"WHERE Canada fpreads forth her deferts hoar, Chilled by the polar frosts of Labrador,
Where mighty lakes their azure wastes expand,
And fwell their watʼry empire o'er the land;
What tribes or wing the air or tread the plain,
What herbage fprings, what nations hold their
reign?"
Enormous forefts ftretch their fhadows wide,
And rich favannas fkirt the mountain's fides
There bounds the moofe, and fhaggy bisons graze,
Scared by the wolf the hardy rein-deer brays;
The clambering squirrel tumbles from on high,
Fix'd by the rattlefnake's rapacious eye.
Unnumbered pigeons fill the darkened air,
Glut the tired hawk, the loaded branches tear:
Fair fwans majeflic on the waters glide;
The mafon beaver checks the flowing tide.
Gigantic rivers shake the thundering fhore:
Dread Niagara's foaming cataracts roar.
In light canoe the painted Indian rows,
Or hunts the floundering elk thro' melting fnows;
Wields his huge tomahawk in deadly fray,
And rends with fhouts the reeking fcalp away,
Or fmokes the fragrant calumet of peace,
And bound in wampum leagues bids favage
difcord ceafe.
O ROVING muse! recall that wondrous year,
When winter reigned in bleak Britannia's air;
When hoary Thames, with frosted ofiers crown'd,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound.
The waterman, forlorn, along the fhore,
Penfive reclines upon his ufelefs oar,
Sees harness'd fteeds defert the ftony town,
And wander roads unftable, not their own;
Wheels o'er the harden'd waters {moothly glide,
And rafe with whiten'd tracks the flipp❜ry tide.
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And fearce the spit can turn the ox entire ;
Booths fudden hide the Thames, long streets
And num'rous games proclaim the crowded fair.
The Squirrel.-The Shepherd's Home.
HAST thou never seen
A fquirrel fpend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage?
The cage, as either fide turn'd np,
Striking a ring of bells a-top:
Mov'd in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs ;
But here, or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whofe murmur invites one to fleep;
My grottos are fhaded with trees,
hills are white over with sheep.
I feldom have met with a lofs,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green
But a fweet-brier entwines it around.
Not
my fields in the prime of the year
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
THE TOWN IN A SALT MINE.
.....CAVERN'D round in Cracow's mighty mines,
With crystal walls, a gorgeous city shines;
Scoop'd in the briny rock long streets extend
Their hoary course, and glittering domes afcend;
Down the bright fteeps, emerging into day,
Impetuous fountains burst their headlong way,
O'er milk-white vales in ivory chanuels spread,
And wand'ring feek their fubterraneous bed.
Far gleaming o'er the town transparent fanes
Rear their white towers, and wave their golden
Long lines of luftres pour their trembling rays, And the bright vault returns the mingled blaze.
SEE, mamma, what a fweet little prize I have found!
A robin that lay half benumbed on the ground! I caught him, and fed him, and warmed in my breaft,
And now he's as nimble and blythe as the reft. Look, look, how he flutters!-He'll flip from my
Ah rogue! you 've forgotten both hunger and cold!
But indeed 'tis in vain ; for I fha'n't fet you free,
For all your whole life you 're a prifoner with me;
Well houfed and well fed, in your cage you will
fing,
And make our dull winter as gay as the spring.
But ftay-furet is cruel, with wings made to foar,
To be shut up in prifon and never fly more-
And I, who fo often have longed for a flight,
Shall I keep you prifoner?-Mamma--is it right?
No!-Come, pretty robin, I must fet you free-
For your while, though fweet, would found
fadly to me.
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