ADVENTURE.

Gird thee, and do thy watching well,
Duty's Christian sentinel!

Sloth and Slumber never had part

In the warrior's will, or the patriot's heart;
Soldier of GOD on an enemy's shore!
Slumber and sloth thrall thee no more.

35

ADVENTURE.

How gladly would I wander through some strange and savage land,

The lasso at my saddle-bow, the rifle in my hand,
A leash of gallant mastiffs bounding by my side,

And, for a friend to love, the noble horse on which I ride!

Alone, alone-yet not alone, for GOD is with me there, The tender hand of Providence shall guide me every

where,

While happy thoughts and holy hopes, as spirits calm and mild,

Shall fan with their sweet wings the hermit-hunter of the wild!

Without a guide,-yet guided well,-young, buoyant, fresh, and free,

Without a road,-yet all the land a highway unto me, Without a care, without a fear, without a grief or pain, Exultingly I thread the woods, or gallop o'er the plain!

Or, brushing through the copse, from his leafy home I

start

The stately elk, or tusky boar, the bison, or the hart,
And then, with eager spur, to scour, away, away,
Nor stop until my dogs have brought the glorious brute
to bay!

Or, if the gang of hungry wolves come yelling on my

track,

I make my ready rifle speak, and scare the cowards back; Or, if the lurking leopard's eyes among the branches

shine,

A touch upon the trigger—and his spotted skin is mine!

And then the hunter's savoury fare at tranquil eventide, The dappled deer I shot to-day upon the green hill-side: My feasted hounds are slumbering round beside the watercourse,

And plenty of sweet prairie-grass for thee, my noble horse,—

Hist! hist! I heard some prowler snarling in the wood; I seized my knife and trusty gun, and face to face we

stood !

The Grizzly Bear came rushing on, and, as he rush'd, he fell!

Hie at him, dogs! my rifle has done its duty well,—

Hie at him, dogs! one bullet cannot kill a foe so grim; The GOD of battles nerve a Man to grapple now with him,—

THE SONG OF SIXTEEN.

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And straight between his hugging arms I plunge my whetted knife,

Ha-ha! it splits his iron heart, and drinks the ruddy life!

Frantic struggles-welling blood-the strife is almost

o'er,

The shaggy monster, feebly panting, wallows in his

gore,

Here, lap it hot, my gallant hounds,-the blood of foes is sweet;

Here, gild withal your dewlapped throats, and wash your brawny feet!

So shall we beard those tyrants in their dens another

day,

Nor tamely wait, with slavish fear, their coming in

the way:

And pleasant thoughts of peace and home shall fill our dreams to-night,

For lo, the GOD of battles has helped us in the fight!

THE SONG OF SIXTEEN.

WHO shall guess what I may be?
Who can tell my fortune to me?

For, bravest and brightest that ever was sung,
May be and shall be—the lot of the young!

Hope, with her prizes and victories won,
Shines in the blaze of my morning sun,
Conquering Hope, with golden ray,
Blessing my landscape far away;

All

my meadows and hills are green,
And rippling waters glance between,-
All my skies are rosy bright,
Laughing in triumph at yesternight :

My heart, my heart within me swells,
Panting, and stirring its hundred wells;—
For youth is a noble seed that springs
Into the flower of heroes and kings!

Rich in the present, though poor in the past,
I yearn for the future, vague and vast;
And lo! what treasure of glorious things
Giant Futurity sheds from his wings;

Pleasures are there, like dropping balms,
And glory and honour with chaplets and palms,
And mind well at ease, and gladness, and health,
A river of peace, and a mine of wealth!

Away with your counsels, and hinder me not,— On, on let me press to my brilliant lot? Young and strong, and sanguine and free, How knowest thou what I may be?

Аí, poor youth! in pitiful truth,

Thy pride must feel a fall, poor youth!
What thou shalt be well have I seen,-
Thou shalt be only what others have been.

Haply, within a few swift years,

A mind bow'd down with troubles and fears,
The commonest drudge of men and things,
Instead of your-conquering heroes and kings;

Haply, to follies an early wreck,—

For the cloud of presumption is now like a speck, And with a whelming, sudden sweep

The storm of temptation roars over the deep;

Lower the sails of pride, rash youth,—

Stand to the lowly tiller of truth;

Quick, or your limber bark shall be

The sport of the winds on a stormy sea!

Care and peril in lieu of joy,

Guilt and dread may be thine, proud boy :

Lo, thy mantling chalice of life

Is foaming with sorrow, and sickness, and strife;

Cheated by pleasure, and sated with pain,-
Watching for honour, and watching in vain,-