Faint with his thirst, the hunter
No spruce-drop nor moss-drip can see;—
Hark! rolls on his ear a low rumble,
“Haste! here foams a goblet for thee!”
On, on, through the thickets he plunges;—
Now he catches a flashing of white;
Now he hears the bold shout of the torrent;—
“Ho, ho! steep thy lip in delight!
Thou, scorning the moose in his fury,
Again feel the glow of thy might!”
Rich pluming the bright black basin
The vetch with the vervain blends;
And in the light breeze of the dashing
The crumpled blue iris bends.
Sky-pictures of silver and sapphire
Are traced on the mirror clear;—
Sing the ripples the white plunge awakens
“Ho, ho! for the wolf-hunted deer!
Dash, dart of the wilds, in my waters!
Then urge in new strength thy career!”
RACKET RIVER.
My spirit grieves, oh, river of leaves!
For the magic thy wild green beauty weaves!
From no slight spring light bubbles upfling
To trickle through pebbles, round ferns to swing.
But thou dost break, full up and awake,
From the soaring Blue Mountain’s cradled lake.
Linked lakes then pass thy picture-bright glass
On through the forest’s unbounded mass.