My wreathed flowers are few, They may seem as trifles toc- 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! BRAINARD. SALMON RIVER. 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, But yet there's something in its humble rank, There's much in its wild history, that teems 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 slainAnd many a quiver, Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill, Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made Here Philip came, and Miantonimo, And asked about their fortunes long ago, As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show And here the black fox roved, and howled, and shook Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, 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, THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER. 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 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 For once they see his fearful den, 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, The hut is desolate, and there The famished dog alone returns; Now the tired sportsman leans his gun 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. |