for would I tear the cords apart,

That bind me so to thee;

o! while my thoughts seem pure and mild,

ike dew upon the roses wild,

I would not have thee know,

he stream that seems to thee so still,

Has such a tide below!

nough! that in delicious dreams,

I see thee and forget

nough, that when the morning beams,
I feel my eyelids wet!

et, could I hope, when Time shall fall
he darkness, for creation's pall,
To meet thee,-and to love,-

would not shrink from aught below,
Nor ask for more above.

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THE FOUNTAIN.

But thou hast histories that stir the heart
With deeper feeling; while I look on thee
They rise before me. I behold the scene
Hoary again with forests; I behold

The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen

Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods,

Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet,

And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry

That rends the utter silence; 'tis the whoop

Of battle, and a throng of savage men

With naked arms, and faces stained like blood,

Fill the green wilderness; the long bare arms
Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream;
Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree
Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short,
As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors
And conquered vanish, and the dead remain,
Gashed horribly with tomahawks. The woods
Are still again, the frighted bird comes back
And plumes her wings, but thy sweet waters run
Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down,
Amid the deepening twilight I descry

Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard,
And bear away the dead. The next day's shower
Shall wash the tokens of the fight away.

I look again-the hunter's lodge is built,

With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well,
While the meek autumn stains the woods with gold,

And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door

The red man slowly drags the enormous bear

Slain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down

The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells

Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls,

THE FOUNTAIN.

And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh,
That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves,
The hickory's white nuts, and the dark fruit
That falls from the gray butternut's long boughs.

So centuries passed by, and still the woods
Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year
Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains
Of winter, till the white man swung the axe
Beside thee signal of a mighty change.
Then all around was heard the crash of trees,
Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground,
The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired
The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs
The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green
The blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maize
Rose like a host embattled; the buckwheat
Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers
The August wind. White cottages were seen
With rose-trees at the windows; barns from which
Swelled loud and shrill the cry of chanticleer;
Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse,
And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf
Of grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank,
Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls
Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool;
And children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired,
Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge.

Since then, what steps have trod thy border! Here,

On thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp

Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill

His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream.

The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still

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