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, 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 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 Hope, with her prizes and victories won, All my meadows and hills are green, Laughing in triumph at yester-night : 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. Ан, poor youth! in pitiful truth, 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; The sport of the winds on a stormy sea. Care and peril in lieu of joy, Guilt and dread may be thine, proud boy : 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: 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. |