194 THE BIRTH OF THUNDER. Three times his course might run, The dreadful darkness lasted. Whose trunk his breath had blasted. Beneath his weight the gnarled oak "T was here he stood; these lakes attest Where first Waw-kee-an's footsteps prest. About his burning brow a cloud, Black as the raven's wing, he wore; Thick tempests wrapt him like a shroud, Red lightnings in his hand he bore; Like two bright suns his eyeballs shone, His voice was like the cannon's tone; And, where he breathed, the land became, Prairie and wood, one sheet of flame. Not long upon this mountain height The first and worst of storms abode, For, moving in his fearful might, Abroad the God-begotten strofe. TO THE WITCH HAZEL. 'Afar, on yonder faint blue mound In the horizon's utmost bound, At the first stride his foot he set; The jarring world confessed the shock. 195 TO THE WITCH HAZEL. MYSTERIOUS plant! whose golden tresses wave Blooming amid November's frost severe, 196 ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. Unchanged and bright, when all is dark beside; Our shield from wild temptations, and our guide To treasures for the just laid up in heaven. ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE, OF SUMMER TWILIGHT PAINTED BY ALLSTON. BY I. M'CLELLAN, JR. THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down To slumber by the darkened woods-the herds Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green And lofty by the river's sedgy brink, And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar ΤΟ With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast Of peace, in some green paradise like this. 197 The brazen trumpet, and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods :-the raging sword Hath never gathered its red harvest here! The peaceful Summer day hạth never closed Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller here Hath never left his sickle in the field, To slay his fellow with unholy hand, The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan, TO BY O. W. B. PEABODY. Too lovely and too early lost! Since every beacon-light is quenched I saw thee first, when hope arose And thou wast lovelier than the light Of early dawning spring. Who then could dream, that health and joy Would e'er desert the brow, So bright with varying lustre once, That brow! how proudly o'er it then, When wit, or eloquence or mirth Thy mind! it ever was the home Thy pure example taught; One evening, when the autumn dew Upon the hills was shed, And Hesperus far down the west |