Glossy the lake in its lovely hush; Winds the deep cove at the crag’s steep foot; But keen white lightnings have seen the crush Of the stately pine-tree, branch and root. Splintered and scorched on the rocks it lies, Where proudly its plume once sought the skies. The breath of the storm now blots the crag; Ghostly and grim point the skeleton trees; Blacken the rifts;--but the lightnings lag;-- Blacken the cedars;--no stir of breeze;-- Blacker and blacker the great crag’s scowl;-- Hark! the fierce storm-lion’s distant growl! The rocks below gleam a ghastly light; The fish-hawk cowers for shelter there; The distant island frowns, robed in night; See, the lake leaps to a startling glare! The growl has deepened--a roar--a crash-- Thicken red lightnings, white surges dash. Gloomy the crag, like a guilty dream! Motions all over tell writhing boughs; Billows break on it, down torrents stream, Flashing through darkness; the strong blast ploughs O’er it and down it;--thus ever should be Wild crag and wild storm in company! [Illustration] THE BELL OWL. IN the heart of the wood dwells the little Bell Owl. Where the cedar lifts, high up, its steeple; There he lolls all the day, a gray ball, all away From the wild’s singing, gambolling people. But when the red torch of the day has burnt down, And large looms the shadow-like hill; When the bark of the black fox is heard from the glade, And the black cat seeks prey by the rill, Then, tinkle link tinkle, the little Bell Owl Makes clear the dark quietude thrill. Oh, the little Bell Owl finds a sometimes retreat In the tree-bole brown ruin is eating, Where he dozes, then starts to the rattling tat tat That the woodpecker’s drumstick is beating. He shrinks from all light, e’en the woods beaming white In the delicate snow of the moon; To the star-eyes alone, for they blink like his own, Does he deign his sweet musical boon. Then, tinkle tink tinkle, the little Bell Owl The sleepy depths wakes with his tune. Oh, the little Bell Owl loves the darksomest dells Where the foxfire its silver is shedding; And the grass flits in fits to the network of gold From the lightning-fly’s fairy-like threading. And perchance, should the hunter camp down on the moss, From his dream of the midnight he springs, And, though naught meets his sight but his hound bathed in light, Still the bell in the cedar-top rings; Still, tinkle tink tinkle, the little Bell Owl Abroad his full melody flings. [Illustration] THE UPPER SARANAC. WILD forest lake, thy waters spread A mirror for the welkin’s bound! Thy breezes glide with rippling tread; Thy linking brooks send tinkling sound.