A stroll even now upon the 'Beautiful River,' will explain the enthusiasm that led the first bold hunters of the 'Long Knife,' to the forests of the 'Bloody Ground.' Danger was but a cheap price, at which they enjoyed the rich, wild profusion of the West, when it first opened to the admiration of civilized man.

It was my good fortune to see one of these aged sons of the forest, who, in his youth, had loved danger and venison better than Robin Hood; for Kentucky had other rangers than guarded deer in Sherwood Forest. The lands that he had taken in the wilderness now hold a populous city, and have made the fortunes of his countless progeny. He had paid the purchase by instalments, and when the dreaded day of payment approached, he would stroll with his rifle a few hundred miles to shoot an Indian for the bounty on his scalp.

I descended the river as I had hoped to pass through life-suffering no damage from the rapids, and lost in admiration of the beauty of the banks. At Vevay in the county of Swisserland I moored my bark, and have cast anchor for life among a kind and simple race that sing the Ranz des vaches in an adopted country, hallowed by names that remind them of their Alps.

P.

142

BENNETT'S BRIDGE.

BY JOSEPH H. NICHOLS.

This is a wild and picturesque pass of the Housatonic, about twenty miles from its mouth, near the pleasant village of Newtown, Connecticut. The river at this spot, after emerging from a deep gap overhung by bold bluffs, separates, for some distance, into three distinct streams, the banks of which are connected by three lofty bridges in succession. The view in every direction is grand and imposing. The fourth stanza alludes to the crossing of the French army, under Count Rochambeau, at this place, in the war of the Revolution, and which encamped for several days in this vicinity. The very walnut trees beneath which the soldiers and the maids of the village danced, are now standing, green and fruitful as ever.

THOU beautiful, romantic Dell!

Thy banks of hemlock highlands swell,
Like huge sea billows, o'er the isles
Round which the branching river smiles.
Look up! how sombre and how vast
The shadows those dark mountains cast,
Making noon twilight; or, look down
The giddy depths, so steep and brown,
Where claret waters foam and play
A tinkling tune, then dance away.

Oft, with my oak leaf basket green,
On summer holidays serene,
Along your hill-sides have I strayed,
And, on the ground, all scarlet made,

Picked, in full stems, as low I kneeled,
Strawberries, rubies of the field,
Coming late home; or, in the flood,
Cooled the warm current of my blood;
While swam the house-dog after me,
With long red tongue lapt out in glee.

'Tis glorious, here, at breaking day,
To watch the orient clouds of gray
Blush crimson, as the yellow sun
Walks up to take his purple throne,
And melts to snowy mists the dew
That kissed, all night, each blossom's hue,
Till, like a tumbling ocean spread,
They hide low vale and tall cliff's head,
And many a tree's fantastic form

Looks like some tossed ship in a storm.

How still the scene! yet, here war's hum
Once echoed wildly from the drum,
When waved the lily flower's gay bloom
O'er glittering troops with sword and plume,
Who, on the clover meadows round,

Their white tents pitched, while music's sound,
From horn and cymbal, played some strain
That oft had charmed the banks of Seine,
And village girls came down to dance,
At evening, with the youths of France.

Fair was the hour, secluded Dell!
When last I taught my listening shell,

Sweet notes of thee. The bright moon shone,

As, on the shore, I mused alone,

And frosted rocks, and streams, and tree,

With rays that beamed, like eyes, on me.

144

A silver robe the mountains hung,
A silver song the waters sung,

And many a pine was heard to quiver,
Along my own blue-flowing river.

TO THE ICE MOUNTAIN.

BY JAMES 0. ROCKWELL.

GRAVE of waters gone to rest !
Jewel, dazzling all the main !
Father of the silver crest!

Wandering on the trackless plain,
Sleeping mid the wavy roar,
Sailing mid the angry storm,
Ploughing ocean's oozy floor,
Piling to the clouds thy form!

Wandering monument of rain,
Prisoned by the sullen north!
But to melt thy hated chain,

Is it, that thou comest forth?
Wend thee to the sunny south,
To the glassy summer sea,
And the breathings of her mouth
Shall unchain and gladden thee!

Roamer in the hidden path,

'Neath the green and clouded wave! Trampling, in thy reckless wrath, On the lost, but cherished brave;

FIRST MEETING OF THE OLD AND NEW WORLD.

Parting love's death-linked embrace-
Crushing beauty's skeleton-

Tell us what the hidden race

With our mourned lost have done!

Floating Sleep! who in the sun
Art an icy coronal;

And, beneath the viewless dun,
Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall;
Shining Death upon the sea!

Wend thee to the southern main;
Bend to God thy melting knee,
Mingle with the wave again!

FIRST MEETING OF THE OLD AND NEW WORLD.

1492.

BY MRS SIGOURNEY.

145

SHE comes! she comes! with her white sails spread,
With her banners proudly streaming,

With a haughty brow, and an eye of dread,
Through its darkened fringes beaming.

And who is she, mid these island shades,
Unshielded from wrong or danger,

Who hastes from the depth of her forest glades
To welcome the stately stranger?

Her glance heeds not the gathering storm;
In its simple joy it blesses,