On, through the rampart walls of rock The waters pitch in white, And high, in mist, the cedars lock Their boughs, half lost to sight Above the whirling gulf--the dash Of frenzied floods, that vainly lash Their limits in their flight, Whose roar the eagle, from his peak, Responds to with his angriest shriek. Stream of the age-worn forest! here The Indian, free as thou, Has bent against thy depths his spear, And in thy woods his bow; The beaver built his dome; but they, The memories of an earlier day, Like those dead trunks, that show What once were mighty pines--have fled With Time's unceasing, rapid tread. THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. Wend, love, with me, to the deep woods wend, Where, far in the forest, the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue, Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit, From the safron orchis and lupin blue, And those like the foam on my courser's bit. One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, One hand of each on the bridle meet; And beneath the wrist that entwines me there An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. I will sing thee many a joyous lay, As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, While the winds that over the prairie play Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride. Our home shall be by the cool bright streams, Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams Through the branches around our lodge that meet. Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. A POET'S EPISTLE. [_Written in Scotland to Fitz-Greene Halleck, Esq._] BY J. R. DRAKE. Weel, Fitz, I'm here; the mair's the pity, I'll wad ye curse the vera city From which I write a braid Scots ditty Afore I learn it; But gif ye canna mak it suit ye, Ye ken ye'll burn it. My grunzie's got a twist until it Thae damn'd Scotch aighs sae stuff and fill it I doubt, wi' a' my doctor skill, it 'll keep the gait, Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet And write it straight. Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather Wi' a hale sheet, of muir and heather O' burns, and braes, and sic like blether, To you a feast; But stop! ye will not light on either This time at least. Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie, Then drap your lip and glower surly; Troth! gif ye do, I'll tell ye fairly, Ye'll no be right; We've made our jaunt a bit too early For sic a sight.