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My wreathed flowers are few,
Yet no fairer drink the dew,

My bonny Mary Lee !
They may seem as trifles too-

Not, I hope, to thee.
Some may boast a richer prize
Under pride and wealth's disguise;
None a fonder offering bore

Than this of mine to thee; And can true love wish for more ?

Surely not, Mary Lee!



Hic viridis tenera prætexit arundine ripas

'Tis a sweet stream—and so, 'tis true, are all
That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl
Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall,

Pursue their way
By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood,
By rock, that since the Deluge fixed has stood,
Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood

By night and day.

But yet there's something in its humble rank,
Something in its pure wave and sloping bank,
Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank

With unscared look:
There's much in its wild history, that teems
With all that's superstitious—and that seems
To match our fancy and eke out our dreams,

In that small brook.

Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain,
And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain ;
The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain-
And many a quiver,

Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill,
Has spent itself in carnage.

Now 'tis still,
And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill

From Salmon River.

Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made
Their spells by moonlight; or beneath the shade
That shrouds sequestered rock, or darkening glade,

Or tangled dell.
Here Philip came, and Miantonimo,
And asked about their fortunes long ago,
As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show

Old Samuel

And here the black fox roved, and howled, and shook
His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook

For earthly fox;
Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear,
And his soft peltry, stript and dressed, to wear,
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair

Transfer him to a box.

Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme
About a little and unnoticed stream,
That few have heard of—but it is a theme

I chance to love;
And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed,
And whistle to the note of many a deed
Done on this river-which, if there be need,

I'll try to prove.


How cold, how beautiful, how bright,

The cloudless heaven above us shines ; But 'tis a howling winter's night,

'Twould freeze the very forest pines !

“The winds are up, while mortals sleep;

The stars look forth when eyes are shut; The bolted snow lies drifted deep

Around our poor and lonely hut.

“With silent step and listening ear,

With bow and arrow, dog and gun, We'll mark his track, for his prowl we hear,

Now is our time !--come on, come on!"

O'er many a fence, through many a wood,

Following the dog's bewildered scent, In anxious haste and earnest mood,

The Indian and the white man went.

The gun is cocked, the bow is bent,

The dog stands with uplifted paw, And ball and arrow swift are sent,

Aimed at the prowler's very jaw.

'The ball, to kill that fox, is run

Not in a mould by mortals made ! The arrow which that fox should shun

Was never shaped from earthly reed !

The Indian Druids of the wood

Know where the fatal arrows grow-They spring not by the summer flood, They pierce not through the winter snow ! Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose

Was never once deceived till now? And why, amid the chilling snows,

Does either hunter wipe his brow?

For once they see his fearful den,

"Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves By night around the homes of men,

By day—along the stream it loves.

Again the dog is on his track,

The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, They may not, though they would, look back,

They must go forward-forward still.

Onward they go, and never turn,

Spending a night that meets no day; For them shall never morning sun

Light them upon their endless way.

The hut is desolate, and there

The famished dog alone returns; On the cold steps he makes his lair,

By the shut door he lays his bones.

Now the tired sportsman leans his gun

Against the ruins of the site, And ponders on the hunting done

By the lost wanderers of the night.

And there the little country girls

Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, And tell, while dressing their sunny curls,

Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook.

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