
THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Wend, love, with me, to the deep woods wend,
Where, far in the forest, the wild flowers keep,
Where no watching eye shall over us bend
Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.
Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue,
Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit,
From the safron orchis and lupin blue,
And those like the foam on my courser's bit.
One steed and one saddle us both shall bear,
One hand of each on the bridle meet;
And beneath the wrist that entwines me there
An answering pulse from my heart shall beat.
I will sing thee many a joyous lay,
As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side,
While the winds that over the prairie play
Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride.
Our home shall be by the cool bright streams,
Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat,
And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams
Through the branches around our lodge that meet.
Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend,
Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep,
Where no watching eye shall over us bend,
Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.