THE BEAUTIFUL RIVER.

AN old, familiar friend! I saw the flow

Of wayward Wabash to Ohio's flood,

Long leagues away from where I learned to know
And love the stream; and on its banks I stood
As friend meets friend in some familiar wood,
Its ripples, wrought to flecks of ashy foam;
Its bright, clay-tinted waves; its finny brood;
And even the shells half-buried in the loam,
All came to me like welcome messages from home.

Here meet and mingle genially in one
The Wabash with Ohio's silver wave.
The Beautiful River! How its waters run,
Inspiring joy and plenty as they lave
The smiling land they irrigate to save.

-

The Beautiful River! — gentle, clear, and bright,
Beloved now as when the ancient brave
Propelled his swift canoe athwart the light,
Where gorgeous palace boats now break upon

the sight.

Green islands gem the bosom of the stream;
Their sandy slopes beneath the waters dip;
And on the wooded banks the sunbeams gleam,
Reflected in the dew-drops as they drip

From oaks and elms, and clinging vines that grip
The leafy boughs with loving tendrils strong;
The trumpet-flowers smile with ruddy lip;
The mistletoe extends the boughs along,

And wooes the graceful jay-bird's hoarse but cheerful song.

Edward Reynolds.

THE OHIO.

LOW on, thou glorious river,

FLOW

Thy mountain-shores between,

To where the Mexique's stormy waves

Dash on savannas green.

Flow on, between the forests

That bend above thy side,

And 'neath the sky and stars, that lie
Mirrored within thy tide.

High in the distant mountains

Thy first small fountains gush,

And down the steep, through the ravine,

In shallow rills they rush;
Till in the level valley,

To which the hills descend,

Converging from the summits, meet

The thousand rills, and blend.

And soon the narrow mountain stream, O'er which a child might leap,

Holds on its course with a giant's force,

In a channel broad and deep.

High up among the mountains,

The fisher boy is seen,

Alone and lounging in the shade,

Along the margin green;

And not a sound disturbs him, save
A squirrel or a bird,

Or on the autumn leaves the noise
"Of dropping nuts is heard."
But here the city crowds upon
The freedom of the wave,
And many a happy village bank
Thy flowing waters lave.
Upon thy tranquil bosom floats
An empire's burdened keels,
And every tributary stream
An empire's wealth reveals.

Flow on, thou mighty river!
High-road of nations, flow!

And thou shalt flow, when all the woods

Upon thy sides are low.

Yes, thou shalt flow eternally,

Though on thy peopled shore

The rising town and dawning state

Should sink to rise no more.

USTY and raw was the morning,
A fog hung over the seas,

And its gray skirts, rolling inland,
Were torn by the mountain trees;

No sound was heard but the dashing
Of waves on the sandy bar,
When Pablo of San Diego

Rode down to the Paso del Mar.

The pescador, out in his shallop,
Gathering his harvest so wide,
Sees the dim bulk of the headland

Loom over the waste of the tide;
He sees, like a white thread, the pathway
Wind round on the terrible wall,
Where the faint, moving speck of the rider
Seems hovering close to its fall.

Stout Pablo of San Diego

Rode down from the hills behind; With the bells on his gray mule tinkling He sang through the fog and wind. Under his thick, misted eyebrows Twinkled his eye like a star,

And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds
Drove cold on the Paso del Mar.

Now Bernal, the herdsman of Chino,
Had travelled the shore since dawn,

Leaving the ranches behind him,

Good reason had he to be gone! The blood was still red on his dagger, The fury was hot in his brain,

And the chill, driving scud of the breakers Beat thick on his forehead in vain.

With his poncho wrapped gloomily round him,

He mounted the dizzying road,

And the chasms and steeps of the headland
Were slippery and wet, as he trod :
Wild swept the wind of the ocean,
Rolling the fog from afar,

When near him a mule-bell came tinkling,
Midway on the Paso del Mar.

"Back!" shouted Bernal, full fiercely,

And "

Back!" shouted Pablo, in wrath,
As his mule halted, startled and shrinking,
On the perilous line of the path.
The roar of devouring surges

Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; And, “Back, or you perish!" cried Bernal, "I turn not on Paso del Mar!"

The gray mule stood firm as the headland :
He clutched at the jingling rein,
When Pablo rose up in his saddle

And smote till he dropped it again.
A wild oath of passion swore Bernal,
And brandished his dagger, still red,
While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward,
And fought o'er his trusty mule's head.

They fought till the black wall below them
Shone red through the misty blast;
Stout Pablo then struck, leaning farther,
The broad breast of Bernal at last.