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Oft did he stoop a listening ear,
Sweep round an anxious eye,-
No human trace descry.
Through naked boughs, between Whose tangled architecture, fraught With many a shape grotesquely wrought,
The hemlock's spire was seen.
An antler'd dweller of the wild
Had met his eager gaze,
Within an unknown maze;
By which he used to roam;
The hunter and his home.
A dusky haze, which slow had crept
On high, now darken'd there,
Athwart the thick grey air,
Of glimmering motes was spread, That tick'd against each object round With gentle and continuous sound,
Like brook o'er pebbled bed.
The laurel tufts, that drooping hung
Close rollid around their stems, And the sear beech-leaves still that clung,
Were white with powdering gems.
But, hark ! afar a sullen moan
As surging near it pass'd,
On rush'd the winter blast.
As o'er it whistled, shriek’d, and hiss'd,
Caught by its swooping wings,
Barb'd, as it seem'd, with stings;
Like drifting smoke, and now
Then dash'd in heaps below.
There, clinging to a limb,
Brain reel’d, and eye grew dim;
To murkiest gloom of night,
That gleam'd in ghastly white.
every blast an icy dart Seem'd through his nerves to fly, The blood was freezing to his heart
Thought whisper'd he must die.
Spoil, rifle, dropp'd, and slow
Reason forsook her shatter'd throne,-
He deem'd that summer-hours Again around him brightly shone
In sunshine, leaves, and flowers;
He heard the deer's low bleat ;
That murmur'd at his feet.
It changed ;-his cabin roof o'erspread,
Rafter, and wall, and chair,
Its warmth, and he was there;
His child was prattling by, The hound crouch'd, dozing, near the blaze, And through the pane's frost-pictured haze
He saw the white drifts fly.
That pass'd ;-before his swimming sight
Does not a figure bound,
Proclaim the lost is found ?
No human aid is near !
Speak music to thine ear.
Morn broke ;--away the clouds were chased,
The sky was pure and bright, And on its blue the branches traced
Their webs of glittering white,
Its ivory roof the hemlock stoop'd,
Down bent the burden'd wood,
Told where the thickets stood.
In a deep hollow, drifted high,
A wave-like heap was thrown,
A diamond blaze it shone;
Unsullied, smooth, and fair,
But, oh, the dead was there.
Spring came with wakening breezes bland,
Soft suns and melting rains,
Earth bursts its winter-chains.
Some scatter'd bones beside,
That there the lost had died.
ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.
MARY ELIZA ROGERS.
[Miss Rogers is favourably known to the public as the authoress of a very charming work, entitled “ Domestic Life in Palestine,”' which is now in the second edition. The Spectator describes it as being " entertaining as a novel, and full of that rich flavour of personal knowledge which one finds only in books that record in a volume the observation of years." Her other work, "My Vis-àVis, and other Poems," is a pleasant volume of light and sparkling verse, well calculated to while away a weary half-hour, and likely to divert many of her own sex by its thorough analyzation of the mysteries of courtship.]
I Think if old Saint Valentine but knew
way his fête-day's now commemorated, And if the strange productions met his view,
That fill our picture-shops, at any rate he'd
At fame he surely scarce anticipated;
I wonder what liis saintship had to do
With flaming hearts, or with the cooing dove, With little bows and arrows, and the true
Entangled lover's knot (fit type of love),
The leaves of roses, or through clouds above,
The sacred Nine by many a youthful poet.
Will be invoked, and many a wasted quire Of cream-laid note paper will serve to show it,
Cover'd with scraps of wild poetic fire And bursts of eloquence,-no doubt you know it
By observation or experience dire, What crooked stanzas will be perpetrated By bards and rhymesters uninitiated !
They'll scarce improve upon the doggrel verse
That tells of “roses red and violets blue," And ends by saying, in a style most terse,
That “the carnation's sweet, and so are you," I have seen modern rhymes that are much worse,
But then I have seen better, it is true,