And fallen leaves, in eddies dank, Reproachful strew thy mottled bank. Thy shrouded dells, where lovers stole, Or poets mused with raptured soul— Where are they now? I ask in vain; Strange iron steeds that scorn the rein, With shriek, and tramp, and nostrils bright, The herds amid thy pastures fright; And clashing wheel, and spindle’s force, Oft drain thy faithful allies’ source, Shetucket, with his roughened breast, And Yantic, that I love the best; While granite walls, and roofs of grace, Usurp the moping owlet’s place. Yes, thou art changed, the world hath made High inroad on thy hermit shade. But, say’st thou, that with spirit true Thou keep’st a glorious goal in view; Heaven speed thee on, with feet of glee, And bless thy bridal with the sea; Dear River! that doth lingering stay, Laving the sandals, on thy way; Of the fair city of my birth, Perchance, the loveliest spot on earth. Be thou our guide. Thy steadfast eye Might teach us our own goal to spy; For to that goal, through smile and tear, Each winged moment brings us near; Oh! may it be that blissful shore, Where chance and change are known no more. * * * * * THE SONG OF THE AXE. BY C. L. WHELER. Let the poet-lord bepraise the sword That gleams on Conquest’s track; Be’t mine to prolong a humbler song— The song of the woodman’s axe! ’Tis meet to sing of th’ lowliest thing That graces the reign of Peace, And add our praise, in hearty lays, Or prayers for bright increase. In the ruddy flood of battle’s blood Its splendor ne’er was dimmed, For a gentler fame awaits its name Than e’er the soldier hymned. Like a pioneer, with voice of cheer, It breaks the forest’s gloom, And maketh the earth give joyous birth, And like a garden bloom! And the palace dome, or peasant’s home, It rears with brave command; For no towering oak its lusty stroke Could ever yet withstand. Ho! the axe is king of the wildwood ring, And of the lordly trees, For before his blow they bow them low That laugh at the mountain breeze.