So, with his rustic neighbors sitting down,
  The homespun frock beside the scholar’s gown,
  Pastorius, to the manners of the town

  Added the freedom of the woods, and sought
  The bookless wisdom by experience taught,
  And learned to love his new-found home, while not

  Forgetful of the old; the seasons went
  Their rounds, and somewhat to his spirit lent
  Of their own calm and measureless content.

  Glad even to tears, he heard the robin sing
  His song of welcome to the Western spring,
  And bluebird borrowing from the sky his wing.

  And when the miracle of autumn came,
  And all the woods with many-colored flame
  Of splendor, making summer’s greenness tame,

  Burned unconsumed, a voice without a sound
  Spake to him from each kindled bush around
  And made the strange, new landscape holy ground.

* * * * *

=_Albert Pike, 1809-._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From “Lines on the Rocky Mountains.”

=_376._= THE EVERLASTING HILLS.

  The deep, transparent sky is full
    Of many thousand glittering lights—­
  Unnumbered stars that calmly rule
    The dark dominions of the night. 
  The mild, bright moon has upward risen,
    Out of the gray and boundless plain,
  And all around the white snows glisten,
    Where frost, and ice, and silence, reign,—­
  While ages roll away, and they unchanged remain.

  These mountains, piercing the blue sky
    With their eternal cones of ice,—­
  The torrents dashing from on high,
    O’er rock, and crag, and precipice,—­
  Change not, but still remain as ever,
    Unwasting, deathless, and sublime,
  And will remain while lightnings quiver,
    Or stars the hoary summits climb,
  Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time.

* * * * *

=_Anne C. Lynch Botta._=

From her “Poems.”

=_377._= THE DUMB CREATION.

  Deal kindly with those speechless ones,
    That throng our gladsome earth;
  Say not the bounteous gift of life
    Alone is nothing worth.

  What though with mournful memories
    They sigh not for the past? 
  What though their ever joyous now
    No future overcast.

  No aspirations fill their breast
    With longings undefined;
  They live, they love, and they are blest
    For what they seek they find.

  They see no mystery in the stars,
    No wonder in the plain,
  And Life’s enigma wakes in them,
    No questions dark and vain.

  To them earth is a final home,
    A bright and blest abode;
  Their lives unconsciously flow on
    In harmony with God.

  To this fair world our human hearts
    Their hopes and longings bring,
  And o’er its beauty and its bloom,
    Their own dark shadows fling.