Slips down through moss-grown The In all the dark embroidery of the And shouts the stern, strong wind. The silent majesty of these deep Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle wings, The swelling upland, where the side- Mountain, and shattered cliff, and The distant lake, fountains,-and In many a lazy syllable, repeating And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature,-of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Is the rich music of a summer bird, Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Was darkened by the forest's shade, Or glistened in the white cascade; Where upward, in the mellow blush of day The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash,— And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, Was ringing to the merry shout Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, Heard in the still night, with its If thou wouldst read a lesson, that passionate cadence. SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed in light, will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills !- No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN Winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, They gathered midway round the With solemn feet I tread the hill wooded height, And, in their fading glory, shone Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, and below That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke, The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. ON sunny slope and beechen swell With soft and silent lapse came down [white, Far upward in the mellow light But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band They sang, that by his native bowers A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, They buried the dark chief-they Beside the grave his battle-steed: neigh Ballads. 1842. THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR. PREFATORY NOTE. THE following ballad was suggested to me while riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea cccurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the cld Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the Memoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-9, says,—. "There is no mistaking in this instance the st le in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the twelfth century; that style which some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, cal'ed the round arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon, and sometimes Norman architecture. "On the ancient s ructure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erec in. That n› vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all who are familiar with old Northern architecture will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses; for example, as the substructure of a windmill, and litterly as a hay magazine. To the same t mes may be referred the windows, the fireplace, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not have been erected for a windmill is what an architect will easily discern." I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad, though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho, "God bless me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a windmill ? and nobody could mistake it but one who had the like in his head." "SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me! Why dost thou haunt me?" From the heart's chamber. "I was a Viking old! No Saga taught thee! Tamed the ger-falcon ; "Oft to his frozen lair Sang from the meadow. With the marauders. " Many a wassail-bout Burning yet tender; Fell their soft splendour. Our vows were plighted. When of old Hildebrand "While the brown ale he quaffed, The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, "She was a Prince's child, And though she blushed and smiled, |