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'T would make the tiger forsake his lair,
The miser leave his gold.
Soundly sleep we in the day,
And yet we trip it nightly,
When the moon peers out most brightly.
For they, like us, are sleeping ;
For our nightly watch we're keeping.
And pluck right merrily
And plant them here, aye, cheerily,-
With our spectre band around them,
As we tell where our shadows found them.
Where we drank the cup of poison,
Till morn comes up the horizon.
For the sun comes up like a fiery skiff,
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.
Thou beautiful, romantic Dell !
Oft, with my oak leaf basket green,
on the ground, all scarlet made,
'T is glorious, here, at breaking day,
How still the scene! yet, here war's hum
* This is a wild and picturesque pass of the Housatonic, about twenty miles from its mouth, near, the pleasant village of Newtown, Connecticut.
That oft had charm'd the banks of Seine,
Fair was the hour, secluded Dell!
THE FALLS OF THE HOUSATONICK.
Wild cataract of woods ! how bright
Thy sheet of liquid silver gleams,
Like a tall angel's spear in dreams.
Meet for a spotless virgin's shroud,
To form the future tempest-cloud.
Through mountain shores, with red and gold
Leaves, at this autumn hour, array'd,
O'er rocks in many a white cascade.
The alder islets strown around,
Thou dashest off at one wild bound !
Here, as we gaze-I and my friend,
Two youths with roses on our cheeks,
Over the wonder, as it speaks
A nameless grandeur swell the soul
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!
Wandering on the trackless plain,
Sailing 'mid the angry storm,
Piling to the clouds thy form!
Wandering monument of rain,
Prison'd by the sullen north!
Is it, that thou comest forth?
To the glassy summer sea,
Shall unchain and gladden thee !
Roamer in the hidden path,
'Neath the green and clouded wave!
On the lost, but cherish'd brave;
Crushing beauty's skeleton-
With our mourned lost have done!
Floating Sleep! who in the sun
Art an icy coronal;
Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall;
Wend thee to the southern main;
Mingle with the wave again!