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and many a knight was arming for the fight behind the encamped stars.

"Before each van

Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears

Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms

From either end of Heaven the welkin burns."

Away! away! away! away!

Ye have not kept your secret well,
I will abide that other day,

Those other lands ye tell.

Has time no leisure left for these,
The acts that ye rehearse ?

Is not eternity a lease

For better deeds than verse?

"T is sweet to hear of heroes dead,
To know them still alive,

But sweeter if we earn their bread,

And in us they survive.

Our life should feed the springs of fame

With a perennial wave,

As ocean feeds the babbling founts
Which find in it their grave.

Ye skies, drop gently round my breast,
And be my corselet blue,

Ye earth, receive my lance in rest,
My faithful charger you;

Ye stars, my spear-heads in the sky,
My arrow-tips ye are;

I see the routed foemen fly,

My bright spears fixed are.

Give me an angel for a foe,

Fix now the place and time,
And straight to meet him I will go
Above the starry chime.

And with our clashing bucklers' clang

The heavenly spheres shall ring,

While bright the northern lights shall hang
Beside our tourneying.

And if she lose her champion true,

Tell Heaven not despair,

For I will be her champion new,
Her fame I will repair.

There was a high wind this night, which we afterwards learned had been still more violent elsewhere, and had done much injury to the cornfields far and near; but we only heard it sigh from time to time, as if it had no license to shake the foundations of our tent; the pines murmured, the water rippled, and the tent rocked a little, but we only laid our ears closer to the ground, while the blast swept on to alarm other men, and long before sunrise we were ready to pursue our voyage as usual.

TUESDAY.

"On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the fields the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot."

TENNYSON.

LONG before daylight we ranged abroad, hatchet in hand, in search of fuel, and made the yet slumbering and dreaming wood resound with our blows. Then with our fire we burned up a portion of the loitering night, while the kettle sang its homely strain to the morning star. We tramped about the shore, waked all the muskrats, and scared up the bittern and birds that were asleep upon their roosts; we hauled up and upset our boat, and washed it and rinsed out the clay, talking aloud as if it were broad day, until at length, by three o'clock, we had completed our preparations and were ready to pursue our voyage as usual; so, shaking the clay from our feet, we pushed into the fog.

Though we were enveloped in mist as usual, we trusted that there was a bright day behind it.

Ply the oars! away! away!
In each dew-drop of the morning
Lies the promise of a day.

Rivers from the sunrise flow,

Springing with the dewy morn;
Voyageurs 'gainst time do row,
Idle noon nor sunset know,

Ever even with the dawn.

Belknap, the historian of this State, says that, "In the neighborhood of fresh rivers and ponds, a whitish fog in the morning lying over the water is a sure indication of fair weather for that day; and when no fog is seen, rain is expected before night." That which seemed to us to invest the world was only a narrow and shallow wreath of vapor stretched over the channel of the Merrimack from the seaboard to the mountains. More extensive fogs, however, have their own limits. I once saw the day break from the top of Saddle-back Mountain in Massachusetts, above the clouds. As we cannot distinguish objects through this dense fog, let me tell this story more at length.

I had come over the hills on foot and alone in serene summer days, plucking the raspberries by the wayside, and occasionally buying a loaf of bread at a farmer's house, with a knapsack on my back which held a few traveler's books and a change of clothing, and a staff in my

hand. I had that morning looked down from the Hoosack Mountain, where the road crosses it, on the village of North Adams in the valley three miles away under my feet, showing how uneven the earth may sometimes be, and making it seem an accident that it should ever be level and convenient for the feet of man. Putting a little rice and sugar and a tin cup into my knapsack at this village, I began in the afternoon to ascend the mountain, whose summit is three thousand six hundred feet above the level of the sea, and was seven or eight miles distant by the path. My route lay up a long and spacious valley called the Bellows, because the winds rush up or down it with violence in storms, sloping up to the very clouds between the principal range and a lower mountain. There were a few farms scattered along at different elevations, each commanding a fine prospect of the mountains to the north, and a stream ran down the middle of the valley on which near the head there was a mill. It seemed a road for the pilgrim to enter upon who would climb to the gates of heaven. Now I crossed a hayfield, and now over the brook on a slight bridge, still gradually ascending all the while with a sort of awe, and filled with indefinite expectations as to what kind of inhabitants and what kind of nature I should come to at last. It

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