WHERE thick o’er the panther ledges Its crescents the fir-tree curls, And the rough yellow pine hangs frowning, The river its cataract hurls. Threading in darkness the forest It bursts into light at the spring, And it shouts to the hovering eagle, “Ho, ho! I am free as thy wing! Shriek, blend thy brave tones to my shouting As down my bright garlands I fling!” Faint with his thirst, the hunter No spruce-drop nor moss-drip can see;-- Hark! rolls on his ear a low rumble, “Haste! here foams a goblet for thee!” On, on, through the thickets he plunges;-- Now he catches a flashing of white; Now he hears the bold shout of the torrent;-- “Ho, ho! steep thy lip in delight! Thou, scorning the moose in his fury, Again feel the glow of thy might!” Rich pluming the bright black basin The vetch with the vervain blends; And in the light breeze of the dashing The crumpled blue iris bends. Sky-pictures of silver and sapphire Are traced on the mirror clear;-- Sing the ripples the white plunge awakens “Ho, ho! for the wolf-hunted deer! Dash, dart of the wilds, in my waters! Then urge in new strength thy career!” [Illustration] RACKET RIVER. MY spirit grieves, oh, river of leaves! For the magic thy wild green beauty weaves! From no slight spring light bubbles upfling To trickle through pebbles, round ferns to swing. But thou dost break, full up and awake, From the soaring Blue Mountain’s cradled lake. Linked lakes then pass thy picture-bright glass On through the forest’s unbounded mass. Thy wave now roves by colonnade groves; Now blackens in bush-blotting, tamarack coves. By dingles green, now it ripples in sheen, Now crumbles to foam in some rocky ravine. The Indian Plume burns ruddy in bloom Like a torch of the gnomes in thy bordering gloom. The harebell wakes by thy dashing breaks; There, the wiry-hooked, golden-nooked columbine quakes. Mossily tressed on the gray pine’s crest Looms, ragged and russet, the fish-hawk’s nest. Down yon smooth sides the black otter slides; In this deep basin the white-fish hides: See yon grassed park where the cedars dark Have planted their tents round the shanty of bark! To what sweet eves, oh, river of leaves! To what glad dawnings fond memory cleaves! Oft did I float o’er the golden gloat Of the moon, in my buoyant, black, Saranac boat. The soft white light made the dead tree bright, And pearled into brilliance the tangled night. Thus glows the spell of tree, wave, and dell, Oh, river of leaves! but, at last, farewell! [Illustration] THE LOON. TUPPER’S LAKE.