THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.

I.

HERE we halt our march, and pitch our tent
On the rugged forest ground,

And light our fire with the branches rent
By winds from the beeches round.

Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,

But a wilder is at hand,

With hail of iron and rain of blood,

To sweep and waste the land.

II.

How the dark wood rings with voices shrill, That startle the sleeping bird;

To-morrow eve must the voice be still,

And the step must fall unheard.
The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,

In Ticonderoga's towers,

And ere the sun rise twice again,

The towers and the lake are ours.

III.

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides
Where the fireflies light the brake;

A ruddier juice the Briton hides

In his fortress by the lake.

Build high the fire, till the panther leap

From his lofty perch in flight,

And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep

For the deeds of to-morrow night.

A PRESENTIMENT.

"OH father, let us hence-for hark, A fearful murmur shakes the air

The clouds are coming swift and dark ;— What horrid shapes they wear!

A winged giant sails the sky;

Oh father, father, let us fly!"

"Hush, child; it is a grateful sound,

That beating of the summer shower; Here, where the boughs hang close around, We'll pass a pleasant hour,

Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain,

Has swept the broad heaven clear again.”

"Nay, father, let us haste-for see,

That horrid thing with horned brow,—

His wings o'erhang this very tree,

He scowls upon us now;

His huge black arm is lifted high;

Oh father, father, let us fly!"

"Hush, child;" but, as the father spoke, Downward the livid firebolt came,

Close to his ear the thunder broke,
And, blasted by the flame,

The child lay dead; while dark and still.
Swept the grim cloud along the hill.

202

THE CHILD'S FUNERAL.

FAIR is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore,
Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies;
The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore,
As clear and bluer still before thee lies.

Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire,
Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps;
And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire,
Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.

Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, Heap her green breast when April suns are bright, Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue,

Or like the mountain frost of silvery white.

Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree,
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,
Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,

Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow.