صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني
[blocks in formation]

« WHERE Canada fpreads forth her deferts hout
Chilled by the polar frosts of Labrador,
Where mighty lakes their azure wastes expand,
And fwell their wat'ry empire o'er the land;
What tribes or wing the air or tread the plain,
What herbage fprings, what nations hold their

reign?"
Enormous forests ftretch their shadows wide,
And rich favannas skirt the mountain's Gde
There bounds the moofe, and fhaggy bifons graze,
Scared by the wolf the hardy reindeer brays ;
The clambering squirrel tumbles from on high,
Fix'd by the rattlesnake's rapacious eye.
Unnumbered pigeons fill the darkened air,
Glut the tired hawk, the loaded branches tear:
Fair swans majestic on the waters glide ;
The mason beaver checks the flowing tide.
Gigantic rivers shake the thundering fhore:
Dread Niagara's foaming cataracts roar,
In light canoe the painted Indian rows,
Ot hunts the foundering elk thro' melting (nows;

The Thames frozen over.

159

Wields his huge tomahawk in deadly fray,
And rends with shouts the reeking scalp away,
Or smokes the fragrant calumet of peace,
And bound in wampum leagues bids favage
discord cease.

ORIGINAL.

THE THAMES FROZEN OVER.

O ROVING muse! recall that wondrous year,
When winter reigned in bleak Britannia's air;
When hoary Thames, with frosted users crown'd,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound.
The waterman, forlorn, along the fhore,
Penfive reclines upon his useless oar,
Sees harness'd steeds desert the ftony town,
And wander roads unstable, not their own ;
Wheels o'er the harden'd waters (moothly glide,
And rafe with whiten'd tracks the lipp’ry tide.
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And scarce the fpit can turn the ox entire ;
Booths sudden hide the Thames, long streets

appear, And num'rous games proclaim the crowded fair.

[ocr errors][merged small]

160

The Squirrel.--The Shepherd's Home,

THE SQUIRREL.

- -HÁST thou never seen
A squirrel spend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage ?
The cage, as either side turn'd np,
Striking a ring of bells a-top:
Mov'd in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs ;
But here, or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher. PRIOR.

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.

hills are

My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,
And
my

white over with sheep:
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green
But a sweet-brier entwines it around.

The Town in a Salt Mine.

ia

Not my fields in the prime of the year
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear
But it glitters with fiihes of gold.

SHENSTONE.

THE TOWN IN A SALT MINE.

.....CAVERN'D round in Cracow's mighty mines,
With crystal walls, a gorgeous city shines ;
Scoop'd in the briny rock long Itreets extend
Their hoary course, and glittering domes afcend;
Down the bright steeps, emerging intu day,
Impetuous fountains burst their headlong way,
O'er milk-white vales in ivory channels spread,
And wand'ring seek their fubterraneous bed.
Far gleaming o'er the town transparent fanes
Rear their white towers, and wave their golden

vanes; Long lines of lustres pour their trembling rays, And the bright vault returns the mingled blaze.

DARWIN.

[blocks in formation]

SEE, mamma, what a sweet little prize I have

found! A robin that lay half benumbed on the ground! I caught him, and fed him, and warmed in my

brcast, And now he's as nimble and blythe as the rest. Look, look, how he flutters!-He'll flip from my

hold,
Ah rogue ! you've forgotten both hunger and

cold!
But indeed 'tis in vain ; for I Ma’n’t set you free,
For all your whole life you ’re a prisoner with me;
Well housed and well fed, in your cage you will

fing,
And make our dull winter as gay as the spring.
But itay--fure 't is cruel, with wings made to soar,
To be shut up in prison and never fly more
And I, who fo often have longed for a flight,
Shall I keep you prisoner?-Mamma--is it right?
No!--Come, pretty robin, I must set you

freeFor your whille, though sweet, would sound sadly to me.

ORIGINAL

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
« السابقةمتابعة »