THE CITY.

The City—the City—its glare and din—
Oh! my soul is sick of its sights and shows,
My spirit is cramp'd, and my soul pent in—
I can scarcely think, and it seems to me
My very breathing is not so free,
As where the breeze in its freedom blows,
And the vines untrammel'd but seem to be
Disporting to tell of their liberty.
There, there I'd be—Oh! my spirit pines
For the rivers, the trees, and the forest vines.
From the crowded streets, and the jostling throng,
And garish glitter, and vain parade—
My native woods! how I long, I long
To bury me in thy wilds again;
Then Art, and Fashion, and Form, oh! then
I'll eschew ye all in my wild-wood shade.
Like an uncaged bird, I shall scarcely know
Which way to bend me, or whither to go;
Yet I think my spirit would grateful rise
Unto God, who dwells in the clear blue skies.

Columbia, S. C.