قراءة كتاب The New-York Book of Poetry
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 7
herbs and plants the woods knew not, Throve in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, The low—the bleat—the tinkling bell, All made a landscape strange, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change.
The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge, The rose of Summer spread its glow, The maize hung out its Autumn fringe, Rude Winter brought his snow; And still the lone one labour'd there, His shout and whistle woke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side.
He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood Roaring and crackling on its path, And scorching earth, and melting wood, Beneath its greedy wrath; He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot, Trampling the pine tree with its foot, And darkening thick the day With streaming bough and sever'd root, Hurl'd whizzing on its way.
His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd, The grim bear hush'd his savage growl, In blood and foam the panther gnash'd His fangs, with dying howl; The fleet deer ceas'd its flying bound, Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, And with its moaning cry, The beaver sank beneath the wound Its pond-built Venice by.
Humble the lot, yet his the race! When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who throng'd in Conflict's deadliest place, To fight—to bleed—to die. Who cumber'd Bunker's height of red, By hope, through weary years were led, And witness'd York Town's sun Blaze on a Nation's banner spread, A Nation's freedom won.
THE WORST.
BY W. H. VINING.
Ob: 1822, æt. 28.