BY J. K. PAULDING.
Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land, Unheeded pass'd our little roving band, —For every soul had something here to do, Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view— By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide, In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side, And York and Lancaster—whose rival rose In this good land, no bloody discord knows. Not such their fate!—the ever grateful soil Rewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil; Richer and rounder every year he grows, Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows Than caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly, Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky; Before he sells, the market's sudden fall, Or sudden rise, when sold—still worse than all! Calmly he lives—the tempest of the mind, That marks its course by many a wreck behind; The purpose high that great ambition feels, Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals, But never in his sober waking thought One stirring, active impulse ever wrought. Calmly he lives—as free from good as blame, His home, his dress, his equipage the same; And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot What once he was, or what he once was not— An honest man, perhaps,—'tis somewhat odd That such should be the noblest work of God! So have I seen, in garden rich and gay, A stately cabbage waxing fat each day; Unlike the lively foliage of the trees, Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze, Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around, Upon its clumsy stem is ever found; It heeds not noontide heats, nor evening's balm, And stands unmoved in one eternal calm. At last, when all the garden's pride is lost It ripens in drear autumn's killing frost, And in a savoury sourkrout finds its end, From which detested dish, me heaven defend!
LAKE GEORGE.—1829.
BY S. DE WITT BLOODGOOD.
I stood upon the shore, And looked upon the wave, While I thought me o'er and o'er Here sleep the brave!
The shadow of the hills, The azure of the flood, The murmuring of the rills Recall a scene of blood.
When the war-cry filled the breeze, And the rifle and the bow Were like leaves upon the trees, But did not daunt Munro!
'Mid the thunders of the train, And the fires that flashed alarm! And the shouts that rent the plain, To battle rush'd Montcalm!
But the red cross floats no more Upon the ruin'd walls, And the wind sighs on the shore, Like the noise of waterfalls.