Ah, me! what brave content pervades the storm!
How the wind whistles, and outdoes the arts
In raising cornices along the wall!
Or when the gray destroyer from the East
Drives up his frozen troops in cutting sleet,
I feel the thankful chant, that, truly here,
" In these flat pastures and prosaic plains,
Life still has joys, because it still has pains. "
Then o'er our upland swells, it cheers to roam,
Where the audacious blast chants loud its hymn,
And the insolent squalls roll by, resolved
To force us downward. Soon, once more below

I

THE WOOD.

All through the wood I walked: I sought the glade
Where the soft uncut grass makes fittest paths,
And by the pine harp-shaped, of Erin's bards
Or Welsh Cadwallader, or lady graced
To touch the sounding-strings, oft musing, —
Next I reached the eminence whence we look
Down on the village.

That small country-place,
Much domineered by elms (the fathers' care
By each new house to set a votive plant, —

The Dedication .

I dreamed a star from unknown skies
Was shining on the narrow earth:
Or was the beauty from her eyes
The light that gave my spirit birth?

I dreamed the spring caressed the flowers,
And sunshine danced about the tree:
Or was the light, its golden showers,
That soft perfume, thy modesty?

Across the sea thy beauty came
To this far shore so darkly chill;
But now a voice, how sweet! I hear,
And those pure eves — I see them still, —

A richer hope and nobler traits,
The dowry of a splendid race, —

So walked our fathers, when the English braves,
Who deemed they owned the land our fathers tilled,
Flush with red jackets, marched along the bank
Of this slow River creeping to the sea.
And said, doubt not, because the tide was slow,
The rustics on its banks had hearts as slow.
Then rang their shot and echoed through the Manse,
Scaring the red-wing, but that noon's brave hour, —
That little hour America endowed
With shores that bound Pacifics, wilds that touch
Base of the Rocky hills and prairies far

On the low hills that skirt the River's side,
Where feebly waves through half-felt joy the grass,
Couched at their frugal cheer a savage host
Held banquet high, nor doubt not in their ire,
Here smoked forbidden dainties, though the fire
Lit by the white men had not scorched their wits.
How silent all! save the lone Sandpiper,
Whose plaintive call a little echo stirs.
When on the brink he idly plagues his mate.
Soft sways around the Spring's consoling air,
And up the sallows, like a distant camp,
The never-ceasing hum of bees; birds soar,

Being an Answer to a scandalous Song banded
about to affront the H. of C — s and the Committee

1.

A physician and Parson together, once, got,
With a tatter'd-coat Poet, an old rhiming Sot,
In a Song, to disprove and to laugh off the Plot,
Which no Body can deny .

2.

But most dearly they paid for their Frolick, I think,
And much better they'd done, t'have done nothing but Drink,
For the Plot, more they stirr'd, the much more it did stink,
Which no Body can deny .

3.

An excellent New Ballad. To the Tune of Which no Body can deny .

I.

To dethrone good King George , who the first of that Name,
To govern Great-Britain , from Hanover came,
The Tories did Plot , but paid dear for the same.
Which no Body can deny

2.

They caroused and consulted, they wrote and they rode,
Their Time, and their Pains, nay their Money be stow'd,
They hir'd Ships and Men; yet deny'd all, by Go
Which no Body can deny

3.

Arms, full forty Thousand, they hid under Ground,

THE ETERNAL LANDSCAPE .

There weeps a landscape that some mortals see,
Whose time slips on to noble purpose fair,
And of an hour escaped from carking care
That sight is star of their nativity.

Falls the warm, mellow light on field and tree,
Almost it will their breathing overbear
To find this world such holy robe does wear,
And sinketh through them, privilege to be.

That time is dead, — so the swift crowd will say
Of human beings creeping down in woe,
Yet to the true, in that long-passed day

Thus sang the shepherd crowned at noon,
And every breast was heaved with sighs; —
Attracted by the tree and tune,
The winged singers left the skies.

Close to the minstrel sat the maid;
His song had drawn her fondly near:
Her large and dewy eyes betrayed
The secret to her bosom dear.

The factory people through the fields,
Pale men and maids and children pale,
Listened, forgetful of the wheels,
Till the loud summons woke the vale.

And all the mowers rising said,
" The world has lost its dewy prime;

Proud Leon sits beside his bride,
His chariot manned by Nubian grooms, —
His lady rustling in the pride
Of stuffs of foreign looms.

Secure, important, and serene,
The master of a wide domain,
He looks abroad with lordly mien, —
This once poor shepherd swain.

You scarce would think to see him now,
In all his grandeur puffed and full,
He e'er had guided flock or plough
In simple, homespun wool.

The chain of gold is still a chain; —
There may be moments he would pay
The bulk of all his marvelous gain