'Twas duskish down below; but all These hills stood in the sun,

Till, dipped behind yon purple wall, He left them, one by one.

"A lady, who, from Thornton hill, Had held her place outside,

And, as a pleasant woman will,

Had cheered the long, dull ride,

Besought me, with so sweet a smile, That-though I hate delays

I could not choose but rest awhile

(These women have such ways!)

"On yonder mossy ledge she sat,
Her sketch upon her knees,
A stray brown lock beneath her hat
Unrolling in the breeze;

Her sweet face, in the sunset light

Upraised and glorified,

I never saw a prettier sight

In all my mountain ride.

"As good as fair; it seemed her joy
To comfort and to give;

My poor, sick wife, and cripple boy,
Will bless her while they live!"

The tremor in the driver's tone

His manhood did not shame :

"I dare say, sir, you may have known He named a well-known nam ̧.

Then sank the pyramidal mounds,

The blue lake fled away;

For mountain-scope a parlor's bounds,

A lighted hearth for day!

And lonely years and weary miles

Did at that name depart;

Kind voices cheered, sweet human smiles

Shone warm into my heart.

We journeyed on; but earth and sky

Had power to charm no more;

Still dreamed my inward-turning eye

The dream of memory o'er.

Ah! human kindness, human love –

To few who seek denied

Too late we learn to prize above

The whole round world beside!

ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL

FROM LAKE SUPERIOR.

ALL day the darkness and the cold

Upon my heart have lain,

Like shadows on the winter sky,
Like frost upon the pane;

But now my torpid fancy wakes,
And, on thy Eagle's plume,

Rides forth, like Sinbad on his bird,
Or witch upon her broom!

Below me roar the rocking pines,

Before me spreads the lake,

Whose long and solemn-sounding waves

Against the sunset break.

I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh

The grain he has not sown;

I see, with flashing scythe of fire,

The prairie harvest mown!

I hear the far-off voyager's horn;

I see the Yankee's trail.

His foot on every mountain-pass,
On every stream his sail.

By forest, lake and water-fall,
I see his pedler show;

The mighty mingling with the mean,

The lofty with the low.

He's whittling by St. Mary's Falls,

Upon his loaded wain;

He's measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks,
With eager eyes of gain.

I hear the mattock in the mine,
The axe-stroke in the dell,

The clamor from the Indian lodge,
The Jesuit chapel bell'

I see the swarthy trappers come

From Mississippi's springs;

And war-chiefs, with their painted brows,

And crests of eagle wings.