« AnteriorContinuar »
THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Ay, this is freedom !--these pure skies
Were never stain'd with village smoke: The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me, I plant me, where the red deer feed
In the green desert-and am free. For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass; Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass,
The bison is my noble game;
The branches, falls before my aim.
From the long stripe of waving sedge; The bear, that marks my weapon's gleam,
Hides vainly in the forest's edge; In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing, dies.
With what free growth the elm and plane
Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumber'd with a train
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind
Where never scythe has swept the glades. Alone the fire, when frostwinds sere
The heavy herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here,
With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky: I meet the flames with flames again,
And at my door they cower and die. Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
And lonely river, seaward roll'd.
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? Broad are these streams-my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide. Wide are these woods—I thread the maze
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
I hunt, till day's last glimmer dies
O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice, and glad the eyes
That welcome my return at night.
BY MRS. NORTON.
Like an enfranchised bird, that wildly springs,
With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye, And a strong effort in his quivering wings,
Up to the blue vault of the happy sky, So my enamour'd heart, so long thine own,
At length from Love's imprisonment set free, Goes forth into the open world alone,
Glad and exulting in its liberty :
His weary wings have lost all power to soar),
more, So from its former bonds released in vain, My heart still feels the weight of that remember'd
BY WILLIAM HOWITT.
The land for me! the land for me!
I should hate to dwell in a summer land
I saw a peasant sit at his door,
'Twas the golden hour of an April morn;
The sabbath bells, with a holy glee,
No feeble joy was that peasant's lot,
But their mother, with breakfast call, anon
ake in his eyes;
And is that the man, thou vaunting knave!
He is not on thy lands of sin and pain-
He is not in the East, in his gorgeous halls,