Rude was the garb, and strong the frame, Of him who plied his ceaseless toil: To form that garb, the wild-wood game Contributed their spoil; The soul, that warm'd that frame, disdain'd The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reign'd Where men their crowds collect; The simple fur, untrimm'd, unstain'd, This forest tamer deck'd. The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees, The stream whose bright lips kiss'd their flowers, The winds that swell'd their harmonies Through those sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast--the green arcade, The nestling vale--the grassy glade, Dark cave and swampy lair; These scenes and sounds majestic, made His world, his pleasures, there. His roof adorn'd a pleasant spot, 'Mid the black logs green glow'd the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not, Throve in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, The low--the bleat--the tinkling bell, All made a landscape strange, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change. The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge, The rose of Summer spread its glow, The maize hung out its Autumn fringe, Rude Winter brought his snow; And still the lone one labour'd there, His shout and whistle woke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side. He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood Roaring and crackling on its path, And scorching earth, and melting wood, Beneath its greedy wrath; He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot, Trampling the pine tree with its foot, And darkening thick the day With streaming bough and sever'd root, Hurl'd whizzing on its way. His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd, The grim bear hush'd his savage growl, In blood and foam the panther gnash'd His fangs, with dying howl; The fleet deer ceas'd its flying bound, Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, And with its moaning cry, The beaver sank beneath the wound Its pond-built Venice by. Humble the lot, yet his the race! When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who throng'd in Conflict's deadliest place, To fight--to bleed--to die. Who cumber'd Bunker's height of red, By hope, through weary years were led, And witness'd York Town's sun Blaze on a Nation's banner spread, A Nation's freedom won. THE WORST. BY W. H. VINING. _Ob_: 1822, _æt._ 28.