Here halt we our march, and pitch our tent On the rugged forest-ground, And light our fire with the branches rent By winds from the beeches round. Wild storms have torn this ancient wood, But a wilder is at hand, With hail of iron and rain of blood, To sweep and waste the land. II. How the dark wood rings with our voices shrill, That startle the sleeping bird! To-morrow eve must the voice be still, And the step must fall unheard. The Briton lies by the blue Champlain, In Ticonderoga's towers, And ere the sun rise twice again, Must they and the lake be ours. III. Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides Where the fire-flies light the brake; A ruddier juice the Briton hides In his fortress by the lake. Build high the fire, till the panther leap From his lofty perch in flight, And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep For the deeds of to-morrow night. A PRESENTIMENT. "Oh father, let us hence--for hark, A fearful murmur shakes the air; The clouds are coming swift and dark;-- What horrid shapes they wear! A wingèd giant sails the sky; Oh father, father, let us fly!" "Hush, child; it is a grateful sound, That beating of the summer shower; Here, where the boughs hang close around, We'll pass a pleasant hour, Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain, Has swept the broad heaven clear again." "Nay, father, let us haste--for see, That horrid thing with hornèd brow-- His wings o'erhang this very tree, He scowls upon us now; His huge black arm is lifted high; Oh father, father, let us fly!" "Hush, child;" but, as the father spoke, Downward the livid firebolt came, Close to his ear the thunder broke, And, blasted by the flame, The child lay dead; while dark and still Swept the grim cloud along the hill. THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. Fair is thy sight, Sorrento, green thy shore, Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies; The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore, As clear and bluer still before thee lies. Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps; And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire, Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps. Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, Prank her green breast when April suns are bright; Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, Or like the mountain-frost of silvery white. Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree, And sward of violets, breathing to and fro, Mingle, and, wandering out upon the sea, Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow. Yet even here, as under harsher climes, Tears for the loved and early lost are shed; That soft air saddens with the funeral-chimes, Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead.