'T would make the tiger forsake his lair,

The miser leave his gold.
And see yon harper! he doth try
A dead man's note of melody.

CHANT.

1

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Soundly sleep we in the day,

And yet we trip it nightly,
We sail with the nymphs around each bay,

When the moon peers out most brightly.
And we chase our foes to their distant graves,

For they, like us, are sleeping ;
But they dare not come o'er our bonny waves,

For our nightly watch we're keeping.
Our spectres visit their foreign homes,

And pluck right merrily
Their bones which whiten within their tombs,

And plant them here, aye, cheerily,-
For cheerily then we dance and sing,

With our spectre band around them,
And the curse and the laugh of scorn we fling,

As we tell where our shadows found them.
And then we go to the rotting wreck,

Where we drank the cup of poison,
We laugh and we quaff upon her deck,

Till morn comes up the horizon.
But skip ye, skip ye, beneath the cliff,

For the sun comes up like a fiery skiff,
Ploughing the waves of yon blue sky-
Hie-laughing spectres, to your homes, haste_hie.

JOSEPH H, NICHOLS

Is a native of Connecticut, and now a resident of the city of New York. He received a degree at Yale College in 1825. He is the author of some descriptive poetry of much graphic truth and freshness.

BENNETT'S BRIDGE.*

Thou beautiful, romantic Dell !
Thy banks of hemlock highlands swell,
Like huge sea billows, o'er the isles
Round which the branching river smiles.
Look up! how sombre and how vast
The shadows those dark mountains cast,
Making noon twilight; or, look down
The giddy depths, so steep and brown,
Where claret waters foam and play
A tinkling tune, then dance away.

Oft, with my oak leaf basket green,
On summer holidays serene,
Along your hill-sides have I stray'd,
And,

on the ground, all scarlet made,
Pick'd in full stems, as low I kneeld,
Strawberries, rubies of the field,
Coming late home; or, in the flood,
Cool'd the warm current of my blood;
While swam the house-dog after me,
With long red tongue lapt out in glee.

'T is glorious, here, at breaking day,
To watch the orient clouds of gray
Blush crimson, as the yellow sun
Walks up to take his purple throne,
And melts to snowy mists the dew
That kiss'd, all night, each blossom's hue,
Till, like a tuinbling ncean spread,
They hide low vale and tall cliff's head,
And many a tree's fantastic form
Looks like some toss'd ship in a storm.

a

How still the scene! yet, here war's hum
Once echoed wildly from the drum,
When waved the lily flower's gay bloom
O'er glittering troops with sword and plume,
Who, on the clover meadows round,
Their white tents pitch’d, while music's sound,
From horn and cymbal, play'd some strain

That oft had charm'd the banks of Seine,
And village girls came down to dance,
At evening with the youths of France.

Fair was the hour, secluded Dell!
When last I taught my listening shell
Sweet notes of thee. The bright moon shone,
As, on the shore, I mused alone,
And frosted rocks, and streams, and tree,
With rays that beam’d, like eyes, on me.
A silver robe the mountains hung,
A silver song the waters sung,
And many a pine was heard to quiver,
Along my own blue flowing river.

THE FALLS OF THE HOUSATONICK.

Wild cataract of woods ! how bright

Thy sheet of liquid silver gleams,
Through the green cedars, on my sight,

Like a tall angel's spear in dreams.
And see the snowy wreath of spray,

Meet for a spotless virgin's shroud,
Curl up the clear blue vault away

To form the future tempest-cloud.

Through mountain shores, with red and gold

Leaves, at this autumn hour, array'd,
Winds the swift river, dark and bold,

O'er rocks in many a white cascade.
Till sweeping past, ’mid froth and surge,

The alder islets strown around,
To where the willows kiss thy verge,

Thou dashest off at one wild bound !

Here, as we gaze-I and my friend,

Two youths with roses on our cheeks,
'Tis sweet, but awful, thus to bend

Over the wonder, as it speaks
Like a young earthquake, and to feel

A nameless grandeur swell the soul
With joy that makes the senses reel,
Half-wishing in the flood to roll!

29

VOL. III.

Yes, thou art fair, and fain would I,

Were mine no love, no kindred true, Alone here live, alone here die,

Were I but worthy too for you, For oh! were mortals half so fair

And beautiful as their abodes, Woman a cherub's face would wear,

And man—the majesty of gods.

Each morning sun a rainbow builds

Of pink, across thy daimond foam, That every tossing billow gilds

With pearls, to deck its ocean home. Too soon it fades, unseen by all,

Save the rude woodman of the hill, Or, when for water to the fall,

Trips the glad damsel of the mill.

Methinks, at winter's dazzling night,

Thine were a lovelier scene than now, For then the very air is white

With the pure stars and purer snow. And trees, like crystal chandeliers,

In nature's blue cathedral arch, Light by the moon their gems of tears,

Where, like a queen bride, thou dost march.

And, oft, with a peculiar awe,

Thou com’st the moss-green rocks to lash: When the soft vernal breezes thaw

The long chain'd river, at one crash Of thunder, it breaks up

and roars, Till echoing caverns wake from sleep, As at a mammoth’s voice,-and pours

An ice-piled deluge down thy steep.

Fall of the forest! on a wild

Romantic pilgrimage I come To see thy face, for, from a child,

My footsteps ever loved to roam Places untrod-yet, why hast thou,

In sylvan beauty, rolld so long, And not a poet's tongue, ere now,

Has told his lyre thy praise in song,

JAMES 0. ROCKWELL,

A NATIVE of Lebanon, Connecticut. He is a printer, and at present resides in Boston.

TO THE ICE MOUNTAIN.

GRAVE of waters gone to rest!

Jewel, dazzling all the main!
Father of the silver crest!

Wandering on the trackless plain,
Sleeping 'mid the wavy roar,

Sailing 'mid the angry storm,
Ploughing ocean's oozy floor,

Piling to the clouds thy form!

Wandering monument of rain,

Prison'd by the sullen north!
But to melt thy hated chain,

Is it, that thou comest forth?
Wend thee to the sunny south,

To the glassy summer sea,
And the breathings of her mouth

Shall unchain and gladden thee !

Roamer in the hidden path,

'Neath the green and clouded wave!
Trampling, in thy reckless wrath,

On the lost, but cherish'd brave;
Parting love's death-link'd embrace-

Crushing beauty's skeleton-
Tell us what the hidden race

With our mourned lost have done!

Floating Sleep! who in the sun

Art an icy coronal;
And, beneath the viewless dun,

Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall;
Shining Death upon the sea !

Wend thee to the southern main;
Bend to God thy melting knee,

Mingle with the wave again!