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 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?
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!

25

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 yester-night:

My heart, my heart within me swells,
Panting, and strring 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 honor 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 ?

--

Forty.

Ab, poor youth! in pitiful truth,
Thy pride must feel à 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 bowed 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 honor, and watching in vain, -
Aching in heart, and ailing in head,
Wearily earning daily bread.

-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,
Though threescore years and ten
Have wasted away, like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men :

I am not old; though friends and foes
Alike have gone to their graves,
And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves.

I am not old, I cannot be old,

Though tottering, wrinkled and gray :
Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold,
Call me not old to-day.

For early memories round me throng,
Old times, and manners, and men,

As I look behind on my journey so long,
Of threescore miles and ten;

I look behind, and am once more young,
Buoyant, and brave, and bold,

And my heart can sing, as of yore it sung,
Before they called me old.

I do not see her, the old wife there
Shrivelled, and haggard, and gray,

But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair,
As she was on her wedding day!

I do not see you, daughters and sons,
In the likeness of women and men,
But I kiss you now as I kissed you once,
My fond little children then :