The fox lay still by the birch-tree's root
In the heather.
The hare was running with nimble foot
O'er the heather.
Was ever brighter a sunshine-day,
Before, behind me, and every way,
O'er the heather!

The fox laughed low by the birch-tree's root
In the heather.
The hare was running with daring foot
O'er the heather.
I am so happy for everything!
Hallo! Why go you with mighty spring
O'er the heather?

The fox lay hid by the birch-tree's root
In the heather.
The hare dashed to him with reckless foot

Have thanks for all from our childhood's day,
Our play together in woodland roaming.
I thought that play would go on for aye,
Though life should pass to its gloaming.

I thought that play would go on for aye,
From bowers leading of leafy birches
To where the Solbakke houses lay,
And where the red-painted church is.

I sat and waited through evenings long
And scanned the ridge with the spruces yonder;
But darkening mountains made shadows throng,
And you the way did not wander.

I sat and waited with scarce a doubt:

Great ruler, these are simple gifts to bring to thee, —
Thee, — doubly great, the land's embodied will;
And simpler still the song I fain would sing thee:
In higher towers let greater poets ring thee
Heroic chimes on Fame's immortal hill.

A decade of the years its flight has taken.
Since I beheld, and pictured with my pen
How yet the land on ruin's brink might waken
To find her temples rudely seized and shaken

INSCRIBED TO PRESIDENT LINCOLN .

THE TREATY ELM .

Ere to the honored patriot's mansion yonder
These charmed and emblematic relics pass,
Upon the sacred fragments let me ponder,
While Fancy, to the admiring eye of Wonder,
Withdraws the veil, as in a magian's glass.

I see the " Treaty Elm, " and hear the rustle
Of autumn leaves, where come the dusky troops,
In painted robes and plumes, to crowd and jostle, —

The red sun sinks, and brings the noiseless eve
Within the orchard, ere he drops to rest,
The robin pours his vesper hymn — his voice
Closes the chorus of the day; while now,
Within the shadowy grove, the whip-poor-will
Takes up the song, and leads the nightly choir.
Through yonder lane one tall, frail figure moves —
Moves like a phantom, sighing where he goes —
While in the east the white moon, as in pity,
Watches his lingering steps. These are the fields
His once strong arm had cleared. In this same path —

Onward still,
The giant movement goes with rapid pace,
And civilization spreads its arms abroad;
While the cleared forest-lands look gladly up,
And nod their harvest plumes. The summer speeds;
And many a whispering field of wheat and rye
Gleams, like a yellow sunshine, in the woods.
The grain, deep-standing, half conceals below
The primal roughness, where the reaper yet
Must take his difficult way; and there the maize,
With stalwart growth, as native to the soil,
Waves its tall martial tops, and gaily wears

The winter comes,
Proclaimed by winds, and charioted by snows;
And, like an arctic voyager returned,
His white furs breathing of the Nor'land frost,
Tells of the frozen fields and mounts of ice,
For ever flaming in the boreal lights,
A-flush with dawn-like hues which bring no day.
Now the bright sun above a brighter world —
A world as white as last month's perfect moon —
Looks all abroad, and on the jewelled trees.
And icicles which taper at the eaves,
Flashes his lavish splendour. Every stream
Is deeply sealed beneath a frozen bridge,

The summer flies,
And autumn slowly comes, his withering breath
Crisping whate'er he breathes on; and the woods
He sets ablaze with gorgeous hues which burn,
With noiseless flame, until the foliage falls,
Strewing the ground like embers, while the limbs
Spread to the sky their empty ashen arms.
At her lone window, drawn from household cares
Olivia sits, and to her lover writes;
And thus the ardour of her fancy flows.
" The months go by, the seasons slow depart,
With steps reluctant, looking to the time

Thus flies the hour.
Meanwhile, O Muse, withdraw awhile apart,
And note yon figure bending in the woods.
It is the dame of Oakland gathering herbs —
Here plucking liverwort, and there the rank
Hot stems of penny-royal — and, anon,
With crooked fingers, in the easy mould,
Digging the sinuous snake-root, and what else
Her curious knowledge finds. In bundles tied,
These all must at her odorous ceiling hang,
To dry mid swinging sheaves of various mint,
Plucked from the garden and the brook; with sage
Savouring of Christmas, and wild chamomile,

What sounds are these which thrill the morning star
Hailing the advancing banner of the sun,
While now the herald dawn, with backward hair,
Inflates his winding horn, and wakes the day,
Speeding across the hill-tops? Hark, the roll
Of distant cannon rumbling through the sky,
As if a huge triumphal car, in haste,
Were rolling and resounding through the streets
Of some glad city welcoming its return;
While lesser sounds of bells and rattling guns
Swell the rejoicing hour! It is the day
When Independence celebrates her birth —