Was ringing to the merry shout,

That faint and far the glen sent out,

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,

If thou wouldst read a lesson, that 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.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.

And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods,

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
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,-
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,—

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating

Their old poetic legends to the wind.

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

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.

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,

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When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

To have it round us,-and her silver voice

Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.

ON sunny slope and beachen swell,
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And, where the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory, that the wood receives,

At sunset, in its brazen leaves.

Far upward in the mellow light

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white,

Around a far uplifted cone,

In the warm blush of evening shone ;

U

An image of the silver lakes,

By which the Indian's soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band

Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,