Beautiful blossom! first to rise
And smile beneath Spring's wakening skies.
The courier of the band
Of coming flowers, what feelings sweet
Gush, as the silvery gem we meet
Upon its slender wand.
A sudden roar-a shade is cast-
We look up with a start,
And, sounding like a transient blast,
O'erhead the pigeons dart;
Scarce their blue glancing shapes the eye
Can trace, ere, dotted on the sky,
They wheel in distant flight.
A chirp and swift the squirrel scours
Along the prostrate trunk, and cowers
Within its clefts from sight.
Amid the creeping vine, which spreads
Its thick and verdant wreath,
The scaurberry's downy spangle sheds
Its rich, delicious breath.
The bee-swarm murmurs by, and now
It clusters black on yonder bough:
The robin's mottled breast
Glances that sunny spot across,
As round it seeks the twig and moss
To frame its summer nest.
Warmer is each successive sky,
More soft the breezes pass,
The maple's gems of crimson lie
Upon the thick green grass.
The dogwood sheds its clusters white,
The birch has dropp'd its tassels slight,
Cowslips are round the rill;
The thresher whistles in the glen,
Flutters around the warbling wren,
And swamps have voices shrill.
A A
A simultaneous burst of leaves
Has clothed the forest now,
A single day's bright sunshine weaves
This vivid, gorgeous show.
Masses of shade are cast beneath,
The flowers are spread in varied wreath,
Night brings its soft, sweet moon;
Morn wakes in mist, and twilight gray
Weeps its bright dew, and smiling May
Melts into blooming June!
OH! fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me,
As green,
and as wide, and as wild as the sea!
Its bosom of velvet the summer winds ride,
And rank grass is waving in billowy pride.
The city's a prison too narrow for thee
Then away to the prairies so boundless and free! Where the sight is not check'd till the prairie and skies,
In harmony blending, commingle their dyes.
The fawns in the meadow-fields fearlessly play-
Away to the chase, lovely maiden, away!
Bound, bound to thy courser, the bison is near!
And list to the tramp of the light-footed deer.
Let England exult in her dogs and her chase-
Oh! what's a king's park to this limitless space?
No fences to leap and no thickets to turn,
No owners to injure, no furrows to spurn.
But, softly as thine on the carpeted hall,
Is heard the light foot of the courser to fall;
And close matted grass no impression receives,
As ironless hoofs bound aloft from the leaves.
Oh, fly to the prairie! the eagle is there :
He gracefully wheels in the cloud-speckled air;
And timidly hiding her delicate young,
The prairie-hen hushes her beautiful song.
Oh, fly to the prairie, sweet maiden, with me!
The vine and the prairie-rose blossom for thee
And, hailing the moon in the prairie-propp'd sky,
The mocking-bird echoes the katydid's cry.
Let Mexicans boast of their herds and their steeds,
The free prairie-hunter no shepherd-boy needs;
The bison, like clouds, overshadow the place,
And the wild spotted coursers invite to the chase.
The citizen picks at his turtle and fowls,
And stomachless over his fricassee growls :
We track the wild turkey; the rifle supplies
The food for the board and the stomach to prize.
The farmer may boast of his grass and his grain-
He sows them in labour, and reaps them in pain;
But here the deep soil no exertion requires,
Enrich'd by the ashes, and clear'd by the fires.
Then fly to the prairie in wonder, and gaze,
As sweeps o'er the grass the magnificent blaze;
The world cannot boast more romantic a sight-
A continent flaming, and oceans of light!
The woodman delights in his trees and his shade-
But see! there's no sun on the cheek of his maid;
His flowers are faded, his blossoms are pale,
And mildew is riding his vapoury gale.
Then fly to the prairie! no bush to obscure,
No marsh to exhale, and no ague to cure.
Translucent and fresh comes the grass-scented
Unchill'd by the mountain, unbroken by trees.
Sublime from the north he descends in his wrath,
And scatters the reeds in his snow-cover'd path;
Or, loaded with incense, steals in from the west,
As bees from the prairie-rose fly to their nest.
Oh, fly to the prairie! for freedom is there!
Love lights not that home with the torch of despair!
No wretch to entreat, and no lord to deny,
No gossips to slander, no neighbour to pry.
But struggling not there the heart's impulse to hide,
Love leaps like the fount from the crystal-rock side,
And strong as its adamant, pure as its spring,
Waves wildly in sunbeams his rose-colour'd wing.
THERE'S beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high
And manly beauty of the Roman mould,
And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye
Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold;
Of passions scathed not by the blight of time;
Ambition, that survives the battle route.
The man within thee scorns to play the mime
To gaping crowds that compass thee about.
Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side,
Wrapp'd in fierce hate, and high, unconquer'd pride.
Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet-
Vanquish'd and captive-dost thou deem that here,
The glowing daystar of thy glory set-
Dull night has closed upon thy bright career?
Old forest lion, caught and caged at last,
Dost pant to roan again thy native wild?
To gloat upon the lifeblood flowing fast
Of thy crush'd victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers,
And kill, old Turk! thy harmless, pale-faced broth
For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter
The dovecotes of the peaceful pioneers,
To let thy tribe commit such fierce and utter
Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers.
Though thine be old, hereditary hate,
Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until
It had become a madness, 'tis too late
To crush the hordes who have the power and will To rob thee of thy hunting-grounds and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.
Spite of thy looks of cold indifference,
[wonder; There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense
The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and widespread wings, That sweep the waters as birds sweep the sky; Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or, if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion ?
Thou'st seen our museums, beheld the dummies
That grin in darkness in their coffin cases;
What think'st thou of the art of making mummies,
So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?
Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage
Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage, Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd Pass in a moment from a king-to clown. [down,
Thou see'st these things unmoved! say'st so, old
Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daugh
Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow By a sly cup or so of our fire-waters ?
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