"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, 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, And that which sprung of earth is now A portion of the glorious sky. THE HUNTER'S VISION. 299 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 All dim in haze the mountains lay, While ever rose a murmuring sound, He listened, till he seemed to hear A strain, so soft and low, The listener scarce might know. “Thou weary huntsman," thus it said, The pleasant land of rest is spread And those whom thou wouldst gladly see Are waiting there to welcome thee.” He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky A shadowy region met his eye, As if the vapours 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, He saw the glittering streams, he heard And friends-the dead-in boyhood dear, Within her grave had lain, A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride— THE HUNTER'S VISION. 301 Bounding, as was her wont, she came Right towards 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 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 we halt 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 voices shrill, That startle the sleeping bird; To-morrow eve must the voice be still, And the step must fall unheard. In Ticonderoga's towers, And ere the sun rise twice again, The towers and the lake are ours. |