And the spirit of the hour Is as peaceful as yon wave, While pleasure builds its bower O'er the ashes of the brave.
CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES.
[From the Backwoodsman.]
BY J. K. PAULDING.
Our Basil beat the lazy sun next day, And bright and early had been on his way. But that the world he saw e'en yesternight, Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight. One endless chaos spread before his eyes, No vestige left of earth or azure skies, A boundless nothingness reign'd everywhere, Hid the green fields and silent all the air. As look'd the traveller for the world below, The lively morning breeze began to blow, The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day. As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, New objects open to his wondering view Of various form, and combinations new. A rocky precipice, a waving wood, Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold. So when the wandering grandsire of our race On Ararat had found a resting place, At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, Mingling on every side with one blue sky; But as the waters, every passing day, Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away, Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep From the rough bosom of the boundless deep, Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green, Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul. Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, Within the silent world, some living thing, Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, Or man, or beast—alas! was neither there, Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air; 'Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay, Whose occupant was drown'd the other day; A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom Amid the melancholy of the tomb; A charnel house, where all the human race Had piled their bones in one wide resting place; Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo, And sadly sought the lifeless world below.
THE CLOUDS.
BY GEORGE D. STRONG.
How beauteous o'er the blue expanse Pencilling their shadows on the evening sky, The gathering clouds with gauze-wings unfold Their heaven wove tapestry: Veiling in mist the dim and wearied sun, Ere yet the drapery of his couch is won!