194

THE BIRTH OF THUNDER.

Three times his course might run,
The dreadful darkness lasted.

And all that time the red man's eye
A sleeping spirit might espy,
Upon a tree top cradled high,

Whose trunk his breath had blasted.
So long he slept, he grew so fast,
Beneath his weight the gnarled oak
Snapt, as the tempest snaps the mast.
It fell, and Thunder woke!
The world to its foundation shook.
The grisly bear his prey forsook,
The scowling heaven an aspect bore,
That man had never seen before;
The wolf in terror fled away,
And shone at last the light of day.

"T was here he stood; these lakes attest Where first Waw-kee-an's footsteps prest. About his burning brow a cloud,

Black as the raven's wing, he wore; Thick tempests wrapt him like a shroud, Red lightnings in his hand he bore; Like two bright suns his eyeballs shone, His voice was like the cannon's tone; And, where he breathed, the land became, Prairie and wood, one sheet of flame. Not long upon this mountain height The first and worst of storms abode, For, moving in his fearful might, Abroad the God-begotten strode.

TO THE WITCH HAZEL.

Afar, on yonder faint blue mound In the horizon's utmost bound,

At the first stride his foot he set;

The jarring world confessed the shock.
Stranger! the track of Thunder yet
Remains upon the living rock.
The second step, he gained the sand
On far Superior's storm-beat strand:
Then with his shout the concave rung,
As up to heaven the giant sprung

On high, beside his sire to dwell;
But still, of all the spots on earth,
He loves the woods that gave him birth.
Such is the tale our fathers tell.'

wwwwwww....

195

TO THE WITCH HAZEL.

MYSTERIOUS plant! whose golden tresses wave With a sad beauty in the dying year,

Blooming amid November's frost severe,

Like the pale corpse-light o'er the recent grave!
If shepherds tell us true, thy wand hath power,
With gracious influence, to avert the harm
Of ominous planets, and the fatal charm
Of spirits wandering at the midnight hour;
And thou canst point where 'buried treasures lie.
But yet to me, thou art an emblem high
Of patient virtue, to the Christian given,

196

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE

Unchanged and bright, when all is dark beside: Our shield from wild temptations, and our guide To treasures for the just laid up in heaven.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE,

OF SUMMER TWILIGHT PAINTED BY ALLSTON.
BY I. M'CLELLAN, JR.

THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek
Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Win
Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down
To slumber by the darkened woods-the herds
Have left their pastures, where the sward grows
green

And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,

And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar
Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade
And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound;
While answering Echo from the distant hill,
Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.
How tenderly the trembling light yet plays
O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves,
With a strange beauty-like the yellow flush
That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by.
Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass
Like winter's shadows o'er the peaceful mind,
'T were sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad,

ΤΟ

With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast
And happy palaces, and lead a life

Of peace, in some green paradise like this.

197

The brazen trumpet, and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods :-the raging sword Hath never gathered its red harvest here! The peaceful Summer day hath never closed Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam

Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller here Hath never left his sickle in the field,

To slay his fellow with unholy hand,

The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
The thrilling murmuring of the dying man,

And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,

Have never broke its sabbath solitude.

TO

BY O. W. B. PEABODY.

Too lovely and too early lost!
My meinory clings to thee,
For thou wast once my guiding-star
Amid the treacherous sea;

But doubly cold and cheerless now,
The wave too dark before,

Since every beacon-light is quenched
Along the midnight shore.

I saw thee first, when hope arose

On youth's triumphant wing,

And thou wast lovelier than the light

Of early dawning spring.

Who then could dream, that health and joy
Would e'er desert the brow,

So bright with varying lustre once,
So chill and changeless now?

That brow! how proudly o'er it then,
Thy kingly beauty hung,

When wit, or eloquence or mirth
Came burning from the tongue;
Or when upon that glowing cheek
The kindling smile was spread,
Or tears, to thine own woes denied,
For others' griefs were shed.

Thy mind! it ever was the home
Of high and holy thought;
Thy life, an emblem of the truths

Thy pure example taught;
When blended in thine eye of light,
As from a royal throne,

Kindness, and peace and virtue there,

In mingled radiance shone.

One evening, when the autumn dew

Upon the hills was shed,

And Hesperus far down the west