And the accents of those who once g Seemed again to return to the place of 'Tis the voice of the gale: mid the de In the forest's dark gloom, I have hear Like the tones of some spirit that hove And mourned for the children of sorrow "Tis the voice of the gale, which, to fan Seems filled with the accents of those e My friends, my companions, my kindred Who have sunk to the sleep of a lasting Yes; oft, mid its moanings, we dream th And fancy we hear their soft voices reply 'Tis a vision of bliss, till, by reason o'erth We hear the rude breath of the tempesta WILD is your airy sweep, Billows that foam from yonder mountain side- Dashing with whitened crests and thundering tide To seek the distant deep! Now to the verge ye climb, Now rush to plunge with emulous haste below; Sounding your stormy chorus as ye go A never-ending chime! Why choose this pathway rude, These cliffs by gray and ancient woods o'er Why pour your music to the echoes lone Of this wild solitude? The mead in green array, With silent beauty wooes your loved embra Would lead you through soft banks, with de Along a gentler way. There, as ye onward roam, Fresh leaves would bend to greet your water Why scorn the charms that vainly court you Amid these wilds to foam? Alas! our fate is one Both ruled by wayward fancy!--All in vain HE MOTHERS OF THE WEST. BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. THE Mothers of our Forest-Land! Our rough land had no braver, In its days of blood and strife— Aye ready for severest toil, The Mothers of our Forest-Land! On old Kan-tuc-kee's soil, How shared they, with each dauntless band, War's tempest and Life's toil! They shrank not from the foeman— They quailed not in the fight But cheered their husbands through the day, And soothed them through the night. |