LIFE.

All that have borne the touch of death,
All that shall live, lie mingled there,
Beneath that veil of bloom and breath,

That living zone 'twixt earth and air.

There lies my chamber dark and still,
The atoms trampled by my feet
There wait, to take the place I fill

In the sweet air and sunshine sweet.

Well, I have had my turn, have been

Raised from the darkness of the clod, And for a glorious moment seen

The brightness of the skirts of God;

And knew the light within my breast,
Though wavering oftentimes and dim,
The power, the will, that never rest,

And cannot die, were all from him.

Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve
To see me taken from thy love,
Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve
And weep, and scatter flowers above.

Thy little heart win soon be healed,
And being shall be bliss, till thou
To younger forms of life must yield
The clace thou fill'st with beauty now.

When we descend to dust again,
Where will the final dwelling be
Of thought and all its memories then,
My love for thee, and thine for me?

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"EARTH'S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH.”

EARTH'S children cleave to Earth-her frail

Decaying children dread decay.

Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale
And lessens in the morning ray—
Look, how, by mountain rivulet,

It lingers as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set
Along the green and dewy steeps:
Clings to the flowery kalmia, clings
To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,
And bowers of fragrant sassafras.
Yet all in vain-it passes still

From hold to hold, it cannot stay,
And in the very beams that fill

The world with glory, wastes away,

Till, parting from the mountain's brow,
It vanishes from human eye,

And that which sprung of earth is now
A portion of the glorious sky.

THE HUNTER'S VISION.

UPON a rock that, high and sheer,
Rose from the mountain's breast,
A weary hunter of the deer

Had sat him down to rest,
And bared to the soft summer air
His hot red brow and sweaty hair.

All dim in haze the mountains lay,
With dimmer vales between;
And rivers glimmered on their way
By forests faintly seen;

THE HUNTER'S VISION.

While ever rose a murmuring sound
From brooks below and bees around.

He listened, till he seemed to hear
A strain, so soft and low,
That whether in the mind or ear

The listener scarce might know.
With such a tone, so sweet, so mild,
The watching mother lulls her child.

"Thou weary huntsman," thus it said,
"Thou faint with toil and heat,
The pleasant land of rest is spread
Before thy very feet,

And those whom thou wouldst gladly see
Are waiting there to welcome thee."

He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky,
Amid the noontide haze,

A shadowy region met his eye,
And grew beneath his gaze,

As if the vapors of the air
Had gathered into shapes so fair.

Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers
Showed bright on rocky bank,

And fountains welled beneath the bowers,
Where deer and pheasant drank.

He saw the glittering streams, he heard
The rustling bough and twittering bird.

And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear
There lived and walked again,
And there was one who many a year

Within her grave had lain,

A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride-
His heart was breaking when she died :

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Bounding, as was her wont, she came
Right toward his resting-place,

And stretched her hand and called his name
With that sweet smiling face.
Forward with fixed and eager eyes,
The hunter leaned in act to rise :

Forward he leaned, and headlong down
Plunged from that craggy wall;

He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown,
An instant, in his fall;

A frightful instant-and no more,

The dream and life at once were o'er.

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.

I.

HERE halt we 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 our 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,

Must they and the lake be ours.

A PRESENTIMENT.

III.

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides
Where the fire-flies 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 hornèd 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,

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