Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,

Eddying and whisking,

Spouting and frisking,

Turning and twisting,
Around and around,
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound;
Collecting, projecting,

Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,

And darting and parting,

And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,

And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And gurgling and struggling,

And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and wrapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

12

[In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman named Charles Gough attempted to cross Helvellyn, a mountain in the northern part of England. It was just after a fall of snow had concealed the path, and rendered it dangerous. He perished in the attempt; but it could not be ascertained whether he was killed by a fall from a precipice or had died from hunger. Three months elapsed before the body was found, attended by a faithful dog, which he had with him at the time of the accident. Sir Walter Scott wrote a poem on the same circumstance.]

A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears,

A cry as of a dog or fox;

He halts, and searches with his eyes

Among the scattered rocks;

And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed ;

Its motions, too, are wild and shy,
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry.

Nor is there any one in sight,

All round, in hollow or on height;

Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear;

What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps till June December's snow;

A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below,

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,

Pathway or cultivated land,

From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish

Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak,

In symphony austere;

Thither the rainbow comes; the cloud;
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past;
But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while

The shepherd stood; then makes his way
O'er rocks and stones, following the dog
As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appalled discoverer, with a sigh,
Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen

that place of fear!

At length upon the shepherd's mind

It breaks, and all is clear;

He instantly recalled the name,

And who he was and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day

On which the traveller passed this way.

This dog had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day
When this ill-fated traveller died,
The dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side;

How nourished here through such long time,
He knows who gave that love sublime,
And gave that strength of feeling great
Above all human estimate.

XLIV. - FEMALE HEROISM.

C. F. HOFFMAN.

UPON the banks of the River Elkhorn, in the State of Kentucky, there was once a stockade fort* to which the settlers from the adjacent country frequently resorted as a place of refuge from the savages. Its gallant defence by a handful of pioneers against the allied Indians of Ohio, led by two renegade white men, was one of the most desperate affairs in the Indian wars of the west. The enemy met together at the forks of the Scioto, and planned their attack in the deep forests, a hundred miles away from the scene where it was made.

The pioneers had not the slightest idea of their approach, when in a moment a thousand rifles gleamed in the cornfields one summer's night. That very evening the garrison had chanced to gather under arms, to march to the relief of another station that was similarly invested. It was a fearful moment: an hour earlier, and the pioneers would have been cut off; an hour later, and their defenceless wives and daughters must have been butchered or carried into captivity, while their

* Stockade fort, a fort defended by a line of posts, or stakes, set in the earth.

+ Pioneer, one who goes first into a new country.

Renegade, an expression applied to a white man who had joined the Indians and adopted their manners and customs.

§ Fork, the point where two streams unite to form a third.