In climes of the east has the olive been sung,

And the grape been the theme of their lays; But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be strung, Thou bright, ever beautiful maize !

Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise,

And send up their pillars of smoke,

And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies, O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak;

At length Indian summer, the lovely, doth come, With its blue frosty nights, and days still, When distinctly clear sounds the waterfall's hum, And the sun smokes ablaze on the hill!

A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood,
And the hills are all mellowed in haze,
While Fall, creeping on like a monk 'neath his hood
Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize.

The axe till the old giant sways,

And echo repeats every blow as it rings,
Shoots the green and the glorious maize !
There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first,
And the willow's gold hair then appears,
And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst
By the red bud, with pink-tinted tears.
And striped the bolls which the poppy holds up
For the dew, and the sun's yellow rays,

And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossoming cup,
In the wood, near the sun-loving maize!

When through the dark soil the bright steel of the

plough

Turns the mould from its unbroken bed

Where the treasure securely we hold,

Housed safe from the tempest, dry-sheltered away,

Our blessing more precious than gold! And long from this manna that springs from the sod Shall we gratefully give him the praise, The source of all bounty, our Father and God, Who sent us from heaven the maize !

And the blackbird doth follow his tread.
And idle, afar on the landscape descried,
The deep-lowing kine slowly graze,
And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside
Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize.
With spring-time and culture, in martial array
It waves its green broadswords on high,
And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray,

And the sunbeams, which fail from the sky;

It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at noon,
And at night at the swift-flying fays,

Who ride through the darkness the beams of the

moon,

Through the spears and the flags of the maize !

When the summer is fierce still its banners are green, Each warrior's long beard groweth red,

It carried a shiver everywhere

From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;
The little brook heard it and built a roof
'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
He groined his arches and matched his beams;
Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars :
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight;
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt,
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees,
Bending to counterfeit a breeze;
Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew
But silvery mosses that downward grew
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief

And golden his tassel-plumed head.

Sometimes it was simply smooth aud clear

And, revived every morn from the battle that's fought, Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize !

But brown comes the autumn, and sear grows the corn,

And the woods like a rainbow are dressed,
And but for the cock and the noontide horn
Old time would be tempted to rest.
The humming bee fans off a shower of gold
From the mullein's long rod as it sways,
And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold
The ears of the well-ripened maize !

He had caught the nodding bulrush tops
And hung them thickly with diamond drops,
Which crystalled the beams of moon and sun,
And made a star of every one.

Within the hall are song and laughter,

The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter

With the lightsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind;

THREE SUMMER STUDIES.

MORNING.

HE cock has crowed. I hear the doors unbarred;

Down to the grass-grown porch my way I
take,

And hear, beside the well within the yard,
Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake,
And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen-all
Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call.
The dew is thick upon the velvet grass,

The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops,
And as the cattle from the enclosure pass,

Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops
The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load,
Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road.
A humid polish is on all the leaves-

The birds flit in and out with varied notes,
The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves,
A partridge whistle through the garden floats,
While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries,
As red and gold flush all the eastern skies.

Up comes the sun! Through the dense leaves a spot
Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the brecze
Which late made leafy music, dies; the day grows hot,
And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees:
The burnished river like a sword-blade shines,
Save where 't is shadowed by the solemn pines.

NOON.

Over the farm is brooding silence now—

No reaper's song, no raven's clangor harsh, No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cow,

No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh,
No bragging cock from littered farmyard crows,—
The scene is steeped in silence and repose.

A trembling haze hangs over all the fields
The panting cattle in the river stand,
Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields;
It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy land;
So hushed is all beneath the summer's spell,
I pause and listen for some faint church-bell.

The leaves are motionless, the song-birds mute;
The very air seems somnolent and sick :
The spreading branches with o'er-ripened fruit
Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick,
While now and then a mellow apple falls
With a dull thud within the orchard's walls.

The sky has but one solitary cloud

Like a dark island in a sea of light;

The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed
Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight,
While over yonder road a dusty haze

Grows luminous beneath the sun's fierce blaze.

EVENING.

That solitary cloud grows dark and wide,
While distant thunder rumbles in the air-
A fitful ripple break's the river's tide-

The lazy cattle are no longer there,
But homeward come, in long procession slow,
With many a bleat and many a plaintive low.
Darker and wider spreading o'er the west,

Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form,
And mirrored turrets on the river's breast,

Tell in advance the coming of a stormCloser and brighter glares the lightning's flash, And louder, nearer sounds the thunder's crash. The air of evening is intensely hot,

The breeze feels heated as it fans my browsNow sullen rain-drops patter down like shot, Strike in the grass, or rattle mid the boughs. A sultry lull, and then a gust again— And now I see the thick advancing rain!

It fairly hisses as it drives along,

And where it strikes breaks up in silvery spray

As if 't were dancing to the fitful song

Made by the trees, which twist themselves and sway
In contest with the wind, that rises fast
Until the breeze becomes a furious blast.

And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled,
The clouds lie piled up in the splendid west,
In massive shadow tipped with purplish red,
Crimson or gold. The scene is one of rest;
And on the bosom of yon still lagoon

I see the crescent of the pallid moon.

JAMES BARRON Hope.

A SNOW-STORM.

SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER.

IS a fearful night in the winter time,

As cold as it ever can be ;

The roar of the blast is heard like the chime
Of the waves on an angry sea.

The moon is full; but her silver light
The storm dashes out with its wings to-night;
And over the sky from south to north
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth
In the strength of a mighty glee.

All day had the snow come down-all day
As it never came down before;
And over the hills, at sunset, lay

Some two or three feet, or more;
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone;
The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone;
The haystack had grown to a mountain lift,
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift,
As it lay by the farmer's door.

The night sets in on a world of snow,

While the air grows sharp and chill, And the warning roar of a fearful blow

Is heard on the distant hill;

And the norther, see! on the mountain peak

In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek!

He shouts on the plain, ho-ho! ho-ho!

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow,
And growls with a savage will.

Such a night as this to be found abroad,

In the drifts and the freezing air,

Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair.

He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls; He lifts his head, and moans and howls; Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, His nose is pressed on his quivering feet

Pray, what does the dog do there?

A farmer came from the village plain-
But he lost the traveled way;

And for hours he trod with might and main
A path for his horse and sleigh;

But colder still the cold winds blew,
And deeper still the deep drifts grew,
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,
At last in her struggles floundered down,
Where a log in a nollow lay.

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,
She plunged in the drifting snow,

While her master urged, till his breath grew short,
With a word and a gentle blow;

But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; His hands were numb and had lost their might; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, And strove to shelter himself till day,

With his coat and the buffalo.

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, To rouse up his dying steed;

And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain,
For help in his master's need.

For a while he strives with a wistful cry
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye,
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,

And whines when he takes no heed.

The wind goes down and the storm is o'er-
'T is the hour of midnight, past;
The old trees writhe and bend no more
In the whirl of the rushing blast.
The silent moon with her peaceful light
Looks down on the hills with snow all white,
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump,
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump,
Afar on the plain are cast.

But cold and dead by the hidden log

Are they who came from the town-
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,
And his beautiful Morgan brown-

In the wide snow desert, far and grand,

With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand—
The dog with his nose on his master's feet,

And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet,
Where she lay when she floundered down.

CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.

VIEW FROM THE EUGANEAN HILLS,* NORTH
ITALY.

ANY a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on
Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his dreary way,
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel's track;
Whilst above, the sunless sky,
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
And behind, the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,
Riving sail and cord and plank
Till the ship has almost drank

Death from the o'erbrimming deep;
And sinks down, down, like that sleep
When the dreamer seems to be
Weltering through eternity;

And the dim low line before
Of a dark and distant shore
Still recedes, as, ever still,
Longing with divided will,
But no power to seek or shun,
He is ever drifted on
O'er the unreposing wave
To the haven of the grave.

Ay, many flowering islands lie
In the waters of wide agony :
To such a one this morn was led
My bark, by soft winds piloted.
-Mid the mountains Euganean

I stood listening to the pœan
With which the legioned rooks did han
The sun's uprise majestical:
Gathering round with wings all hoar,
Through the dewy mist they soar

Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even,
Flecked with fire and azure, lie

In the unfathomable sky,

So their plumes of purple grain,

Starred with drops of golden rain,

*The lonely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch.

Gleam above the sunlight woods,
As in silent multitudes

On the morning's fitful gale,
Through the broken mist they sail;
And the vapors cloven and gleaming
Follow, down the dark steep streaming,
Till all is bright and clear and still
Round the solitary hill.

Beneath is spread like a green sea
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair;
Underneath day's azure eyes,
Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies-
A peopled labyrinth.of walls,
Amphitrite's destined halls,
Which her hoary sire now paves
With his blue and beaming waves.
Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
Broad, red, radiant, half reclined
On the level quivering line
Of the waters crystalline ;
And before that chasm of light,
As within a furnace bright,

Column, tower, and dome, and spire
Shine like obelisks of fire,
Pointing with inconstant motion
From the altar of dark ocean
To the sapphire-tinted skies;
As the flames of sacrifice

From the marble shrines did rise,
As to pierce the dome of gold
Where Apollo spoke of old.

Sun-girt city! thou hast been
Ocean's child, and then his queen;
Now is come a darker day,
And thou soon must be his prey,
If the power that raised thee here
Hallow so thy watery bier.
A less drear ruin then than now,
With thy conquest-branded brow
Stooping to the slave of slaves
From thy throne among the waves,
Wilt thou be when the sea-mew
Flies, as once before it flew,
O'er thine isles depopulate,
And all is in its ancient state,
Save where many a palace-gate
With green sea-flowers overgrown
Like a rock of ocean's own,
Topples o'er the abandoned sea
As the tides change sullenly.
The fisher on his watery way
Wandering at the close of day
Will spread his sail and seize his oar
Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
Bursting o'er the starlight deep,

Lead a rapid mask of death
O'er the waters of his path.

Noon descends around me now;
'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
When a soft and purple mist,
Like a vaporous amethyst,
Or an air-dissolved star,

Mingling light and fragrance, far
From the curved horizon's bound
To the point of heaven's profound,
Fills the overflowing sky;

And the plains that silent lie
Underneath; the leaves unsodden
Where the infant frost has trodden
With his morning-wingèd feet,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
And the red and golden vines,
Piercing with their trellised lines
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing from this hoary tower
In the windless air; the flower
Glimmering at my feet; the line
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine
In the south dimly islanded;

And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun ;
And of living things each one;

And my spirit, which so long
Darkened this swift dream of song-
Interpenetrated lie

By the glory of the sky;
Be it love, light, harmony,
Odor, or the soul of all

Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
Or the mind which feeds this verse
Peopling the lone universe.

Noon descends, and after noon
Autumn's evening meets me soon,
Leading the infantine moon
And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister
Half the crimson light she brings
From the sunset's radiant springs;
And the soft dreams of the morn
(Which like winged winds had borne
To that silent isle, which lies
Mid remembered agonies,
The frail bark of this lone being)
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
And its ancient pilot, pain,
Sits beside the helm again.

Other flowering isles must be
In the sea of life and agony ;
Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulf; even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,