Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The earth with thundering steps-yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,

And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer

Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,

A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long

To his domestic hum, and think I hear

The sound of that advancing multitude

Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground

4

Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

OUR band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,

Our tent the cypress-tree;

We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.

We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Wo to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire
They grasp their arms in vain,

And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil:

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads-

The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds."

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind

That lifts his tossing mane.

A moment in the British camp

A moment-and away

Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,

With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more

Till we have driven the Briton,

For ever, from our shore.

THE ARCTIC LOVER.

GONE is the long, long winter night;

Look, my beloved one!

How glorious, through his depths of light, Rolls the majestic sun!

The willows, waked from winter's death,

Give out a fragrance like thy breath

The summer is begun!

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day:
Hark, to that mighty crash!

The loosened ice-ridge breaks away

The smitten waters flash.

Seaward the glittering mountain rides, While, down its green translucent sides,

The foamy torrents dash.

See, love, my boat is moored for thee,

By ocean's weedy floor

The petrel does not skim the sea

More swiftly than my oar.