The cider-press, beneath the farm-house shade, Now creaks, as round old Dobbin takes his way, While from the massive vat the liquid pours, And in abundant casks ferments and foams. Hail, generous drink! fair Newark’s honest boast, The laborer’s beverage in a northern clime, Where freedom first, in deadly strife was born, And where her last scarred-follower shall die— If death to such e’er come. Oft have I sighed for thee in spicy clime, Where hung the clustering grape from every bough, And where the nectar of the gods was free As Croton-water in old Gotham’s Park. Untainted with the liquid sin that flows From the destroyer’s still, thy spirit lifts The thirsty soul from earth—but not too high, Nor leaves at morn a flush upon the brow. An apple caused the first of earth to sin; But thou, well made, and freed from earthly taint, Raisest the weary spirit to its tone, And givest to labor’s cheek the glow of health. Now, in the rosy morn, the spotted hounds Before the mounted Huntsmen hie away. O’er fields and meadows, onward see them go, Scaling the walls, and trampling down the corn. And now they penetrate the forest shade, And from the sylvan dell, and wood-capt hill, The deep-mouthed bay with wild halloo is heard, Swelling in cadence to the hunter’s horn. In her retreat, amid the deepest shade, Where the long grass is tender, and ne’er fails, The red-deer hears, and starts, and lists again, Till louder still the chase’s wild music sounds, Then down the hill-side to the lake that spreads Its broad unruffled bosom to the morn, She takes her course; while on her haunches come The bellowing pack, like gaunt and hungry wolves. Now she has gained the stunted alder’s shade, That line the margin of the waters clear, And turning quickly round the wave-worn hill, That towers abruptly o’er the narrow beach, Dips her light hoofs in the unconscious wave, And seeks the mountain-pass with lightning speed. Hid from their sight, the scent in water lost, The eager pack plunge headlong in the flood; But soon recalled to duty, ’long the shore They scour, till one more practiced than the rest, Stops where the chase her sylvan pathway took, And bellowing wildly, follows in her track, With the whole party thundering at his heels. The wily deer too long has got the start, And now from distant hill-side sees the foe Come panting up the dell with weary limb. A moment only does she look, then turns And glides in silence down the other side; And when the Huntsmen gain the lofty height, The deer is far away—the chase is o’er.