Adventure. How gladly would I wander through some strange and savage land, The lasso at my saddle bow, the rifle in my hand, Alone, alone-yet not alone, for God is with me there, 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, -- Or, brushing through the copse, from his leafy home I start 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 savory fare at tranquil eventide,The dappled deer I shot to-day upon the green hillside; My feasted hounds are slumbering round beside the water-course, 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, And straight between his hugging arms I plung my whetted knife, Ha-ha! it splits his iron heart, and drinks the ruby life! Frantic he 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 dewlapp'd 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 help'd us in the fight ! The Song of Sixteen. Who shall guess what I may be? For, bravest and brightest that ever was sung 25 Hope, with her prizes and victories won, All my meadows and hills are green, My heart, my heart within me swells, Rich in the present, though poor in the past, Pleasures are there, like dropping balms, Away with your counsels, and hinder me not, -- Forty. Ab, poor youth! in pitiful truth, What thou shalt be, well have I seen, Haply, within a few swift years, A mind bowed down with troubles and fears, 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, 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, - -It is well. I discern a tear on thy cheek: It is well, thou art humbled, and silent, and meek: Now, courage again! and, with peril to cope, Gird thee with vigor, and helm thee with hope! For life, good youth, hath never an ill Which hope cannot scatter, and faith cannot kill ; And stubborn realities never shall bind The free-spreading wings of a cheerful mind. The Song of Seventy. AM not old, I cannot be old, I am not old; though friends and foes I am not old, I cannot be old, Though tottering, wrinkled and gray : For early memories round me throng, As I look behind on my journey so long, I look behind, and am once more young, And my heart can sing, as of yore it sung, I do not see her, the old wife there But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair, I do not see you, daughters and sons, |