THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.

(WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER.)

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods,
Where the red Indian lays his father's dust,
And, by the rushing of the torrent floods

To the Great Spirit, bows in silent trust?
Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main,
To pour itself upon the wilds again?

They are gone forth, the desert's warrior-race,
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe;
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow?
Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair,
And where art thou?—thine arrows are not there.

They rest beside their streams-the spoil is won

They hang their spears upon the cypress bough; The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is doneThey hear the tales of old-but where art thou? The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, And there a place is fill'd that once was thine.

For thou art mingling with the city's throng,
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests! thou art borne along,

E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide.
But will this be? and canst thou here find rest?
Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast.

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear,

From the savannah-land, the land of streams? Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may hear? Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams? They call-wild voices call thee o'er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again.

Hear them not! hear them not!-thou canst not find
In the far wilderness what once was thine!
Thou hast quaff'd knowledge from the founts of mind,
And gathered loftier aims and hopes divine.
Thou know'st the soaring thought, the immortal
strain-

Seek not the deserts and the woods again!

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF

In the full tide of melody and mirth

While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye, Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die.

Forget him not, for many a festal hour,

Charm'd by those strains, for us has lightly flown, And memory's visions, mingling with their power, Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone.

Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays Revive life's morning dreams when youth is fled,

And, fraught with images of other days,
Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead.

His the dear art whose spells awhile renew
Hope's first illusions in their tenderest bloom-
Oh! what were life, without such moments threw
Bright gleams, "like angel-visits," o'er its gloom?

THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS.

YES, thou hast met the sun's last smile
From the haunted hills of Rome;

By many a bright Ægean isle

Thou hast seen the billows foam.

From the silence of the Pyramid,

Thou hast watch'd the solemn flow Of the Nile, that with its waters hid The ancient realm below.

Thy heart hath burn'd, as shepherds sung
Some wild and warlike strain,

Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung
Through the pealing hills of Spain.

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams
Thou hast heard the laurels moan,
With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams
Of the glory that is gone.

But go thou to the pastoral vales

Of the Alpine mountains old,

If thou wouldst hear immortal tales
By the wind's deep whispers told!

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread
Where man hath nobly striven,
And life, like incense, hath been shed,
An offering unto Heaven.

For o'er the snows, and round the pines
Hath swept a noble flood;

The nurture of the peasant's vines
Hath been the martyr's blood!

A spirit, stronger than the sword,
And loftier than despair,
Through all the heroic region pour'd,
Breathes in the generous air.

A memory clings to every steep

Of long-enduring faith,

And the sounding streams glad record keep Of courage unto death.

Ask of the peasant where his sires

For truth and freedom bled?

Ask, where were lit the torturing fires,
Where lay the holy dead?

And he will tell thee, all around,

On fount, and turf, and stone,
Far as the chamois' foot can bound,
Their ashes have been sown!

Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard1

Up through the wilds to float,

When the dark old woods and caves are stirr'd To gladness by the note.

When forth, along their thousand rills,

The mountain people come,

Join thou their worship on those hills

Of glorious martyrdom.

And while the song of praise ascends,
And while the torrent's voice,

Like the swell of many an organ, blends,
Then let thy soul rejoice.

Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn, Through shame, through death made strong, Before the rocks and heavens have borne Witness of God so long!

1 See Gilly's Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day among the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the open air.