Forward he leaned, and headlong down
  Plunged from that craggy wall;
He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown,
  An instant, in his fall;
A frightful instant—­and no more,
The dream and life at once were o’er.

The green mountain boys. deg.

I.

Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent
  On the rugged forest ground,
And light our fire with the branches rent
  By winds from the beeches round. 
Wild storms have torn this ancient wood,
  But a wilder is at hand,
With hail of iron and rain of blood,
  To sweep and waste the land.

II.

How the dark wood rings with voices shrill,
  That startle the sleeping bird;
To-morrow eve must the voice be still,
  And the step must fall unheard. 
The Briton lies by the blue Champlain,
  In Ticonderoga’s towers,
And ere the sun rise twice again,
  The towers and the lake are ours.

III.

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides
  Where the fireflies light the brake;
A ruddier juice the Briton hides
  In his fortress by the lake. 
Build high the fire, till the panther leap
  From his lofty perch in flight,
And we’ll strenghten our weary arms with sleep
  For the deeds of to-morrow night.

A PRESENTIMENT.

“Oh father, let us hence—­for hark,
  A fearful murmur shakes the air. 
The clouds are coming swift and dark:—­
  What horrid shapes they wear! 
A winged giant sails the sky;
Oh father, father, let us fly!”

“Hush, child; it is a grateful sound,
  That beating of the summer shower;
Here, where the boughs hang close around,
  We’ll pass a pleasant hour,
Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain,
Has swept the broad heaven clear again.”

“Nay, father, let us haste—­for see,
  That horrid thing with horned brow,—­
His wings o’erhang this very tree,
  He scowls upon us now;
His huge black arm is lifted high;
  Oh father, father, let us fly!”

“Hush, child;” but, as the father spoke,
  Downward the livid firebolt came,
Close to his ear the thunder broke,
  And, blasted by the flame,
The child lay dead; while dark and still,
Swept the grim cloud along the hill.

The child’s funeral. deg.

Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore,
  Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies;
The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore,
  As clear and bluer still before thee lies.

Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire,
  Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps;
And murmuring Naples, spire o’ertopping spire,
  Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.