THE FOUNTAIN.

[On the declivity of a hill, in Salisbury, Essex county, is a beautiful fountain of clear water, gushing out from the very roots of a majestic and venerable oak. It is about two miles from the junction of the Powow river with the Merrimack.]

TRAVELLER

on thy journey toiling

By the swift Powow,

With the summer sunshine falling

On thy heated brow,

Listen, while all else is still

To the brooklet from the hill.

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing

By that streamlet's side,

And a greener verdure showing

Where its waters glide

Down the hill-slope murmuring on,

Over root and mossy stone.

Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth

O'er the sloping hill,

Beautiful and freshly springeth

That soft-flowing rill,

Through its dark roots wreath'd and bare,

Gushing up to sun and air.

Waters which the proud Castilian
Sought with longing eyes,
Underneath the bright pavilion
Of the Indian skies;

Where his forest pathway lay
Through the blooms of Florida.

Years ago a lonely stranger,
With the dusky brow
Of the outcast forest-ranger,
Crossed the swift Powow;
And betook him to the rill,
And the oak upon the hill.

O'er his face of moody sadness
For an instant shone

Something like a gleam of gladness,

As he stooped him down
To the fountain's grassy side

And his eager thirst supplied.

With the oak its shadow throwing

O'er his mossy seat,

And the cool, sweet waters flowing

Softly at his feet,

Closely by the fountain's rim

That lone Indian seated him.

Autumn's earliest frost had given

To the woods below

Hues of beauty, such as Heaven
Lendeth to its bow;

And the soft breeze from the west
Scarcely broke their dreamy rest.

Far behind was Ocean striving
With his chains of sand;
Southward, sunny glimpses giving,

"Twixt the swells of land,

*De Soto, in the sixteenth century, penetrated into the wilds of the new world

in search of gold and the fountain of perpetual youth.

Of its calm and silvery track,
Rolled the tranquil Merrimack.

Over village, wood and meadow,
Gazed that stranger man
Sadly, till the twilight shadow
Over all things ran,

Save where spire and westward pane
Flashed the sunset back again.

Gazing thus upon the dwelling

Of his warrior sires,

Where no lingering trace was telling
Of their wigwam fires,

Who the gloomy thoughts might know
Of that wandering child of woe?

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing,
Hills that once had stood

Down their sides the shadows throwing

Of a mighty wood,

Where the deer his covert kept,

And the eagle's pinion swept!

Where the birch canoe had glided
Down the swift Powow,

Dark and gloomy bridges strided

Those clear waters now;

And where once the beaver swam,

Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam.

For the wood-bird's merry singing,

And the hunter's cheer,

Iron clang and hammer's ringing

Smote upon his ear;

And the thick and sullen smoke

From the blackened forges broke.

Could it be, his fathers ever,

Loved to linger here?

These bare hills - this conquer'd river

Could they hold them dear,

THE EXILES.

[THE incidents upon which the following ballad has its foundation, occurred about the year 1660. Thomas Macey was one of the first, if not the first white settler of Nantucket. A quaint description of his singular and perilous voyage, in his own hand-writing, is still preserved.]

THE goodman sat beside his door

One sultry afternoon,

With his young wife singing at his side

An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air,-
The dark green woods were still;
And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud
Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast, arose that cloud

Above the wilderness,

As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.

At times, the solemn thunder pealed,
And all was still again,

Save a low murmur in the air
Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
A weary stranger came,

And stood before the farmer's door,

With travel soiled and lame.