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THE BIRTH OF THUNDER.
Three times his course might run,
And all that time the red man's eye
Whose trunk his breath had blasted.
"T was here he stood; these lakes attest Where first Waw-kee-an's footsteps prest. About his burning brow a cloud,
Black as the raven's wing, he wore; Thick tempests wrapt him like a shroud, Red lightnings in his hand he bore; Like two bright suns his eyeballs shone, His voice was like the cannon's tone; And, where he breathed, the land became, Prairie and wood, one sheet of flame. Not long upon this mountain height The first and worst of storms abode, For, moving in his fearful might, Abroad the God-begotten strode.
TO THE WITCH HAZEL.
Afar, on yonder faint blue mound In the horizon's utmost bound,
At the first stride his foot he set;
The jarring world confessed the shock.
On high, beside his sire to dwell;
TO THE WITCH HAZEL.
MYSTERIOUS plant! whose golden tresses wave With a sad beauty in the dying year,
Blooming amid November's frost severe,
Like the pale corpse-light o'er the recent grave!
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE
Unchanged and bright, when all is dark beside: Our shield from wild temptations, and our guide To treasures for the just laid up in heaven.
ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE,
OF SUMMER TWILIGHT PAINTED BY ALLSTON.
THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek
And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,
And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar
With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast
Of peace, in some green paradise like this.
The brazen trumpet, and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods :-the raging sword Hath never gathered its red harvest here! The peaceful Summer day hath never closed Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam
Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller here Hath never left his sickle in the field,
To slay his fellow with unholy hand,
The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,
Have never broke its sabbath solitude.
BY O. W. B. PEABODY.
Too lovely and too early lost!
But doubly cold and cheerless now,
Since every beacon-light is quenched
I saw thee first, when hope arose
On youth's triumphant wing,
And thou wast lovelier than the light
Of early dawning spring.
Who then could dream, that health and joy
So bright with varying lustre once,
That brow! how proudly o'er it then,
When wit, or eloquence or mirth
Thy mind! it ever was the home
Thy pure example taught;
Kindness, and peace and virtue there,
In mingled radiance shone.
One evening, when the autumn dew
Upon the hills was shed,
And Hesperus far down the west