"Thou weary huntsman," thus it said, "Thou faint with toil and heat, The pleasant land of rest is spread Before thy very feet, And those whom thou wouldst gladly see Are waiting there to welcome thee."

He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, Amid the noontide haze, A shadowy region met his eye, And grew beneath his gaze, As if the vapors of the air Had gathered into shapes so fair.

Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers Showed bright on rocky bank, And fountains welled beneath the bowers, Where deer and pheasant drank.

He saw the glittering streams, he heard The rustling bough and twittering bird.

And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear There lived and walked again, And there was one who many a year Within her grave had lain, A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride-- His heart was breaking when she died:

Bounding, as was her wont, she came Right toward his resting-place, And stretched her hand and called his name With that sweet smiling face.

Forward with fixed and eager eyes, The hunter leaned in act to rise:

Forward he leaned, and headlong down Plunged from that craggy wall; He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown, An instant, in his fall; A frightful instant--and no more, The dream and life at once were o'er.

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS.

I.

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 winged 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 pa.s.s 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 horned 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 sh.o.r.e, 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.

Here once a child, a smiling playful one, All the day long caressing and caressed, Died when its little tongue had just begun To lisp the names of those it loved the best.

The father strove his struggling grief to quell, The mother wept as mothers use to weep, Two little sisters wearied them to tell When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep.

Within an inner room his couch they spread, His funeral-couch; with mingled grief and love, They laid a crown of roses on his head, And murmured, "Brighter is his crown above."

They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, Laburnum's strings of sunny-colored gems, Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet, And orange-blossoms on their dark-green stems.

And now the hour is come, the priest is there; Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go, With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, To lay the little one in earth below.

The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play; The little sisters laugh and leap, and try To climb the bed on which the infant lay.

And there he sits alive, and gayly shakes In his full hands the blossoms red and white, And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes From long deep slumbers at the morning light.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave-- Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry, Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year, A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.