The echoes that so boldly rung

When cannon flashed from steep to steep, And Freedom's airy challenge flung, In each romantic valley sleep.

His counsels here our chieftain breathed, Here roved his mild, undaunted eye, When yon lone fort with thickets wreathed, Held captive Britain's gallant spy.

Fit home to rear a nation's youth
By self-control to nerve the will,
Through knowledge gain expansive truth,
And with high aims life's circle fill.

How grateful is the sudden change
From arid pavements to the grass,
From narrow streets that thousands range,
To meadows where June's zephyrs pass!

Beneath the cliffs the river steals
In darksome eddies to the shore,

But midway every sail reveals
Reflected on its crystal floor.

In tranquil mood the cattle walk
Along the verdant marge to feed,
While poised upon the mullein stalk
The chirping red-bird pecks the seed.

Low murmurs in the foliage bred,
The clear horizon's azure line,
Fresh turf elastic to the tread,
And leafy canopies are thine.

WEST POINT.

White fleecy clouds move slowly by,
How cool their shadows fall to-day!
A moment on the hills they lie,

And then like spirits glide away.

Amid the herbage, yesternight

His web the cunning spider threw, And now, as sparkling diamonds bright, It glistens with the pendent dew.

Gay butterflies dart on and sink

O'er the sweet blossoms of the pea, And from the clover's globe of pink Contented hums the downy bee.

In all his varied beauty glows

Deep meaning for the thoughtful heart,
As it were fain to teach repose,
And lofty confidence impart.

How vivid to my fancy now,

Uprise the forms that life redeem!

The ardent eye-the open brow,

And tender smile beside me seem.

For Nature's presence gathers back

The deeds that grace, the loves that cheer,

And as her holy steps we track,

Hope's rainbow breaks through sorrow's tear.

THE LAST LEAF.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,

Not a better man was found

By the Crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has prest

In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said,-
Poor old lady, she is dead

Long ago,

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,-

Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.