While widowed ones and orphans bled, They earned the phantom of a name. The sons of our New England sires, Armed with endurance, dared to roam Far from the hospitable fires, And the green, hallowed bowers of _home_. Distemper, leagued with famine wan, Nerved to a high resolve, they bore; And flocks, upon the thymy lawn, Ranged where the panther yelled before. Look now abroad! the scene how changed Where fifty fleeting years ago, Clad in his savage costume, ranged The belted lord of shaft and bow. No more a woody waste, the land Is rich in fruits and golden grain, And clustering domes and temples stand On upland, river-shore and plain. In praise of Pomp let fawning Art Carve rocks to triumph over years— The grateful incense of the heart Give to our glorious pioneers. Almighty! may thy stretched-out arm Guard, through long ages, yet to be, From tread of slave, and kingly harm Our Eden of the Genesee! * * * * * [Illustration: J.F. Lewis A.L. Dick THE SPORTSMAN. Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine] * * * * * THE SPORTSMAN. OR MY FIRST DAY’S SNIPE SHOOTING AT CAMBRIDGE. BY FRANK FORESTER, AUTHOR OF “THE WARWICK WOODLANDS,” ETC. My first day’s snipe shooting at Cambridge! Alas! alas! how many reminiscences, bitter and bleak as the cold north-eastern storm that, even while I write, is bellowing without, fall heavy on my heart, as I indite those simple words, How many, many long years wasted; how many generous aims and lofty aspirations blighted; how many kindly deeds and goodly feelings, written on sand, to be effaced as soon; how many faults and follies, recorded upon brass, perennial; how many warm hearts changed to sad, chill ashes; how many friends—dead, faithless, or forgetful! Alas! for those young days, and young feelings, flown forever, before there was a furrow on the brow, or a gray hair on the head, before disappointment had wrought agony, and agony been mother to the dark twins, distrust and despondency, near akin to despair.