^frtYffYYtYYYlYTfY^ liiiv MI ur in ui in HI in in in nr * GENERAL LIBRARY UNIVERSITY Of CALIFORNIA er /^*t/ ^^^ POEMS THE EOD AND GUN. "THE SHOT AT THE START." The sun had tipt the horizon s edge, Launching in air a shaft of gold, Across the stream, athwart the sedge, And where the rippling currents roll d; A boat was pushing from the shore, A fowler s heart beat high with glee. Yet ere the boatman touch d an oar, To reach a wooded island near, An early flock, on rushing wing, Flew o er the stream s pellucid face; When sudden a report did ring, And ceas d a wild-duck from the race. The artist hath depicted well The " Starting Shot," and what befell. ISAAC McLELLAN. POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN; OR, SPORTS BY FLOOD AND FIELD. BY ISAAC McLELLAN, GREENPORT, LONG ISLAND, N. Y. EDITED, WITH A MKMIOIR OF THE AUTHOR, BY WILL WILDWOOD, FIELD EDITOR OF "TURF, FIELD AND FARM;" AT7THOR OF " MEMOIRS OF EMINENT SPORTSMEN," " THE GREENWOOD CLUB," ETC. NEW YORK: HENRY THORPE, Stmtarj) of THE L. I. SPORTSMEN S ASSOCIATION, AND FOUNTAIN OUH CLUB 98 NASSAU STREET. 1886. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886, by ISAAC McLELLAN, In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. M. H. GREEN, PRINTER, ELECTROTYPER AND BINDER, 324 to 330 Pearl Street, NEW YORK. TO THE MEMBERS OF THE SPORTSMEN S ASSOCIATIONS OF THIS COUNTRY THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE A UTHOR. M844858 CONTENTS. GAME. PAGE THE SHOT AT THE START " . . front PREFACE 9 MEMOIR 11 African Game, the Gemsbok 51 African Scenery, Birds and Fruits 19 Albatross and Penguin, the 145 Antiquary s Armory, the 78 Autumnal Sports 63 Bison-hunting in the Far West 26 Brief Summer in the Arctic Land 158 Canvas-back and Red-heads 101 Caribou-hunting 56 Chamois Flocks of Switzerland 96 Coot-shooting 74 Death of the Last English Sparrow 113 Deer-hunting in Maine 37 Deer Pass, the 121 Duck-shooting in Bamegat Bay 115 Dusky Duck, the 102 Eagle, the 103 El Conquistador 142 Elephant-hunting 33 Elephant-hunting in the Island of Ceylon 62 Elk, the, or Wapiti 90 English Skylark in Australia 146 4 CONTENTS. PAGE Falconry 137 Fall Migration of the Brant, the 32 Fire-hunting Deer 80 Flight of the Buffalo, the 91 Flight of the Canada Geese 32 Forest and Stream 68 Frontier Hunter 94 Frost Pictures on Window-pane of " Turf, Field, and Farm" 159 Giraffe-hunting in Central Africa 54 Glory of Autumn, the 21 Gorilla, the 52 Great Antarctic Wall of Ice 155 Grizzly-bear Hunting 60 Haunts of the Asiatic Leopard and Panther 125 Hippopotamus, the 44 Hunter and Trapper, the 127 Hunter in Central Africa, the 58 Hunter s Camp at Night 98 Hunter s Song 141 Hunting in Central Africa 44 Hunting the Great Elk in the Island of Ceylon 131 Indian Hunters 88 Kingfisher, the 150 Lake Tahoe, Colorado 130 Lion of South Africa 42 Lion, the 24 Little Beach Sanderling, the 104 Little Chicadee Warbler 152 Long Island in late October 23 Mexican Hunting-grounds and Scenery 99 Moose-hunting in a Canadian Winter 29 My Dogs Sancho and Neptune 139 My Parker Gun 117 Nature s Invitation 17 Naw-kaw, a Winnebago Chief 144 October 133 Open Season for Quail -shooting 140 Oriental Hunting-grounds and Scenery 39 Ostrich, the 65 CONTENTS. 5 r.\i;r. Panther in Louisiana 83 Pinnated Grouse 110 Plover 71 Polar Bear 84 Prairie-chicken Shooting 160 Quail 72 Rabbit 107 Reindeer 124 Revisiting in Fancy the Grouse-shooting Plains of Illinois. . . 128 Rhinoceros-hunting 48 Rifle-practice 134 Rocky Mountain Goat 86 Rocky Mountain Sports 66 Rod and Gun 77 Ruffed Grouse Partridge 108 Saguenay River 156 Sand-hill Crane and other Wild Fowl of Mexico 85 Scene in Kamschatka 162 Scenery and Game of Wyoming Territory 87 Sea-brant 97 Sea-gull 112 Spare the Swallows 148 Squirrels 106 Summer Woodcock-shooting 119 Tiger-hunting in India with Elephants 40 Vision of the Past, a 163 Watching for Deer 122 Watching for Elephants at Night in South Africa 46 Western Emigrants and Squatters 92 When this Old Gun was New 136 Whippoorwill, the 149 Wild-cat 81 Wild Pigeon Ill Wild Swan, the 31 Wild Turkey 69 Winter Sports 28 Wolf 75 Wood-duck 118 Yosemite Valley, the 153 CONTENTS. FISH. PAGE Angler s Chant, the 185 Angling 243 Autumnal Fishing 167 Black-bass Fishing in Western Streams 189 Black Drum, the 233 Blackfish 193 Bluefish, the 244 Bonito, the 239 Boy Angler, the 183 Boys and the Bergalls, the 210 Brookside and Hillside 208 Brook Trout 170 Brook Trout s Comments upon Delmonico s Dream 177 Bunker-fishing 186 Carp and Tench. 224 Channel-bass Fishing in Florida 173 Columbia River, the 209 Common Pickerel 201 Crevalle Fish of Florida, the 230 Divided Stream, the 228 Dolphin, the 223 Eel-Spearing by Torchlight 180 Far Western River, a 176 Fishing for Albicore in the South Pacific 220 Florida Scenes and Sports 234 Flying-fish, the 241 Goldfish and the Silver-fish, the , 215 Haddock-fishers, the 245 Hake 195 Hauling of the Seine 207 Herring and Pilchard, the 227 Hillside Rivulet, the 216 Kingfish, the 197 Last Cast, the 232 Little Sunfish of the Brook, the 226 Mangrove Snapper, the 236 My Old Fishing-boat 219 CONTENTS. 7 PAGE Old Mill by the River, the 217 On Long Island Sound 199 On Reading G. C. Scott s " Fishing in American Waters". . . 171 Pickerel-fishing through the Ice 191 Pompano of Florida, the 243 Porgee 199 Porpoise, the 184 Red Grouper of Florida, the 237 Reminiscences 213 Rival Pleasures of Sea-water and Fresh- water Fishing 229 Salmon of Labrador 166 Salmon of New Brunswick 168 Schoodic Lakes, Maine 213 Sea-bass 202 Seal at Labrador, the 203 Seeing an Aquarium in a Bookstore Window 179 Shark, the 194 Sheepshead 204 Smelt-fishing 188 Spanish Mackerel 200 Spanish Mackerel 248 Speckled Bass at Lake Pepin, Minn 195 Striped Bass, the 247 Sturgeon, the 189 Sword-fish, the 206 Tarpum of Florida, the 238 Whale, the 221 When this Old Rod was New 181 White-fish of the Northern Lakes 205 Yellow Perch, the.. .174 CONTENTS. MISCELLANEOUS. PAGE All s Well 265 Arctic Tragedy, the 258 Burning of old condemned Battle-ship Ohio 266 Christmas-time 261 Comet of 1882, to the 262 End of the Year, the 270 English Races and American Triumphs 255 Frank Forester Memorial Ode 268 Gayeties of Night in the City 260 Longfellow 250 Ocean Yacht Race, the 253 Races at the Fashion Course 256 Sprite Hall 263 Wild Horse of the Prairies. . . 251 PRKFACK. OrR widely-extended country, reaching from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast, from the Northern Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico, abounds with almost every variety of wild game of the choicest qualities. The ocean, the river, the lake, the brook, mountain, forest, prairie, and stubble field all have their peculiar tenants; fish, fowl, and wild animal, ranging the wood, swimming the waters, beating the air. Almost without limit are the attractions of field and flood in our noble and far-spread land; and to describe their different varieties, their mode of life and capture, the scenery where they are found, has been the business of the natu ralist, the novelist, and the sportsman; but the poet in a collected volume has hardly here contributed his part to the general store of knowledge. As the variety of the noble game and fish of our land and waters is greater and more attractive than that of any other country, with the exception perhaps of Africa, so nowhere are the sports of field and flood more universally followed than with us. The consideration of these facts, and the desire to con tribute something to the treasury of the knowledge of our wild game, and to depict the pleasures to be enjoyed in their pursuit, led the writer to prepare this work; and if it may yield pleas ure to any person, and more especially to brother-sportsmen, he will feel that he has his reward. To commence and complete the work has been with him a labor of love, for his participation in field-sports has not been small; and he can only regret that his ability to describe does not equal his power to enjoy the delight ful pastimes of the gunner and the angler. The author, in preparing a work that might perhaps be styled a book of natural history, has not confined his pen strictly to descriptions of birds, fish, and animals that are considered as game, but has included many others that have no claim to such title. In the present volume he has sought to reproduce, as far as pos- 10 PREFACE. sible, his collection of sporting poems, lost in a recent disastrous fire in New York viz., the burning of the Potter Building, on Park Row, attended with grievous loss of life and property. Our original volume was then in the possession of Mr. F. E. POND ("Will Wildwood"), connected with the Turf, Field and Farm, and the loss of the editors of that excellent sporting journal was very great; and our own, though comparatively trifling, could not easily be repaired, as no second copies of many of the articles- contained in that volume could possibly be obtained. But the kindness of friends, and especially of the editors of the Turf, Field and Farm and of Forest and Stream, has enabled the author partially to replace the loss, in using such duplicate copies as they have been able to supply to us. Since this volume was commenced, several years ago, a great number of sporting associa tions have been formed in the country, consisting of gentlemen of leisure, intelligence, and high repute, who are interested in field-sports and the preservation of fish and game, and to gain their brotherly favor would be honor indeed. So, what poems we have been able to save from the wreck we hope may find favor in their sight. There has always been a degree of friendly brotherly feeling among sportsmen, and this has encouraged us to offer this work to public notice, and, above all, to brother-sports men, to whom it is respectfully dedicated. If we meet with fra ternal approval at their hands, we shall feel rewarded for the labor of many years in trying to produce something acceptable to lovers of the rod and gun. And so we leave our work in the hands of the kind reader. THE AUTHOR. GREENPORT, LONG ISLAND, March 1, 1886. A MK.MOIR OF ISAAC McLELLAN. BY WILL WILDWOOD. " FOR half a century MB. McLBLLAM has sung to animated nature in the forests ami sequestered places," says the accom plished sporting author and discriminating critic, Mr. CHARLES HALLOCK, "and his voice has still the clarion ring of the bugle, albeit it is the bugle deep down the vale. His steps do not falter, and his faith grows brighter as the twilight lengthens. When the liquid poetry of ISAAC MCLELLAN ceases to flow it will not be common clay that chokes the outlet. His presence in the world of sporting literature should be always recognized with that re gard which years of honor earned should command." ISAAC MCLELLAN, the poet-sportsman, was born at Portland, Maine the birthplace likewise of his life-long friends, HK.NKY W. LONGFELLOW and N. P. WILLIS in the year 1806. The parents of MCLELLAN and WILLIS removed to Boston, and at the age of thirteen both youths were sent to Phillips Academy, Andover, Mass., to be fitted for college. From thence MCLELLAN went to Bowdoiu College, and WILLIS to Yale. During his col lege life ISAAC MCLELLAN was in the next class to LONGFELLOW, HAWTHORNE, CHEEYER, and other distinguished writers. His friendship with LONGFELLOW continued unchanged up to the time of the demise of the latter, revived and strengthened during absence by correspondence. After graduating he engaged in the practice of law for several years in Boston, and was then in almost daily intercourse with X. P. WILLIS, at that time editor of the Boston Monthly M<trj<tzine. Mr. McLELLAN in his writings re marks that of his intimate college friends, neither LONGFELLOW, HAWTHORNE, nor WILLIS was a devotee of field-sports, and on their holidays, although they roamed the forest and followed 12 A MEMOIR OF ISAAC McLELLAN. along the clear, limpid streams teeming with fish, they used neither rod nor gun for amusement. Another classmate, however, the brilliant SARGENT S. PRENTISS, was a devoted lover of shoot ing, and oft together on the Saturday afternoons would young McLELLAN and PRENTISS ramble through the woods in pursuit of game. When HENRY W. LONGFELLOW was established at Cambridge as Professor, the old intimacy of the two friends was renewed, both in Boston and at the home of the great poet in Cambridge. During his editorial career in Boston, ISAAC MCLELLAN was en gaged as associate editor of the Daily Patriot afterward incorpo rated with the Daily Advertiser and soon after began the publi cation of a monthly magazine, which he finally consolidated with the Weekly Pearl, formerly published by ISAAC C. PRAY. About this time he contributed largely to WILLIS S Monthly Magazine, the New England Magazine, the rare old Knickerbocker, and various other periodicals, both in poetry and prose, many of his poems attracting widespread attention and admiration. At different periods Mr. MCLELLAN wrote three volumes of poems, which were published by Allen & Ticknor, Boston. These works were entitled, respectively, " The Fall of the Indian," "The Year," and "Mount Auburn." The poems were well received by the public, and one of the volumes received a very friendly notice from the editor of Blackwood s Magazine, who quoted and highly commended a little gem, "The Trout Brook," the only poem on sporting topics in the three works. While engaged in these literary pursuits, Mr. MCLELLAN em- ploj ed his leisure time in the sport of wild-fowl shooting upon the sea-coast, this being the principal pastime of many New England spoilsmen. After making a tour of two years in Europe, he gave up the practice of law and his literary labors, withdraw ing to the tranquil joys of rural life, where he might find ample use for gun and rod. His passionate love for field-sports, and more especially wild fowl shooting, inspired him to write in prose and verse on sporting subjects; and the delicacy of limning, the inspiring sentiment, and rare vigor of these poems bespoke at once the able writer and keen sportsman. WILLIS and other distin guished writers have given Mr. MCLELLAN the credit of being in several respects the finest poet in America. GENIO C. SCOTT has remarked very truly that "McLELLAN is as a poet on field-sports A MKMOIR OF ISAAC McLELLAN. 13 what Gen. GEORGE P. MORRIS was as a song-writer both unsur passed in their way." While iu Europe he shot and fished in nearly all portions of the country, and thus added to his critical observation of American game and shooting a practical knowl edge of the field-sports of the Continent. Among the favorite shooting resorts which he was wont to fre quent were Cohasset, Plymouth, and Marshfield, Mass., the latter being the rural home of that immortal orator and statesman, DANIEL WEBSTER. Through his courtesy, ISAAC MCLELLAN passed two seasons at Marshfield, dwelling at one of the farm houses belonging to Mr. ~\VI:I;STI:K. Here he had an opportunity of seeing the great sportsman almost daily, enjoying his usual labors and his rambles with rod or gun. DANIEL WEBSTER passed many of his most delightful days shooting at Brant Rock, in his light gunning skiff, or trout-fish ing in the clear streamlets of the vicinity. As an angler, no man, perhaps, was ever more ardent and enthusiastic, and it is doubt less in some degree due to the vivifying influences of this manly recreation that he was enabled, when necessary, to undergo such continued labor as that which fell to his lot in Washington. He was equally at home along the trout-streams, on the bay, or in the Senate chamber; the same dignified, courteous gentleman, whether iu the field, on the farm, or on the forum. Nearly thirty-five years ago Mr. MCLELLAN removed to New York City, and there formed the acquaintance of the sporting celebrities of the day, who congregated at the old Spirit office, where WM. T. PORTER (" York s Tall Sou ") presided one of the best-known, and, at that time, the most popular of all the editorial fraternity in Gotham. Here he frequently met with "FRANK FORESTER, "and the acquaintance formed from "tastes kindred and pursuits common " soon ripened into friendship, which ex isted to the time of the tragic death of the great sporting author. His sketches of H. W. HERBERT in prose attest a friendship and a sympathy which may well deserve notice, while his lines to the memory of his departed friend possess a pathos and sublimity, combined with symmetry and grace, rarely equalled. It was through the instrumentality of HERBERT, that Mr. MCLELLAN secured a fine resort at Barnegut Bay for snipe and water-fowl shooting, and there enjoyed many days of glorious sport. During several years he passed a part of each season on the 14 A MEMOIR OF ISAAC McLELLAK coast of Virginia and atCurrituck Sound, N. C. , where the water fowl were then very abundant. In later years he has followed the sport of duck-shooting at the Shinnecock and Great South Bay, Long Island, where he has resided for some time, in close proximity to the finest resorts of wild-fowl. While in Virginia he contributed a valuable sketch to his friend GENIO C. SCOTT S "Fishing in American Waters," and the poet ical gems in that standard work were also supplied by MCLELLAN. He still contributes occasionally to the sporting journals of the day the Turf, Field and Farm, Forest and Stream, American Angler, etc., besides the Home Journal and other periodicals of high literary merit, which frequently contain poetic gems from his pen. His ardor for field-sports has an intensity which age cannot quench, and his pen is still as vigorous in depicting those sports which he loves to describe as in earlier life. Many of his poems are descriptive of the larger game of Africa and Europe, and these, with his delineations of American game and shooting, consist of nearly two hundred pieces, which, if collected in book form, would make an attractive volume of a character at once unique and pleasing. Such a work would form an accept able addition to any library, and especially to the libraries of sportsmen, the poems comprising a valuable fund of sporting lore. The late WENDELL PHILLIPS held our bard in high estimation; and the various collectors of American poetry, such as Dr. Gris- wold, Dr. Cheevers, Mr. Kettell, and others, all give him an hon orable place in their pages. If he has not always reached the upper realm of poesy, like his contemporaries, BRYANT, LONG FELLOW, HOLMES, WHITTIER, and LOWELL, still he has been con tent to follow the quiet wood-paths by brookside and riverside; to pass under the shadows of woodlands, or to traverse the great grim deserts of our Far West in pursuit of the grizzly, the elk, and the buffalo, or, better still, to penetrate the Dark Continent of Africa the home of Behemoth. If he has not strictly fol lowed in the more popular paths of poetry, he has been well pleased to devote himself to rod and gun, seeking rather to please his brother-sportsmen than ambitiously striving for more general fame in the branches of his art; and we think that his brother shooters and anglers will none the less value his labors. At the age of fourscore years the venerable sportsman-bard A MEMOIR OF ISAAC McLELLAN. 15 stands practically alone in liis favorite field of labor. In the peaceful evening of a well-rounded life he may be regarded a- the honored patriarch and preceptor of a fraternity believing in the creed that " the groves are God s best temples" a fraternity that frequents the greenwood and green fields of nature rather than the greenroom and the green table. That the precept and practice of our poet of the woods and waters are in harmony, may be safely assumed from the fact recorded in a recent letter to the writer, that during the whole course of his life he has never been seriously ill until within the past month, when he was confined to his room for a time by an attack of pneumonia. This remark able exemption from the ills supposed to be the dire inheritance of all mortal flesh must be attributed not alone to the abstemious habits of the bard, but to his life-long devotion to outdoor sports. It may be reasonably hoped that many years of life and useful ness are yet in store for him, and that his rhythmic numbers may continue to flow on as smoothly " As the liquid trill of the wayside brook, Or the placid lake by the breeze forsook." Since writing the foregoing brief sketch originally embodied in the "Memoirs of Eminent Sportsmen," published in the Turf, Field and Farm the venerable poet-sportsman has acceded to the request of numerous friends and admirers desirous of seeing his poems in library form, and the present volume is the result. That it is a valuable addition to the literature of flood and field all lovers of the gun and rod will readily concede. To the en thusiastic devotee of field-sports it will be especially welcome. "Within its pages will be found something suited to the fancy of every sportsman to the adventurous woodsman of the " HARRY HUNTER" school, fond of " climbing to the misty mountain-top " in quest of large game; the wild-fowl shooter upon the breezy bay or inland lakes; the ardent lover of the chase, to whose ear the clamor of the hounds is sweetest music; to the crack-shot who finds the recreation of quail or grouse shooting, over well-trained dogs, the most enjoyable of all ; or to the contemplative angler, revelling in the pastime so glowingly described by the elder IZAAK, of piscatorial fame; these poems will bring a flood of pleasant recollections and a diversified field of mental recreation. 16 A MEMOIR OF ISAAC McLELLAN. The volume is something unique in the annals of American sporting literature, and deserves a niche in the sportsman s library with kindred English works " The Chase," by SOMERVILLE, and WATT S " Remarks on Shooting." It is scarcely necessary to add that the task of the writer consists solely of the brief and fragmentary memoir. To essay a revision of the glowing lines that have made the poet-sportsman s name a household word would savor of an attempt to gild the refined gold. In conclu sion, we cannot do better than to quote the following apprecia tive tribute, by " HARRY FENWOOD," whose lines of eulogy will, we believe, find an echo in the heart of the reader: Sweet poet, ere I breathe thy name. May friendship unalloyed Be ever ours, though others claim That sacred virtue void. Thy theme marks soft, virescent spring, Full summer s prink d array, Mild autumn s calm, sere withering, And winter s gelid day; The angler s cool, secluded bower, By far lone mountain stream The weary hunter s evening hour Where camp-fire flickers gleam. Thus sweet the lay when Nature tunes The poet s lyre for song. Each sylvan shade where he communes, Inspiring Muses throng. MCLELLAN, when thy muse no more Anew delights the ear, Thy laurels green in days of yore Shall bloom immortal here. POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. The opening piece, "Nature s Invitation," was the first poem, and the first reading-matter of any kind, printed in Forest <m<l Stream. NATURE S INVITATION. (~YER Hie fair face of Nature let us muse, And dream by lapsing stream and drooping wood; Tread the dark forests whose primeval ranks, Since the Creation dawn have cast their shade; Ponder by flowing stream and ocean tides, And note the varied forms of life they hold ; Mark the wild game so dear to hunter s heart, The swarming fowl that skim the salty deeps, The birds that haunt the woodlands and the plains, The fish that swim the seas, the lakes, the streams, And tempt the thoughtful angler to their marge; Glance at the life that tills our native woods, And game of Asian plains, and Afric wilds. When soft May breezes fan the early woods, And with her magic wand the blue-ey d Spring Quickens the swelling blossoms and the buds, Then forth the russet partridge leads her brood, While on the fallen tree-trunk drums her mate; The quail her young in tangled thicket hides, The dun deer with their fawns the forests range, The wild-geese platoons hasten far in air; The wild ducks from their Southern lagoons pass, And soaring high their Northward journeyings take; The dusky coot along the coast-line sweep; The piping snipe and plover, that frequent The sandy bars and beaches, wing their flight, And all the grassy prairies of the West, 2 18 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Teem with the speckled younglings of the grouse; And all the budding forests and the streams Are gay with beauty, joyous with young life. Then swell the first bird melodies: the wren Chirrups and perches on the garden rail; The bluebird twitters on the lilac hedge, Or flits on azure wings from tree to tree; The golden robin on the apple bough Hovers, where last year s withered nest had been; The darting swallows circle o er the roof, The woodpeckers on trunk of gnarled trees Tap their quick drum-beats wilh their horny beaks, The crow caws hoarsely from the blasted pine, High in mid-air the sailing hawk is pois d, While from the grove the purple pigeon-flocks Burst with loud flapping o er the grain-sown fields. Fair is the scene in Autumn, when the Frosts From palettes rich, with prodigal, free brush Color the nodding groves with brown and gold. Then silvery-skied, and purple-haz d the dome Of heaven s deep vault, and fair the earth below. Far up where sunny uplands slope their sides, Shaggy with woods, prone to the brimming stream, Where boweriug beech-trees shake their laden boughs, And oaks their varnished acorns high uplift, Where the broad butternut its gummy fruit In russet husks slow- ripens day by day, And where in crowded ranks the chestnut groves Wave out their broad-leav d pennons to the air, And from their prickly burrs shake treasures down, There the quick chatterings of the squirrels sound. The gentle valley with its belt of hills Crown d to their tops with grand, primeval woods, Glows with all forms and hues that nature loves. Deep in its hollow, stretch meadows brightly green, Kept verdurous by the full o erflowing stream ; Yet the deep swamps and thickets that engird The river-reaches, are resplendent all, Their umbrage tinctur d with imperial dyes. The maples tall with blood-red foliage burn, AFRICAN SCENERY, BIRDS, AND FRUITS. 19 The hickories clap their palms of burnish d gold, The poplar thrusts its yellow spire in air, The russet oaks and purpled dogwoods blend Their colors with the alder s sable green. And scarlet sumachs; all contrasted rich With sombre evergreens, and willows pale. And when the winds autumnal, wailing, strip The frosted foliage, like a host they stand, With trailing banners and with drooping plumes. Such be the scenes in wondrous forest-land Such be the scenes by sea and lake and stream That we would picture wild romantic scenes, Dear to the hunter s and the angler s heart. AFRICAN SCENERY, BIRDS, AND FRUITS. T^NCHANTING scenes o er Afric s mystic land Since the creation s dawn have bloom d and smil d In lavish beauty. And the varied forms Of Nature, fresh from the Creator s hand, Here intermingle their transcendent pomp Soft vale, and placid stream, and mountain range. Here glows the flowery plain, or frowns the waste; Here flow majestic rivers to the sea, Or spread the mirror d lakes their glassy plain Vast lakes, whose marge by savage herds is trod, Whose waves are only cross d by rude canoe, Or haunted by the screaming waterfowl. Here desert moors extend their arid waste, Here mountains soar in grandeur to the skies, Forests immense, illimitable, spread, Fair flowering groves and natural gardens bloom. The wandering exile from far Northern shores Crossing those lakes, oft drops the idle oar To view the wondrous scene: far, far extends The reedy shore with endless meadows hemm d Or fring d with woods of tamarind and palm, The green mazouka with its clustering fruits, Or the dark mola with its oak- like crown. 20 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Charm d with this vision, Eden-like, his soul Drinks in th entrancing splendors of the scene. Far spread the shores, now rough with beetling rocks, Now smooth with waving grass and rosy blooms. Far stretch the lakes undimpled in their sheet, While far in distance float the mountains blue. Here a white sand-beach spreads its shelly road, Backed by the cocoa-palm trees, and the huts Of villagers in green plantations hid. Above some granite cliff the eagle swings, And fish-hawks clamor; and in groves around, Where the oil-palms their yellow nuts display, Cooes the green pigeon, chattering squirrels leap, The gay-hued parrots glance like living flames, And the red trogon tunes his thrilling lyre. Around the shores the sacred ibis flits, The snowy pelicans their files extend, The stilted avoset that wades the shoals, The parva perch d on floating lotus-leaves, The black geese and the gray-hued spoonbill tribes, And all the gorgeous fowl that haunt the wave; While in the thicket or encircling wood The guinea-fowl monotonous complains, The francolin calls ceaseless to his mate; From tree to tree the keen-ey d buffalo-bird Twitters and sings, and kalas pour their songs. Fair scenes along the Balaklai land Perennial bloom; green, flower-enamell d lawns Slope to the brimming river s grassy edge; And pastures broad to th horizon s verge Stretch boundless, sprinkled here and there with groves. Embosom d mid plantations of the maize, The yam and manioc, nestling in the shade Of cashew and the fig, guavas brown, And green bananas, lie the villages, Wattled with bamboo, thatch d with broad-leav d palm. Rich are the fruits of tree and shrub and root That prodigal Nature yields this savage land : The baobob casts its luscious treasures down, The tall mashouka drops its pear-like fruit, TIII: 0LOB1 OF AUTUMN. 21 Harsh with its rind, delicious with its seed; The rough pineapple and the tamarind sharp Shower their offerings, and the cocoa-palm Swings high its husked nuts, so honey-sweet; Ma/oukas and molondos yield their gifts, And motsotiri, and grateful mamosho; The maniko its sugary syrup pours, And chief the motsikiri, prince of trees, Hangs high in air its gay, imperial crown! THE GLORY OF AUTUMN. "What sport shall we have in brown October, when the sere underbrush is bare of leaves to mar the sportsman s aim; when the cool, dewy earth sends up the odor of the game in fresh streams to the setter s keen and sagacious nose; when the pure air braces the nerve and fans the brow invitingly!" FRANK FORESTER. r PIIE generous autumn days are come, The merriest of the year, With dewy morns and rosy eves, And harvest moonlight clear; The hoar-frost shineth thin and white O er mountain and o er plain; It gems the faded grass And the stubble of the grain. What time the day-dawn flecks the east, A gauzy, filmy veil Floats o er the crystal river, In the hollow of the vale. The bearded oats, the juicy wheat, Have all been gather d in, The latest crispy husk of corn Is garner d in the bin. The apples of the orchard, Red with the sun s caress, Enrich the farmers cellars Or feed the cider-press. 22 POEMS OF THE BOD AND GUN. Now is the season s carnival, The fete-time of the year, When the blithe October breezes Blow bracingly and clear. When husking frolics in the barn, Or the flooding broad moonlight, Prolong with jocund dance and song The watches of the night. For all the toil of seed-time And the harvest now are o er, Save where the flail resoundeth On the busy threshing-floor. Now when the genial breezes Sweep through the fading wood, Tossing the scarlet maples, And the oak leaves many-hued ; Ere dawns the day o er hill and lawn, The sportsman takes his way To upland moor, or woodland haunts, Or open breezy bay. The outlying deer are now afoot, To browse the dew- wet grass, Or pause to taste the crystal brook, And lakelet clear as glass; The brown quail in the cedar copse Leads forth her hungry brood. The partridge whirs through open glade, Or through the hemlock wood. Now o er the salt and sedgy marsh, Where bends the rustling reed, The piper and the plover On the briny shallows feed. The black-duck and the widgeon Are swimming in the bay, The geese and brant in black platoons Defile their long array. LONG ISLAND IN I.ATK OrTOI .KK. 23 It is the sportsman s festival, The year - most gl<irii>us time. \Vlicn the dahlia and the aster Are in their golden prime, When the rainbow-painted forests Are resplendently allame, When every healthful breath we draw Adds vigor to the frame. The sweetest of our Northern bards Hath sung in mournful lay Of the dreary time of autumn Of the "sad" October day. But methinks the changeful glories, The sport, the harvest cheer, Make the autumnal season The brightest of the year. LONG ISLAND IN LATE OCTOBER. /^\CTOBER S flaming banners, of purple and of gold, O er all the bowery woodland, are llaiintingly unroll d; From his o er-brimming urn red Autumn pours his dyes O er all thy realm, Long Island, from clouds that sail the skies. Thy woods of elm and chestnut, so emerald-green erewhile, Now glow with brightest blushes, suffus d with Autumn s smile. The maples of the uplands are^flush d with royal red, And robes and garlands golden o er the pasture-oaks are spread; The sumacs by the roadside now wear a scarlet crown, The bay berry bushes by the beach are clad in russet brown; The apple orchards, late despoil d of all their ruddy globes, Tinct with the frost are all array d in varicolor d robes; And low in swamps and thickets of cedar and of pine The woodbines redden, and the lithe, high-clambering grape vine. And there the village children come, the purpling grapes to glean, Whose clusters load the alders that o er the streamlets lean. The grass of summer uplands, where far the sheep -Hock strays. The bush-grass of the meadows, where wading cattle graze, 24 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. So green erewhile, are wither d now, and thro tlieir thin brown leaves The sorrowful breeze is sighing, like one in pain that grieves. The bubbling brook, whose currents glide through banks of liv ing green, So clear that in the crystal depths the spotted trout were seen, Creeps brown and turbid now, all chok d with foliage sere A clouded mirror now, erewhile transparent clear; Nor more the angler comes with tapering rod to sweep The brook or limpid pond where dark tree-shadows creep. I stand high up a hillside, where, far as eye may reach, Stretch out fair woods and fields, and the sandy yellow beach ; The harvest crops are garner d, the fields lie brown and bare, The thresher s flail in distant barns resounds upon the air; I hear the cow-boy s call, the whistle of the bird, And all the joyous sounds of rural life are heard. I hear the piping quail and the gunner s weapon ring, And see the startled coveys burst forth upon the wing; I hear far overhead, in the upper realms of air, The honking of wild geese, as onward swift they fare; And in the salt bay meadows I see the fowler s boat, I hear his gun, I see the smoke above his ambush float; I see the platoons of the coot, the squadrons of the brant, And hovering black-ducks, the shallow coves that haunt, The shelldrake and the broad-bill, and all the feather d flocks Which haunt the open bays and wheel o er ocean rocks. Fair scenes, bright scenes, enchanting scenes! that fill The heart with o erflowing joy, and the life pulses thrill, So fair in all your autumn pomp, in all your summer green, When woods are bright, skies full of light, and waters smile se rene! THE LION. (Leo Afrkanm.} TN the Mahouna mountain, in the Haracta glen, The summons of the Sheik is out, Come forth, ye bearded men! In African defiles, in jungle, in ravine, Shadow d by cork-tree forests and by the olives green, TIII: i. ION. 25 The torrent-brook of Ouled is bare with torrid heat Its gravelly bed is trampled by the lion s mighty feet. Come forth, ye Arab tribesmen, the hunter and the scout! The signal fires are blazing o er all the cliffs about; Put off the sandals from the feet, the bournous from the limb, For silent must your pathway be, thro dell and desert grim. Stand fast together, side by side, with levell d gun and lance; The foe lurks in the thickest shade, where never sunbeams glance. This slope upon the mountain side leads precipitously down, Leads down to where the brook pours out its waves of turbid brown ; It is the lion s pathway, and here he comes to drink, With bristling mane and tawny hide, along the grassy brink, See! all around the trees are torn, and seam d and scarr d the bark; Tis here his angry iron claws leave their terrific mark ; Here, in the yellow sand, he wallow d in the heat, And here upon the pebbles, the impress of his feet, Then let the bravest and the best, in compact order stand. The weak may hide where forests their spreading boughs expand. Here in these desert places no other life may be, The wild boar and the jackal turn from the haunt and flee; The panther in the thicket feeds on jackal and the hare; This desert is the lion s home, the monarch s royal lair; From hence, when stars are out, he gallops to the plain, Beneath the herdsman s very beard the cattle spoil to gain. Stand fast, it is the midnight; the earth is hid in gloom; Xu howls of wolves, no low of ox across the silence boom; No flash of watch-fire, and no light from distant shepherd s tent To scare the prowling monster, in lurid gleams are sent. Stand fast! There is a sound! Is it the rising breeze That murmureth complainingly far thro the bending trees? It is the lion s trample, and see, in single file The tawny beasts! And as they come they lash their flanks the while: Their luminous bright eyes are of a fiery red; They snuff the tainted air, they stride with heavy tread. Now firm your arm and true your aim, for life is on the cast, Nor break your ranks to flee, for that moment were your last; Full on the shaggy head discharge the leaden hail ; 26 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. Alas! it glances harmless, as from a coat of mail. One roar, one hollow roar! as from a thunderous sky; The raging beast is on them now they tremble and they fly. He snaps the bone, he tears the flesh, and many a victim dies, Ere, pierc d with balls, upon the earth the bleeding monarch lies! BISON-HUNTING IN THE FAR WEST. T^AR, where the glittering snowy thrones Of the Rocky Mountains uplift their cones In the grassy plains and valleys around, One endless pasture of flowery ground The tawny herds of the bison rove, Or browse in the shade of the oaken grove; Or pause at the brimming river s brink, Intent the gelid nectar to drink. Endless and countless rank on rank, "With the warrior bulls on either flank, The browsing herd sweeps o er the plain That skirts the granite mountain-chain. Now idly loitering as they pass, To crop the tender and dewy grass; Now clattering swift in mad affright, As panic-stricken they take their flight, When the taint of danger infects the gale, And they snuff the Indian, hot on their trail. The savage armeth with lance and bow The Blackfoot warrior the tribe of the Crow. He vaults to the back of his desert horse, Away from his camp he takes his course ; With whooping slogan, with rattling rein, His snorting steed he goads o er the plain ; With swinging lariat and brandish d spear, Rioting in the mad career. It is a glorious sight to see The lawless rider, the courser free. Like yelling fiends the tribes are out, With flourish d lances, with frantic shout! Each plume of feathers, each scalp-lock tress, P.I SON-HUNTING IN Till! FA R \\KST. Streams in tin- bree/e of the wilderness; While fast ami far, in desperate race, Speeds on the bison, speed* on the chase. No gaping ravine may check their way, No chasm where the grizzly bear may lay; No boiling torrent, no swampy pool, No turbulent river, fordless and cool; But on like an avalanche, on they speed The reckless rider, the uncurb d steed O er leagues of prairie they lleetly sweep, Down crag-iy gulches they headlong leap, Breasting the river s arrowy tide, The spoil and the spoiler side by side. When the quarry, bard press d, doth panting fail, When the toiling limbs may no more avail, The painted demons around them wheel, They draw the bow and they ply the steel; Through brain and marrow they hurl the lance, Like bolts of lightning their arrows glance; And soon the verdurous pasture is spread With bleeding carcasses of the dead. Ofttimes these tribes of the desert way Enfold, in league-wide circles, their prey: They urge them on, with war-whoop and yell, To a cliiT that beetleth o er the dell: And there, o er the precipice grim and steep, They force the fugitive herds to leap. But oft some veteran of the herd Turns in his track, to fury stirr d; He leaves his flying ten thousand mates; The shock of the headlong hunt he awaits; He paws the earth with his angry hoof, He warns the foe that they keep aloof; He lashes his flanks with his tufted tail, His brawny haunches glisten like mail. He shakes his matted front and his mane, He roars till the desert trembles again; With sharpen d horn, and brow like a targe, He threatens with death whoever may charge; And, dying, he tramples and gores to dust His wild assailant and foe accurst. 28 POEMS OF THE KOD AND GUN". WINTER SPOIITS. Q LOW sinks the golden sun behind the woods, The shivering woods of winter. The red flush, That blooms along the cloud-land world above, Tinting the floating clouds with hues of rose, Rests on the naked woods, and gilds their tops. The chestnut groves, that fringe the upland slopes, And willows light that skirt the frozen stream, Black alders springing from the oozy marsh, And the lithe silver poplars, slim and tall, Touch d by the slanting beam, are fair to see. Deep lies the snow in many a drifted heap O er turfy mounds beneath the lifeless woods; Their rugged boles are sprinkled with the flakes, Or crusted o er with adamantine ice, That like a silver armor clasps them round; Each leafless twig and sapless spray is gemm d With jewels crystalline, that shift and shine And twinkle as the murmuring breeze sweeps by. Tis like some grotto in enchanted land, Where tricksy elves and fairies hold their court, And in their frolic merriment adorn The haunted precincts with ice jewelry, Twining their wreaths of pearl and amethyst And crystal garlands to bedeck the haunt. Mute lies the shining river in its bed, And mute the glistening lake outspreads its sheet. The foamy waterfall of summer-time That down the mossy rocks its torrent pourd, Freshening the drooping ferns and rosy blooms, Now grim in icy death, rests motionless. The white cascade that turn d the miller s wheel And with its churning foam made endless din, Fix d by the frost s enchantment, moves no more. The white, uutrampled fields immense extend Their crested slopes to th horizon s edge, Trod by no cropping herd or browsing flock, Lifeless save when the woodman s weary team, MOOSE-HUNTING IN A l ANAIH\N WINTKK. 29 Laden with forest spoil, plough thro the waste. The piping quail no longer skims the space, Nor comes the limping hare or prowling fox, For all have vauish d into hemlock woods. But down the country road, with hedges lin d, The fanner opes the way with cumbrous sledge; And there the merry sleighs, with jingling bells, And prancing team, and song and laughter loud, Cheer with their jocund life the barren scene. Though shapeless drifts beset the cottage home, And white on roof and gable rests the snow, Yet youthful faces beam around the hearth, And merry jests prolong the winter night, And viol s tinkle, and the dancer s feet. MOOSE-HUNTING IN A CANADIAN WINTER. (Atces Amen mnus.) \ \ "HEN the winter snow-fall lies heavy and deep In rounded hillock and drifted heap, And the frosty flakes like diamonds shine On the boughs of the hemlock and plumy pine ; Then forth to the northern wilderness The hardy trappers and hunters press. The snow lieth deep, the snow lies white, It fills the hollows, it tops the height; The frozen river, the ice-bound lakes, Are cover d o er by the sparkling flakes: The brook lies mute, and choked in its bed; You cannot trace where its channels led; The cedar branch is bent to the ground, The spruce with a weighty burden is crown d ; Afar spreads a silent and crystal waste, Where the features of nature are all effac d. But the valiant hunter hath heart of steel; He buckles the snow shoes firm to his heel; His Indian blanket and buckskin dress Suit well with the rugged wilderness; A leathern girdle surrounds his waist. 30 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Wherein his axe and wood-knife are plac d: Then forth, at the crimson dawning of day, With his heavy rifle he takes his way. The snow lies hard, for the keen, cold night Hath form d a crust both solid and bright : So the hunter strides on with steadfast tread Wherever the icy deserts may spread ; Knowing well the great moose and the cariboo, With their clattering hoofs, must wallow through; Although they be fleet as bird on the wing, When o er the firm turf of the forest they spring, Yet when helpless they sink in the yielding snow, They re an easy prey to their resolute foe. The great northern stag, with antlers so broad, With hoofs that can fence or assault like a sword, Is a terrible foe; so, hunter, beware, Nor rashly the dangerous champion dare : His niany-tin d antlers are like spikes of the oak, As sharp as a dagger, as fatal their stroke: Those prongs they would toss both hunter and hound, Their stab would impale them like worms of the ground, First drive the ounce-bullet through skull and through brain, Till he paint with his gore the snow of the plain; Then draw the keen edge of your blade o er his throat, And sound the death-slogan with shrill bugle-note. In the far-away northernmost wilds of Maine, Where the murmuring pines all the } T ear complain, In the unknown Aroostook s lonesome world, Or where the waters of Moosehead are curl d, The stalwart wood-cutter pitches his camp, In his cabin of logs trims his winter lamp; And oft when the moose-herd hath form d its "} r ard," And trampled the snows like a pavement hard, The woodman forsakes his sled and his team, And his harvest of logs by the frozen stream; And, arm d with his axe and his rifle, he goes To slaughter the moose blocked in by the snows ; And many a savory banquet doth cheer The fireside joys of his wintry year, With the haunch of the moose and the dappled deer. TIM: WILD >w \N. 31 T 1 1 E WILD S \\ A N . (Ct/ /n .< .-1 flft rir<tH UK.) \ II, whence dost thou come, O bird of wide-spread wing? From what remotest shore dost thou wondrous tidings bring? Mid the Northland s Arctic ice, what woes hast thou beheld, \\ here the gales o er shipwreck d crews their savage requiem knell d. In thy century of life, o er the drifting, whelming snows, Hath the shadow of thy pinions swept o er the grinding tiers, Win-re by the Pfeffer River, or King William s Islet plain, The bones of Franklin s men in ghostly rest have lain! Perchance the flitting shade of thy hovering wings did fall On that desolate, gray cairn where repose the dust of Hall; Perchance by Lena s flood, in bleak Siberian land, Thou saw st the lost De Long and all his dying band! O er Baffin s Bay, o er Beliefs Strait, perchance hath been thy flight, Or over shores of Labrador in tempest and in night, Where the Indian lurk d in ambush, with rifle and with spear, ( )r INquimau in light canoe, to stop thy swift career. Mayhap o er Rocky Mounts, o er the bleak Sierra s space, High up in empty air, hath been thy tireless race: Thou hast hover d o er Pike s Peak, whose granitic boulders rise In majesty supreme cliffs soaring to the skies! O er Yosemite s green vale, where Capitan s white cone O er mountain range and mighty woods uproars its royal throne, Hath been thy tlight, and thou hast paus d where Mereed s waters pour: One sheeted ghost of snowy foam, along its garden shore. For there the wild-fowl swarm, the swan, the duck, the crane, Tin 1 pelican and gray geese, that browse the grassy plain, Where range the bear and puma, the antelope and deer; Far o er that sportsmen s paradise, hath been thy free career. Thy flocks we ve watch d at Barnegat, and Currituck s great Sound, A league-long line of gleamy plumes, like snows o er winter ground ; Now, whither dost thou tend? Perchance to Southern clime, Where calm lagoons are girdled in with orange and the lime. 32 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. THE FLIGHT OF THE CANADA GEESE (Anser Americanus.) TTONK! honk! on stormy wings they cleave the upper air, On gusty breeze, above the seas, their onward cohorts fare; They come from frosty solitudes, where broods the Arctic night, Where deserts grim, spread vast and dim, in the auroral light. The Esquimaux, with bended bow, fast paddling his canoe, Their flocks hath chas d o er icy waste of waters heavenly blue; On frozen shore of Labrador the Indian s steel hath sped, But vain the shaft, and vain the craft, and vain the fowler s lead. In twinkling gleam of cold moonbeam, their dusky files I trace, In wedge-like throng, in column long, they speed the tireless race; O er craggy mountain-sides, and over torrent tides, The shadow of each column, in swift procession glides. O er the far-resounding surge, in the dim horizon s verge, I see their dark battalions on winnowing pinions urge; O er Lake Superior s sheet their clanging pinions beat, Where Western plain and golden grain spread sumptuous pas tures sweet. The bleak November cloud casts down its snowy shroud, And the throbbings and the sobbings of the winds are swelling loud ; The snowdrift hides the grass, and the lakes are crystal glass, So warn d, the geese-flock legions to gentler regions pass, To the balmy Southern clime, where the orange and the lime, With blossom d fruits, perennial shoots, are ever in their prime; To paradise ambrosial, to banks of spic d perfume, Where forests wide and river-side are prodigal with bloom. THE FALL MIGRATION OF THE BRANT (Anser Bernida.} TpAST on the northern breeze, Beyond the rosy cloud-lands of the morn, I see yon wedge-line columns o er the seas In swift procession borne. ELEPHANT-HUNTING. 33 Now o er some headland gray, Now o er the sloping beach with sands of gold, Now o er thick forests that engird the bay, Your passage I behold. Far up the savage shore of Uaflin s Hay, deep hid in darksome swamps, Or fast by shores of rugged Labrador, Where smoke the Indian camps, Your spring-time home hath been, And there your callow fledgelings you have fed Where rank weeds grow, and wave the grasses green, Afar from human tread. To a soft Southern clime, To Florida s low, marshy coast, Or isles of Mexic Gulf, in flight sublime Speeds on your snble host. And there in bays afar, Or by some sluggish river, dark and deep, Where red flamingoes line the sandy bar And the tall herons sweep, Your winter home shall be, Where groves of palm shall shade their plumy crest, And odorous gales distil from shrub and tree, A paradise of rest! ELEPHANT- HUNTING. (KlcpJias Africans.) journeying over Afric s waste, Fair, flowery scenes bloom d round our way; Now thro wild gardens, Eden-like, And tree-embower d, our pathway lay; Where unknown flowers and nameless plants With flaunting colors pleas d the eye, And placid lakes and streams immense Glisten d and smil d beneath the sky. 3 34 POEMS OF THE KOD AND GUN". The baobob its towering mass Of foliage flutter d overhead, The moshano its pomp of leaves With grace arboreal o er us spread; The tall palmyra, queen of trees, Like minaret rais d its spires around, Which elephants delight to sway, And shake its ripe seeds to the ground; The mimosa, with sweet-gum buds, The stately giraffes love to crop; The banyans, each o er acres spread, Whose trailing shoots they earthward drop, All these, and others numberless, Wide o er the verdurous pastures spring, Laden with fruits, where sweet birds sing, And blossoms smile, and wild vines cling. Here vast, innumerous flocks and herds Of Afric forests rove and range; From grove to grove, from pool to pool, Their endless feeding-places change; Feed on the dry, serrated grass That only in the desert grows ; The camel-thorn, with prickly-hedge, The cactus, that with crimson glows; Feed on the juicy lotus plant, On bulb and tubers of the ground, And on the sweet aquatic shrubs By marshy pool and streamlets found. The lion by the herdsman s kraal Prowls all the night with hollow roar, And near the skulking jackals stalk, And carrion-vultures o er him soar; In fastness of the deepest wood, In mid-day heats, the elephant, Brushing the flies with flapping ear, Stands motionless in secret haunt; But when the evening shades o erspread He seeks some hollow with its pool, ELEPHANT-HUNTING. 35 Some watercourse, retired ami lone, Far wilding in its currents cool, And there with spouting trunk doth lave His dusky shoulders with the wave. The elephant the forest lord, Mightiest of all the multitude Of vast gregarious flocks that roam O er nature s pasture-plain and wood, Feareth no challenge, save, perchance, The lion s hoarse and hollow roar, Or the loud halloo when the tribes Of Caff res o er the desert pour. Ranging the waste, he snaps the trees As on his ponderous route he heaves, Or crops with a fastidious taste The tender buds and spicy leaves; He plucks the sweet fruit from the branch ; With ivory tusk he digs the ground, Feeding on tubers, bulbous roots, That in the forest-land are found, Or finds his most delicious spoil Where melons ripen o er the soil. A hunter from the Northern land Goes forth to dare in fierce career The great game, arm d with deadlier steel Than Bechuanan s simple spear, And dauntless rides forth to the field, Folio w d by tribes with bow and shield, Day after day, with hound and horse And troops of native spears to aid, He follows the unsparing chase, In bloody, devastating raid. Night after night, in densest shade, He watches by some darksome pool The haunt of forest animals, Seeking their nightly fountains cool. 36 POEMS OF THE ROD AND Hid in his screen of bough and leaf, He watches through the starlit night, Hard by the water s plashy brink, Scarce seen in the uncertain light. At first, the sleeping night is still, No murmur stirs the calm profound, .The palm-trees droop their drowsy crowns, The song-birds utter forth no sound; The guinea-fowl s discordant note No longer on the air doth float; All silent in his leafy nest The cooing pigeon takes his rest. But yet the hunter sees the sign Of great game all around the spot: The spoor of roaming elephant O erspreads the solitary grot; And well he knows the monster huge Must come the cooling lymph to taste, Coming from weary miles of wood To seek his fountain of the waste, As whales o er seas remotest roam From pole to pole, from shore to shore, So elephants a continent In restless wanderings explore. The gravel by his trunk is stirr d, The trees about are snapt and torn, The hunter sees the frequent dint Of rhinoceros s horn. Soon comes the giant Borele, With ivory horn and snorting roar; Soon comes the towering elephant, To bend the darkling fountain o er; And quick the volleying rifles dart The leaden bolt to brain and heart! DEER-HUNTING IN MAINE. 37 I>KI:R HUNTING IN MAINE. (Cmm.) TN the evergreen forests and swamps of Maine, When the maples are red with the autumn stain, By the Lake of Moosrhrud, or far in the hills, Where the source of Penobscot trickles in rills, The hardy hunters and frontiersmen, In woody fastness, in hemlock glen, And the "loggers" that toil with axe and with team To fell the pines that rise by the stream. Oft leave their labors, to follow the chase, To ambush the deer in their lurking-place; Or to hunt the antler d moose, when the heat Shall drive the herds to some cool retreat, To rivor margin or lakelet cool, Or cedar thicket that girdles the pool. When the summer is rife with insect pests, When the teasing black-fly the air infests, The browsing moose and the feeding deer Fly from those torments to waters clear, And wading far out thro shallow and bay Secure from their wing d tormentors stray, To browse on the lotus and floating leaves Of the lily, where blue the water heaves. Tis there the fleet-footed cariboo laves His tawny hide in the gelid waves; Tis there the woodmen, in swift canoe, With heavy rifle the chase pursue. Far away, where the Adirondacks grand With their rock-crown d peaks in grandeur stand, Where the wild Tahawus, the Onkorlah, Pile up their ramparts lonely and far, Casting great shadows from ledge and from wood On boiling river and limpid flood, The hunter comes with weapon and hound To mark the trail in the forest ground, To follow with keen-nos d, yelping pack The cloven foot-prints that betray the track. His skilful eye discerneth the way 38 POEMS OF THE BOD AND GUN. The noble hart hath pass d that day; By the bark on the birch-tree fray d and worn He notes the bruise of the sharp-prong d horn, By the dint in the rivulet s sandy brink He knows that the hind stopp d there to drink; Not a broken twig, not a leaf displac d, Not a moss tuft from fallen cedar eras d, Not a dew-drop dash d from the brushwood green May escape the hunter s vigilance keen ; He notes the herbage but lately cropp d The trampled flowers with dews bedropp d, The cove where they wallow d, the dense retreat Where they couch d in the mid-day s sultry heat. No toil may daunt him ere dawn of day Hath dappled the morn, thick-shadow d and gray, He is arm d for the chase ; thro monstrous stems Of the timber grove the river that hems, Thro briery swamps, thro alder brakes, Thro upland pine-tracts his way he takes; He warily creeps to the brow of the hill, Or brink of the dell, all lonesome and still; Thro wilds where the soft forest soil hath the print Of the fugitive hoof in many a dint, Till at last he driveth thro bone and thro brain Of the bounding stag the leaden rain! Far in the South, the stout cavalier On galloping courser rides down the deer, Far soundeth his hulloo and bugle horn From the broad plantation, at break of morn; Thro bush and thro brier, thro tangled glade, Like a charging troop sweeps the cavalcade, And many a noble buck of ten-tines Is brought to bay ere the day declines. Where Blooming-grove Park its broad domain Extends o er craggy hillside and plain, The hunter lies in the hemlock woods, Where the turbid stream pours out its floods, And awaits the flying deer when the hounds Pursue their track through the forest grounds, And oft in the bosky coverts the stag, ORIENTAL HUNTING-GROUNDS AND SCENERY. 39 In his headlong leap over hillock and crag, Some rival meets in the forest way, Disputing with jealous fury his sway. Ah! then with a menacing front they stand, Sublime in stature, supremely grand Each champion paws the earth in his ire; Their eyes are aflame with lurid fire; Their branching antlers in air are toss d, And then, like duellist sword-blades, are cross d, They start, they retreat, they charge again; They thrust till each point has a bloody stain, Till, fast interlock d, tine grasp d with line, They fall at the root of some giant pine; And, panting and bleeding, their eyes aglare, They helpless perish with famine there! ORIENTAL HUNTING-GROUNDS AND SCENERY. r PIS a grand scene! The sunset s mellow brush Tints with a rosy glow the sparkling snows, Shining o er frozen torrents, gorgeous lakes, That gleam as if with diamonds inlaid. Far to the South, Bengal s untrodden wilds Glow like an emerald; while Admere s waste Spreads its vast solitude of drifted sands. Farther away, the sacred Ganges winds Thro green savannas and embowering groves, Until it mingles with the Bengal tides. Behold ! far down the northern slope, Beneath the realm of snow, the mighty woods Rustle their foliage of eternal green. The teak-tree, the brown chestnut, and the oak, Kiss d by the sunset, glow like golden crowns; While the black hemlock and the plumy pine Thrust up their spear-like points aiul pennon d shafts, Like hosts embattled. Far beyond, the plains Of verduous Thibet flaunt in living bloom. How grand this southern slope, whose terraces Of granite skirt the dark abyss! 40 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. These cliffs o erhang no pastoral valleys, Wave with no foliage, nor are imag d back In no clear mirror of pellucid lake. See, how like mosques and minarets they cleave With their sharp pinnacles the empty air; While the dark faces of the rocks dip down, Forming wild chasm fathomless ravine Along whose pebbled road the torrents pour. And now a picture of serener bloom Breaks on my vision; oranges in groves, Citrons and yellow lemons glow like gold The ripe pomegranate drops its juicy fruit; Red cherries hang their clusters o er the trees, Luxuriant mangoes swing their golden globes While strawberries stain with crimson all the ground. Green, fruitful vines their branches interlace, And loftiest trees with flowery festoons drape; Peacocks display their gorgeous plumes around, And birds of paradise their mottled hues. How clear this fountain! in whose depths The blue and gold-hued fishes glide; So clear, I count the pink-ray d shells That pave the shallows of the tide. How gay the broidering flowers that fringe Its edge, with hues of every tinge, As if some fairy hand had sown The spot with jewels from her zone: And held a crystal cup to dip The ice-cold water to the lip. Would the fair genius of the place Might beam on me her radiant face! TIGER HUNTING IN INDIA WITH ELEPHANTS, "(Tigris regalis.} cross d a brawling mountain torrent, far From our Indian camp. The red, angry glare Of crimson sunset shimmer d through the clouds TIGER-HUNTING IN INDIA WITH ELEPHANTS. 41 Of dust that 111 I d the air with their dull, coppery hues, Presaging the near coining of a storm. We pass d the border- forest s gloomy belt, Behind which, tier on tier, the mighty range Of the majestic Himalayas towrr d in air, Till their snow-clad summits seem d to pierce the sky; Had pass d thro villages in dense mango groves Past temples, shadow d by great, tamarind-trees; Past crowded hamlets fill d with din and dust; Past the low country, covered with green crops; Past patches of rice stubble, with dense grass between, Whence rose the partridge, plover, and the quail, And florican and pea-fowl, in dense flocks; Past groves of feathery bamboo and the palm, And plumy plaintains that conceal the huts, Midst aloe-hedges festoon d with gay vines. There were few song-birds flitting thro the gloom Of wood arcades, to make them musical. The songless*horn-bill dartg from tree to tree; The big woodpecker taps the hollow log, With gorgeous plumage glistening in the sun; Flights of green parrots scream above your head ; The golden oriole and the bulbul make Their feeble chirrup, while at times resounds The melancholy hoot of blinking owl, Or golden pigeon s soft and murmurous coo. There, on the borders of the jungle wild, The hunters pause ere they invade its depths. Twas a dark, deep, impenetrable swamp, Thick with tall reeds and wild vines interlac d Homes of the savage creatures of the waste The tiger s haunt, fierce monarch of the woods! Here rang d the brown hog deer in browsing herds, The wild pig and the boar, with gnashing tusks; Here tramp d the black rhinoceros on his way, And wallow d the big buffaloes at will; The jackals rais d at night their fearful howl, While overhead great flocks of vultures soar d. And here the hunting elephants are rang d In line continuous, ready for the charge; 42. POEMS OF THE BOD AND GUN". Each bears a howdah on his towering back, Whereon the hunter with his rifle sits, To stop the royal game with fatal aim. Soon the long line advances thro the wood, Trampling the bending branches and the reeds, While loud the native beaters sound their drums, And kindle into flames the jungle grass, Kindle acacia shrubs and thorny bush. So they press on, a wall of flame behind, While fast before them flies the frantic game. At length a tiger bounds away in fright, And fast the goaded elephant pursues. As fast he tears thro tangled jungles green, Like great ship surging thro the ocean tides. The Mahouts rain their blows upon his head, The spearmen prick him with their lances keen; While on thro bush and brake, thro thorny scrub, Through stream, and down precipitous ravine, The headlong chase is urg d, till, brought to bay, The tiger falls beneath th unerring shot. LION OF SOUTH AFRICA. (Leo Africanus.} OLOW pass d the sultry days in Afric wilds, Slow wan d the moonlit nights, slow flash d the dawns, And still the lion came not with his heavy tread And roar, to fright the desert space. There was a hunter of Algerian fame, Gerard, the lion-killer, stout of heart And strong of limb, who, with his Arab guides, Waited and watch d upon a granite ledge The lion s coming, wearily delay d. He hears the roar increasing in its swell, The trampling step that crushes leaves and twigs, And crash of bending trees cast rude aside, And knows his shaggy foe hath left his lair, And comes with lashing tail and tossing mane, To quell who dares to meet him face to face. He hears his stride, his roar, his breathing hard LION OF SOUTH AFRICA. 43 Now twenty paces distant, now fifteen, And the stout hunter s quickly throbbing heart With Hope s intoxication wild doth beat. He hears the latest step, he sees a head Enormous from the foliage dense emerge, As forth with grace commanding steps the beast, In open glade, half-seen and half conceal d. Seeing the hunter, his great flaming eyes Dilated, gaze astonish d on his foe, While from his jaws immense he churns the foam. The hunter for one instant holds his aim, Then fires, and straightway peals a savage roar Of agony, that stuns and frights the midnight wood! He sees one paw, one mighty shoulder then, Go down, and dark dishevell d mane, Then all the monstrous body sinks to earth, A lifeless mass, outstretch d and grim in death. Soon the glad news thro all the douars spread, And signal -guns awaken d all the plain. And Arabs throng d exultant o er the hills. The lion-king was borne in triumph down By eager multitudes, while bonfires blaz d And guns were fir d and warlike music made, And women clapp d their hands and war-songs sang, While men in long procession marclfd around; And royal wake and revels high were held For lion of the Archon laid in state! With the next day-dawn he o erlook d the plain, Outstretch d for leagues far in the desert s heart, All seam d with rocky gulch and sandy shelves,* And sprinkled with thick clumps of olive groves, And palms and stately cork trees, fair to see. lie gaz d on villages and cattle farms, Embower d in woods, and saw from day to day The herds pass forth in lengthen d files to feed, And, home returning, folded for the night; But yet the lion came not. There would come The wild hogs rooting in the forest glades, The prowling jackals and the timid hare That gambol d safe in fastnesses of hills, 44 POEMS OP THE BOD AND GUN, Stags with their kingly crowns and stately tread, And beasts of prey, and tapirs with white tusks, But o er the ridg d plateau no lion came. The hunter found in many an open glade The grassy couch the tawny beast had press d, And whence he stalk d when evening shadows fell To prowl for prey around the cattle pens. There, all the roots and stones he had displac d To smooth his bed, and thick the ground was spread With tree-bark scrap d in play by sharpen d claws, At last the triumph! The soft twilight eve Had faded, and night s dusky shadows crept O er glimmering plains and up the craggy cliffs, Blackening the vistas of the cork-tree woods; And silence reign d supreme in all the camps. The ambush d hunter listening heard afar A hollow murmur! Was it but the sound Of gusty breezes sobbing thro the leaves, Or voice of brawling torrents down the rocks? Was it the wolf s long howl, or wild bear s snarl? No; twas the lion s muffled roar in dark ravine That yawns below, heard fitfully as he comes; And as he came, the Arab tribesmen quail d, Azid and Ombar pale as sheeted ghosts; Yet firm as rock the Gallic hero stands, Grasping his rifle with courageous hands, And quick the savage monster bites the dust. HUNTING IN CENTRAL AFRICA THE HIPPOPOTA. MUS, OR SEA-COW. (Hippos Potamos.) >r PWAS a fair river, fring d with drooping reeds And grasses rank that belted in its marge A stream whose oozy shore was trampled thick With spoor of buffalo and elephant, And numberless strange roamers of the wild ; And here the ambush d hunter views unseen The clumsy hippopotami disport, Swimming in sluggish play across the stream, HUNTING THE HIPPOPOTAMUS, OR SEA-COW, 46 Or plunging like great whales in boiling dn-p<. At length one mightier than the rest rolls up His ebon Hanks, and lifts its shapeless head; Then swift the whistling bullet finds its mark, Crashing its way through adamantine bone. The wounded monster plung d beneath the tide, Then with a floundering splash emerg d again, Blowing like porpoise, spouting frothy gore, Swimming in circles round and round the stream, Now on the surface, and now diving deep, Lashing with tail and with enormous limbs, Till came convulsive the sharp pang of death. Then came rejoicing Balaklai tribes, From mud-built kraal, and wattled native hut, In long lines winding through the mazy groves, To feast and fatten on abundant spoil. Famish d, they cast their skin karosses down, And shield and battle-club and assagai, To cleave the flesh from bone and ivory tusk, To build great bonfires and prolong their feasts. Where the Leambye its perennial floods Pours darkling thro the overarching woods, Dense woods with mosses and gray lichens drap d, Woods with ochilla-weed engarlanded, Lurks the great sea-cow, black and vast of bulk, An evil demon hideous to behold, It ploughs those watery wastes, or sluggish sleeps In sun-dried mud-flats, or in ambush lurks. Amid the bending rushes of the shore, Ofttimes in moonlit nights, when dance and drum Have ceas d in native huts their festive sounds, And youth and maiden hasten to their bath In the deep river, the insatiate brutes Dart forth with gnashing jaws to seize the prey. In heats of noon they haunt the open stream, And in the river shallows love to stalk, With flanks submerg d, and only their black snouts Thrust from the water; then they sudden plunge And roll in clumsy gambols to and fro, Or dive to munch the grass that grows below. 46 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. When night draws near the forest hunter goes, Arm d to entrap them. Nightly turns the herd From the dark river to the open plain, Where springs the juicy grass they love to crop. Thither, in path direct, thro tangled thorns, O er rock and fallen trees they bend their way, Returning ere the dawn to lake and stream, Where, hid in thickets of impervious shade, The daring hunter lurks to meet his game. Ofttimes those savage brutes in frenzied rage, With bellowings like the volleying thunder-peal Mingle in bloody duel on the wave. Then fierce the combat; with their eyes aflame They seize with jaw, they stab with pointed tusk, Advance, retreat, till boils the ensanguin d wave, And the calm night re-echoes with their groans, Till sinks the vanquish d, gor d and torn with wounds. WATCHING FOR ELEPHANTS AT NIGHT IN SOUTH AFRICA. Tj^OR days the hunter over open plains Fring d by dense clumps of dwarfish forest-trees, Where aromatic shrubs and grasses grew; Had follow d the red lion s heavy track And the great elephant s majestic trail, The spotted leopard and hyena gaunt, And hippopotamus in sluggish pool, The fleeing ostrich and the brindled gnu, The nimble spring-bok and black antelope, Pallah and zebra, and the tall giraffe, And now he ceas d the marsh and pitch d the camp. The panting ox from heavy yoke was loos d, The weary horse was tether d on the plain, The native tribesmen rais d the sheltering tent, And lit the evening fires for social feasts, And all were glad in this secluded spot To seek repose, or watch for prowling game* Twas a wild ravine, parting the bare cliffs WATCHING FOR ELEPHANTS AT NIGHT. 47 With gulf impassible, win-re play d a fount (lushing from cavern d rocks and pebbed slopes, And pouring thro the shades ;i crystal stream, That made the lonely glen enchanted ground. Sometimes the vigils of the night began At twilight hour, when sank the royal sun Superb, to rest; when palm-trees droop d in sleep, And motionless the sandal-forests slept, And came the hovering, gayly plumag d flocks. Brown partridges and mottled guinea-fowl, The purple pigeon and the turtle-dove, And the gay, green parrots, chattering in the grove, To taste the limpid waters of the stream, And fold in perfect peace their downy wings. Then came the game, when midnight s dusky shape, Like weird enchantress, wav d her ebon wand, And steep d the drowsy air in wizard glooms; And oft the hunters watrh d, when thunders rav d, And flash d the blue, swift lightnings in the sky, Illuminating wide the desert space, And peopling all the arcades of the grove With glimmering, spectral lights and phantom shades. Here came the elephant, the forest lord; Mightiest of all the vast gregarious herds That range o er nature s pasture-plains and woods. He fears no challenge, save perchance at night The tawny lion s hollow-mutter d roar Or savage hulloo, where the swarming tribes Of Bechuanas come with rattling spear. Ranging the tangled wild, he snaps the trees As on with ponderous bulk he ploughs his way, Pausing at times with nice fastidious taste To crop the jucy buds or spicy leaves; He plucks the ripe fruits from the drooping bough, He digs with ivory tusk the turfy ground, Feeding on tubers sweet and bulbous root, That in the fertile soil luxuriant grow, Or in the grassy pastures stops to taste The rinded melons, ripening in the heats. Here in the dark ravine, by sluggish pool, 48 POEMS OF THE KOD AND The hunter watches from the dusk till dawn, Ambush d in reeds and circled in with shades, Trusting in valiant heart and rifled tube. Waiting, he hears the heavy trampling step Splash thro the mire and snap the rotting branch Hears the shrill trumpetings advancing near, And drops of water, spurted from the trunk; Discerns at last, like vast, gigantic shade, The swaying elephant loom dim and large, With flapping ears and high uplifted trunk, And then the blinding flash and ringing steel 1 Oft in the mid-day heats, in depth of woods, Hunting with gallant horse and yelping pack And shouting tribes, the forest roaming game, He came where up-plough d ground and broken boughs Proclaim d their spoor; and here he found the herd Of big bull-elephants, a host at bay. Then rose the shout of men, the yell of hound, Whistled the spear and rang the volleying gun, While panic-struck the herds charge frantic on, Level the snapping tree-trunks in their course, And fill with shrilly trumpetings the air, Speeding with tails aloft and swinging tusks; While here and there a bleeding victim reels And staggering halts, then crashes to the ground. RHINOCEROS-HUNTING. T^OR days the hunter march d o er wooded hills And mountain ranges, frowning like great forts With buttress d wall and granite parapet ; And oft had met amid those savage scenes Fair, blooming valleys sown with scarlet flowers And shrubs delicious with their honey d sweets, Shady with thickets of the sandal-wood, And delicate acacias, on whose tops The camelopards tall delight to brouse ; There oft had met the bounding antelope, And shaggy buffaloes, whose headlong charge KIIINOCKKOS-IirNTING. -I . And muffled roar like earthquake shook the ground. At last, emerging from the mountain base, He saw far stretching to th horizon s verge, A rolling plain of limitless extent. And here, beside a stream, he piteh d his camp. Dark iguanas, prrrh d on pendent branch, Sleep in the sunshine in the noon-day heats, Or plunge in wave, alarm d by clipping oar; And there the armor- plated crocodiles Fask on the black mud-islands in repose, Or lash with iron tails the slothful pool; Tin-re serpents venomous and twisting snakes Hang from the branches or infest the swamps; And there the musky hippopotami, Frightful with rounded head and gnashing tusk, Wallow at will, and fright with snorting roar. The summer suns of centuries had seen Those countless herds in woods primeval roam, Wide over grassy plains and shrubby slopes; Herds that had scoru d the rude barbarian hordes, Who came with shaft and slender spear to slay, Hut tied from lion s roar, and borcle s horn, Or the mad charge of trampling elephant. By this clear watercourse with jungles fring d, Border d by yellow sands that bore impress Of lion s spoor, and elephant s great foot, And hoof of buffalo or tall giraffe, And trail of all the wanderers of the waste, The hunters watch d. Sometimes w T ould come a troop Of black-fac d baboons chattering in the wood, Zebras and blue hartebeests would caper round, Herds of doe-pallahs slow would canter by, Led by some princely buck of stately head; And borele, the black rhinoceros, Would come with brandish d horn and angry roar; The shrill- voic d jackals their sad coronachs Would raise, and gaunt hyenas howl; There frequent came, fast crashing thro the wood, The bulky buffalo, whose massive horn Form d shield, like runged oak, to guard his brow; 4 50 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And with surpassing dignity there came The camelopards, of colossal height, Stalking with lengthened stride and soaring head; All these strange creatures of the wilderness Came to the hunter s stream for sport or drink, Soon with their dripping blood the wave to stain. So, night by night, near dark, secluded pool, Or in the blaze of noon, o er boundless plains Sown with bush-grass and aromatic herb, Or in some thorny grove or ancient wood, The hunter met and slew borele grim. Not without perils! Once, in tangled swamp, The black rhinoceros had turn d to bay, Wounded and maddened; high he toss d his horn And red his wicked eye with murder gleam d, Snorting with wrath and trampling fierce the ground Then with a headlong charge he frenzied came, While horse and rider fled with panic speed, The horrid, horny snout in hot pursuit! And well that day the gallant desert barb Maintain d the matchless fame of Arab blood ; No need for jambock-lash or gory spear, When life and liberty were all before, And gashing tusk and iron hoof behind ! Ah! then no mortal weapon might avail, Nought but a speed miraculous to save! E en the vast elephant, supreme in strength, Would wheel his dusky flanks and flee amain, And crested lion of the Afric waste Would droop his shaggy mane and slink away! Watching the waters on one moonlit night, A black rhinoceros came down to drink, Or wade and wallow in the gelid wave, And there the hunter s rifle laid him low. Serene was night with moonlight s silver flood, And bright the isles that stud the glassy stream ; No breeze to stir the aloe s thorny tops, To rustle the tall palms that lined the brink, Or toss th acacia leaves that swoon d in sleep. The parrots green no longer mock d the ear, AI KH AN (JA.MK Till! (i K.MSHOK. 51 And monkeys brown that sprang along the trees And chatter d all day long, were liush d in rest. But sudden change canu- o er the tranquil scene, \Vlnn >i.\ great lions stalk d from out the wood, Follow d by jackals and hyenas grim, Who scented from afar the slaughter *! beast. The lions peacefully the banquet shar d, Tearing the carcass with their dripping claws; But fierce the meaner beasts would snarl and fight, And for each morsel red contend around, And till with fiendish laugh and scream and howl The dim and drowsy solitudes of night; Nor ceas d the clamor till the reddening East Fluslfd the whole air with roses of the morn, AFRICAN GAME THE GEMSBOK. A/TOST beautiful those roving tribes, The antelopes, the bounding deer, The wild deer of the Afric land, Bo tleet, so graceful in career. The blessbok and the springbok swift, The oryx, steinbok, and hartbeest, The quagga, pal lab, and the gnu, That o er the boundless pastures feast, Have since Creation s dawning rang d Those grassy pastures, green and vast; And countless summers have beheld Those wild herds speeding far and fast. Free denizens of wood and glade, Of prairie broad, of flowery plain, The savage tribes may scarce molest; Their spears and arrows are in vain. They range the mountain foot, they plunge In hidden gorge, in ravine dim, They speed across the craggy slopes, Along the bending grass they skim. By fountains in the desert s heart Where leans the palm-tree o er the wave, 52 POEMS OF THE EOD AKD GUK. They come consuming thirst to quench, Their panting flanks to dip and lave. The blessbok, noblest of the herds, Loveliest with all the rainbow dyes, Purple and violet and brown, Like mingled glories of the skies, Is e er so shy, so fleet of foot, That vain is hunter s hot pursuit. The black wild-beest, a bolder race, Fly not with all the flying crew, But wheel in mazy circles round, Tempting the hunter to pursue; In evolutions intricate, Like dragoons skirmishing in war, They circling caper round the hunt, Now swooping near, now scatter d far. While hunters charge one herd in front Another gathers in the way, Fierce cossacks of the desert space, Now menacing, now brought to bay. THE GORILLA. (Nyena.) TTIGH beats the hunter s heart when all the night, Hid in some copse at edge of wood, He watches the dim plain for wandering game. Still sleeps the forest, save when swells the voice Of prowling lion, or hyena s howl, Or cracks the twig beneath some trampling hoof. Soft falls the moonlight, filtering thro the roof Of the dense -matted foliage soft it gilds, With shimmering glory, all the desert space, Shining on island-groves and grassy slopes. From time to time, like drifting shadows, pass In lengthen d line the browsing buffalo; The eland, gnu, and the black antelope Glide past ; the bulky elephant, Swaying his tushes, crushes thro the glade; The black rhinoceros stalks unwieldy by, TIM: BOBILLA, 5.3 Seeking sequcster d marsh or deep lagoon. Tumultuous beats the hunter s throbbing heart When tlirills the forest with (Jorilla s roar, And thus one gallant forester* recites How first he slew the king of Afric hind : For days with his swart savages he track \1 The labyrinthine, unknown wilderness, Seeking Gorilla; track d him o er rough hills, Through mountainous defile and rocky gulch, Where mossy boulders chok d the rugged way. They clainber d granite cone and steepy cliff, Clinging to swinging vine and drooping bough: They skirted ravines, where the pouring fall For ages long had thunder d all unheard; They cross d dank swamps and morasses. Where reptiles venomous assnil d the way. At last! a savage bark, a hollow roar, Muttering like rolling thunder, shook the air, And with their weird reverberations woke The sleeping echoes, warning that the lord Of the wide wilderness held there his reign. On came the monster, uttering fiendish cries, Those quick and bark-like shrieks so full of rago, So like demoniac yell of insane man. In the dim light his Satyr-features fierce, His devilish eyes of baleful, gloomy gray, And grinding teeth, "might well proclaim a form Sent from infernal shades to walk the earth. On, step by step, he came! with brawny fist He smote his hairy breast in frantic rage, Until it rang like hollow drum of war. A frightful sound! Again, again his roar Peal d fiercely from his cavernous, deep chest, As on he came. His eyes fiash d lurid fire; The short black hair upon his forehead rose, Twitching convulsive, while each grinning fang Churn d the white froth, and gnash d with hellish rage. Straight on he came, quick-beating at his breast * Mons. Du Chaillu. 54 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Still with redoubled roar and frenzied eye, Till rang the shot; then with appalling shriek So human, yet so brutal in its sound, The monster reel d and stiffen d on the sod! Stark, grim, and bloody, terrible in death, Gorilla dies! And long the hunter views With wonder and with awe those muscles vast, Knotted in swelling bunches, the vast limbs That might the tawny lioness o ermatch. And the strong hands, whose claw-like hooks might rend Man s puny body, as with banded steel. GIRAFFE-HUNTING IN CENTRAL AFRICA. (Giraffa.) TN far Mid- Africa, where woods inimitable weave their gloom, Where the palmyra lifts its crown Of verdure and its flowery plume, Mimosas yield their honey d food, And mopan and mowana wood Mingle their interlacing screen, And chief, the acacias, tendef-leav d, Flutter their pennoucelles of green There fleet and far, secure in shade, The giant camelopards rove; Stupendous monarchs of the glade, The stateliest denizens of the grove. Oft they forsake their woody haunt For open lawn and grassy slope, Vast level plains, the water-shed Of streams, where flocks of antelope Rival in speed the giraffe herd, Each fleeter than the skimming bird. An English hunter thus relates How first the noble game he knew, Leading his savage cavalcade Of Hottentots, a motley crew. .,!i;.\! |-i:-lll N IING IN CKNTII.M. AIKICA. 5f> When first the apparation grand Of the tall beast before him r He dccm d it spiky, wilher d branch Of palm that in the desert grows; Hut soon the object, gliding fast Above the topmost shiubbery. Like .-piring shaft of plumy pine, Told that the long-sought prey was nigh. Hi- spurr d in chase; before him sped, With clumsy gait but matchless speed, The giraffe, with its black tail curv d, Outstripping the pursuing steed. lie tle\v -he sail d, like gliding ship, Swift by the gale o er surges roll d. With swanlike neck and sloping side, That in the sunbeam gleam d like gold. Stretching away with mighty stride O er treacherous swamp and rotten soil, Where grass and tangled vines conceal d The gaping fissures with their coil, Headlong and frantic thro the wood Thunder pursuer and pursued. Twice was the towering form conceal d r.y bark of intervening trees, And twice from out the labyrinth The toiling, lumbering game he sees; Now tilting over eminence, Topping the ridge with gallant stride; Now plung d in hollows of the plain, Whose dipping slopes the quarry hide. At length, a shallow stream is reach d. Whose sands its spider legs delay, And here the foaming. steed hath brought His rider even with the prey; Then the big ritle is uprais d Against the dappled creature s side. A shot a groan and headlong falls The giraffe, red with slaughter dy d. 56 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. CARIBOU-HUNTING. (Tarangus zangifer.) T\7"HEN hot the sultry heats intense Bake the dry soil, the brooklets parch, In brakes impervious of the pine, The cedar-thicket, and the larch, The mighty caribou s retreat, Seeking a shelter from the heat. To these dim-wooded fastnesses The hunter goes afoot to chase, Without the help of horse or hound, The giants of the Cervine race. Tormented by the insect-swarms, The black-flies, the green woodland s pest, The caribous seek lonely pond And forest lakelet for their rest. There wading far out in the wave, With nose dipt even with the tide, Secure from his infesting foes, He wallowing bathes his reeking hide, Feeding luxurious on the leaves Of lotus on the stream that heaves. And here, ere dappled is the east, The hunter lurks upon its path, Watchful to catch its trampling tread, Fast by its early forest-bath. Watchful he notes the crackling twig, The faintest rustling of the hedge; Then drops with his unerring aim The quarry at the water s edge. When far the winter snows lie deep,i And woods are heavy with their freight, And shapeless drift and brittle crust No longer will sustain their weight, Troops of swift-footed caribou Form for their homes their " winter yard" Trampling with hoof the heaping snows, As threshing-floor compact and hard; Shelter d by hemlock, fir, and pine, CARIBOU-HUNTING. 57 That droop around their plumes of green, They crop their juicy canopy, The shoots that form their leafy screen. Mounted on snow-shoes, with their food And blankets on light sledges pack d, The hunters of the wild stag cross The snow s immeasurable tract. For leagues they travel pleasant task Is theirs to form the camp at night; To stack the arms; to fell a pine For shelter, soaring to vast height; To heap the fresh untrodden snow To windward like a rampart wall; To feed the camp-fire till it flames Like furnace o er the hemlocks tall; To spread the couch with fragrant tips Of spicy cedar, sweet for rest. Then, when some Indian guide hath ta cn, Thro frozen lake, of trout a score, Some hunter hath brought in a brace of the ruil d grouse, to swell the store. The bubbling pan and roasting-spit Invite them to the welcome board, Where high the savory meat is pil d, And fast the generous cup is pour d; Then pipe is smok d and tale is told, And each one, wrapp d in blanket s fold, Sleeps sound beneath the winter sky, Till dappled morning greets the eye. With day-dawn is the hunt resum d, 1 ntil the browsing " yard " is found; Then quick uuharness d is the sled, The snow-shoe from each foot unbound ; Then each and all with throbbing heart, Grasping the rille, cautious creep, Thursting the tangling twigs apart To where the yarded victim^ sleep. A noble sight! Gigantic bulls Flapping their huge ears they behold; Licking their glossy hides, like kine 58 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUK. In rural farmer s cattle fold; While cows on tender fir-tops browse, Or lazy here and there repose, Chewing the cud, unmindful all Of cruel death and lurking foes. Then comes the conflict rifles flash, And all is wild, tumultuous fright; The wounded, bellowing madly, dash Thro the dense wood in headlong flight! While many a forest monarch lies Bleeding and struggling till he dies, Eucrimsoning with spouting gore The forest s white unspotted floor. THE HUNTER IN CENTRAL AFRICA. r PIIE hunter roam d far in the broad Afric land. Where the pallahs and gnus are gather d in band, And the oryx and springboks and sable hartbeest Over green boundless pastures collect to the feast: Where herds of wild elephants crash thro the woods, And the black rhinoceros wallows in floods, Where the lion and leopard devastate the plain, And hyenas and jackals feed on their slain; Where the stately giraffe and swift antelope Sweep the vales at the base of the grand mountain-slope. How fair are those woodlands, those pastures of green, Where the interlac d boughs weave an emerald screen, So deep in their gloom that scarce may the light Pierce the roof of the grove with penciliugs bright! There boundless the iron-wood forests extend And the lofty acacias gracefully bend, And mimosas and willows and fragrant white-thorn, Whose rich yellow blossoms the woodlands adorn. Where ga} 7 blooming flowers embroider the grass, And birds of rare plumes and sweet melodies pass. In the belt of the woods, with their green colonnades. The fern and the passion-flower brighten d the glades. TIIK IIUNTKK I\ (T.NTKAI. AFKIOA. 59 O! noble the i^anic of this African huul The lion, the leopard, the elephant grand, The wild-hoar and buffaloes sweeping the plain, Their measureless pastures, their endless domain. The hunt T takes rifle, then summons his men, Beehuanas and Bushmen, from mountain and glen; Tall, stalwart, and lithe as leopards in tlight, Some true as the steel, some trembling with fright. He bids them take knife and sharp assegai When the herd of wild elephants threaten the way. Bull elephants, ann d with tushes so strong That trample and crush as they thunder along, So majestic in stature, colossal in height, It is peril and death to meet them in light. In these vales and ravines and forests of green The foot-paths of elephants thickly arc seen, Where for ages untold these monsters have trod, And whose white, bleaching bones still sprinkle the sod. Mid jungles of speckboom their relics are found, Where mimosa thickets o ershadow the ground; Where the yellow-wood, cedar, and iron-wood grow, Crown d with vine wreaths perennial, a wonderful show. Tis Tao, the lion, is monarch of all! Whose roarings terrific the Bushmen appal! When you meet him alone in the forests, beware; Beware when at night he stalks forth from his lair. How majestic in death! the eyeballs of fire, The great rounded head, so frightful in ire, The vast massive arms, the black shaggy mane. The sharp crooked claws, blood-red with the slain; The powerful jaws, the symmetry line, In beauty so perfect in every line; And you feel that the noblest of prizes is won When lie lies grim in death, the spoil of your gun. Ah! hear him at night when all nature is still And darkness and silence hold forest and hill; Hear his low, growling moan, his full, solemn roar, Now muffled, now hoarse, like the surge on the shore; Hear the roar of two troops that meet at the brink Of the forest-shut fountain its crystal to drink. GO POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. Hear the roar of defiance, so fierce, so intense That it deafens and daunts the terrified sense; Then say that no thunder that rolls in the sky Hath a tone so sublime as this menacing cry! GRIZZLY-BEAR HUNTING. (Ursm JwrrWii) IV/TID scenes magnificently grand In forest-ground and mountain-land, Savage and solitary lord Of dark ravine and pastures broad, The grizzly bear, beyond the dome Of Rocky Mountains, holds its home. Far o er that world of icy peaks, Of herbless crag and precipice, Where scarce a stunted shrub may throw Its pennon o er the void abyss, Higher than vulture wing sweeps the woods, Or eagle from his eyrie soars, The she bear rears her tawny brood, Pacing the ledges granite floors. More fierce thnn tiger of Bengal Or lion of the Afric coast; For one will fly the step of man, Cowering, in tangled coverts lost; The other slink away at shout Of savage chief and rabble rout. But this grand monarch hath no dread Of mortal art or human power; For, arm d with claws of crooked steel, And fangs like tushes of the boar, It faces with terrific growls Whatever life invades its den Whether a single foe that prowls Around, or multitudes of men. M;I//LY-IU:AII HUNTING. Yet sonic brave hunters of the wild, Alone and single-handed, dare To seek him in his darkling den, Defy him in his cavern lair, Anu d only with his rille true, Valiant of heart and firm of nerve, He tracks him. through defiles sublime To where the cave-mouth opes its curve, \Vell knowing that the brute doth dwell All winter in that secret cell. Stern, then, he strips him for the light, Careful prepares his pitch torchlight; Looks to his weapon, sure its load Is certain on his dreadful road (For life and limb are on the cast; One failure, and it is his last); Then creeps as into yawning grave, Down the dark pathway of the cave. With steady progress on he goes, The red torch Hashing out its glare; He sees each dripping rock and crag . And the black outline of the bear. The brute, arous d from drowsy rest, Toward the tlaming beacon stalks, Sniffing, amaz d, the tainted air As onward to his fate he walks; Speed true, good ball! for if it fail, No human valor might avail! The brute so close hath near d the flame, His breath may fan the hunter s cheek. But not a tremor shakes his frame, No pallid damps a tremor speak; But, sure the aim, the deadly ball Rends its swift way through eye and brain The hero in that dismal hall Rejoices o er the monster slain. 62 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. ELEPHANT-HUNTING IN THE ISLAND OF CEYLON. mountain -girdled plains of steep decline, Seam d here and there witli precipices steep, Descend in narrow belts of jungle to the stream. Amid those rugged grass-lands lie the elk, Mid arid ravines and the forest-shades, And here in fastnesses of wood and rock The mighty elephant hath found a home. There thro those awful gorges torrents roar, And bellowing cataracts plunge amain, Prone thro the narrow chasms of the cliffs. One plunge! then, without ledge to break the fall, It downward shoots, at first like crystal glass, Then like a broken cataract of snow; Then all is seething foam and clouds of mist! In Afric lands the elephant delights In level downs where grows his chosen food, The juicy mimosas, but in Ceylon realms He seeks the sides of jungle-mantled mounts, Threading the rugged alleys of the rocks. There, amid jungle-flowers or soft morass, Deep lakes, or muddy tanks or shallow pools, With cautious stride he tramples on his way. Noble these scenes of nature ! With great woods Thro which the boiling river ploughs its way, Forests whose interlacing boughs extend Above, and cast dark shadows o er the wave; Waves brighten d by the gleam of darting fish. These great beasts of the wild at night forsake The jungles, and thro forests pass to drink And bathe in stream, then seek their haunts at dawn. The hunters with their native beater-scouts Were out at day-dawn, tramping thro the plains And streams, then halted in an opening of the woods, Awaiting breathless th approaching herds. No pen or tongue that grand scene may describe, The trumpeting and roaring of the herd, Mingled with shrill screams of remoter herds; A I ir.MNAI. SI UKTS. 63 The snap of stems and branches of the trees, The rushing sound of live tops, as if storms Were howling thro them as the herd press on. The forest edge was fac d with network dense Of trailing creepers, forming a vast screen, That clot If d the wood as ivies clasp a wall. Behind their leafy veil the great herds came, The forests trembling with the mighty charge. The verdant curtain parted with their rush; The jungle-ropes and snaky stems were torn From the tall tree-tops, strewing all the ground. Then one great mass of elephantine heads, Swinging their dusky trunks with screams of rage, Burst thro the foliage, while sharp rifle-shots With carnage redden d all that forest-glade. AUTUMNAL SPOUTS. r PIIE woods are color d with prismy dyes, The clouds are llush d in the autumn skies, The leaf of the elm is crisp and brown, The oak-trees wear their golden crown, The maple groves with scarlet glow, The willows twinkle, a splendid show; The sumac thickets, intensely red, Their leaves o er the roadside borders shed; But deep in woods the dusky glades Of evergreen tins and cypress shades Give safe retreat and a welcome lair To prowling wolf and to growling bear; And here in the copse, or mid river-reeds, The dappled deer-herd-runway leads; The antler d stag and the tawny doe Here crop the grass by the river-tlow. SM here in ambush the hunter lies To drop the fugitive as he flies. The woodmen come from logging-camp, The trappers come with stealthy tramp, 64 POEMS OF THE EOD AND GUN. The hunter comes from city square To follow the woodland thoroughfare; They come with rifle, horse and hound To hunt the deer in the forest-ground. Now far where stretches the russet plain, That erevvhile glow d with autumn grain, In stubble-fields where lurk the quail, Or away on frighten d pinions sail, The gunner with his pointer hies To stop the quarry as it flies; And far over western prairie s space, Where the grouse-flocks have their feeding-place, Mid corn-stacks or the wither d grass, Unwearied ever the shooters pass. And where the river flows swift and deep, Belting the woodlands in their sweep, The fowlers by the reedy bank AYhere grow the rushes tall and rank, And leaves the ambush d forms conceal, Lie for the wood-duck and the teal. Far where the broad blue bays extend Their billows to the horizon end, And where the honking geese and brant Assemble in their chosen haunt, Where canvas-back and redheads feed At banquet of the wild rice seed, The fowlers in their drifting boat Spread havoc as they onward float. Far where Atlantic surges pour Their crested breakers to the shore, The fowlers urge the hot pursuit Of screaming loon and dusky coot. Fair, fading season, beauteous with the hues That nature from her sumptuous palette drops! I love to* watch the colors that suffuse Thy tufted groves, the glowing forest tops; Thou lead st the joyous sportsman by the hand Thro all the wonders of enchanted land. The angler, too, finds ever new delight Where creeps the brook, where runs the river bright; THE OSTRICH. 65 For nature, ever in benignant mood, Spreads charms resistless over field and Hood. But nobler game is there to seek Where soaring mountains lift the peak, Or where dark forests, measureless, O er black ravines or summits press, Where the o crtumbling waterfall Forever hoarsely sounds its call. For there the red deer bounding goes, The antler d stag and tawny roes, The brindled moose and elk of might, The caribou with clattering flrght: For all those creatures there that bask May well reward the hunter s task. THE OSTRICH. (Strucliio camelu*.) r PIIE mounted tribesmen gather far, From wattled hut and herdsman s kraal, To follow over grassy plain The noble ostrich on his trail. Some mount the wild, impatient steed, And some afoot essay the chase, With slender spear and poison d shaft, All ambush d in some lonely place. Fast by some fount, like- diamond gem Dropp d in the desert s fenceless bound, Amid the water-reeds they lie, Outstretch d upon the marshy ground, Knowing the ostrich there will come, Hard press d by hunter and by steed, To seek the water-courses lone For drink and shelter in their need. Far, far the spurring horsemen ride, With savage whoop and ringing shout. Far, far the panic stricken Hock Flies onward in tumultuous rout; Their black bill and their slender neck Before them point the unerring way, 5 66 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Their nervous legs and flapping wings Ply ceaseless o er the grassy vley, And long and weary must the chase Be leugthen d o er the desert space. The savage far and wide will ride To win the precious fleeing prize, Gazing before him at those plumes That captivate his greedy eyes; For Sheik is shorn of half his pomp If grac d not with his feather d crown, The waving ostrich-plumes that twine His brow with their imperial down. And oh! what sweet young maiden brows With golden curl or raven tress, In other lands beyond the seas, Those ostrich wonders shall caress! In royal courts, in palaces, Where queens and nobles grace the ball, And lucent pearls and diamonds shine Resplendent in the sumptuous hall; How will the blazing lights illume That floating, foamlike Afric plume, So purely white, so peerless fair, Drifting like snow-flake in the air! ROCKY MOUNTAIN SPORTS. (Capra,) airy summits of the Rocky Mounts, Mid craggy ridges inaccessible To hunter s foot or daring trapper s tread, Far in the worlds of everlasting snows, Leaps from rock to rock, from cliff to cliff, The short-horn d, fleecy mountain-goat, Roams at free-will the desert solitudes. Well may this wild, swift-footed creature hold His refuge and his home amid the wastes, Haply secure from lurking Indian s shaft Or rifle of the hunter of the deer; For, in those savage realms, tis perilous ROOT! MOINTAIN Sl OKT-. C7 For step of hunter to invade the waste, To scale the jutting Hilts, to plunge In chirk ravines and gulches of the hills, To cross untrampled hillocks of the snows, Where, neath the brittle crust, some hidden chasm May plunge th unwary foot in endless death. And here the wild Hocks rove; they crop the grass, The short, sweet grasses of the mountain-slopes, Kept ever verdant by dissolving drifts; And there, in cavern d arch or grotto dim, They drink the crystal brook, and rest at night. Though ever watchful, perch d on some bleak cliff, Where only the bald-eagle sweeps his vans, With no low bush or stunted tree to yield A covert to the hunter, yet unseen The stalking trapper scales the stony height, And daring soldier from the frontier fort Climbs the steep cliff, and creeps from rock to rock, And from some grassy rampart fires the shot. There, too, among the valleys far below, That with their flowery slopes and hanging woods And winding rivers fringe the mountain base, The prong-horn d, slender antelope is found; A wondrous creature, fleet as flight of bird, He sweeps the boundless pastures with a speed That mocks the fastest horse, the swiftest hound, And yet he falls a victim to the arts And arms of the all-conquering hunter. The Indian and the trapper seek his haunts; And soldier who has dar d the dangerous march, And all the perils of the wilderness, Follows, with patient toil, his devious tracks. There, too, that dreaded monarch of the wild, The fierce, despotic, sanguinary bear The mighty grizzly bear has made his haunt; So fierce in aspect, so immense in size, Cruel in rai;e, majestic in his tread, He rules, the undisputed lord of all, The wild king of the waste, defying man! The Indian fears him, and to lay him low 68 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Is his grand triumph and his life-long boast Yet the white hunter meets him face to face, And with th unerring rifle wins the fight. FOREST AND STREAM, and far the woods extend, Leaf -laden branches graceful bend ; The old oaks, like great tents, outspread Their verdant canopies o erhead ; The fir, the hemlock, and the pine Their interlacing shoots entwine ; The cypress of the swampy glade Enweaves a dark impervious shade ; The slender willows stoop to lave Their tassels in the rushing wave; The chestnuts cast their treasures down, Their opening burrs, their nuts of brown ; And thick the clusters of the grape With purple wealth the alders drape, And on the forest kings unfold -i Their draperies of green and gold. Each river, each transparent stream, Amid the woodland vistas gleam ; They toss with foam where rocks impede The arrowy swiftness of their speed ; They glide with smooth, unruffled sweep Where flow their currents .dusk and deep, And fathomless abysses hide The sand and shells that pave the tide. Now deep in forest glooms the deer Bound in exultant, swift career; They leave the covert of the glade When earliest rosy dawns invade ; They pause to nibble the sweet grass, In bosky dale, in mountain-pass; They stop to drink the sparkling fount That trickles from the rocky mount, WILD TURKEY. 69 Or lie at noontide to repose Where tall the fern luxuriant grows; But when the yelpings of the hound Athwart the sleeping shades resound, And when the hunter s whooping cheer And winding horn rise near and clear, Quick from their sheltering haunts they spring, And fly like fleet birds on the wing. Forest and Stream! I love to trace Your inmost depths, your watery race; I love your dense, primeval shade, forest monarch! to invade. 1 love, O grand, majestic Stream! To wander where your ripples gleam, T*o plunge beneath your ice-cold breast; To seek the wild-fowl that infest Your wooded shores; to spread the sail In gusty breeze or howling gale; To take the springing trout that] skim Your face, or in abysses swim; In storm, in calm, in shade, in shine, My heart, my steps to thee incline. No haunts of earth so fair I deem, As Forest-side and banks of Stream! WILD TURKEY. (Mekagris gallopaw.) ^T^IIE purpling twilight s melting blue Is fading with its transient hue ; The red cloud that erewhile did float The heavenly vault like painted boat, Now with a denser shadow creeps Across the darkening upper deeps. The glow that late the river s tide With its encrimson d blushes dyed, I lath vanish d, and the rushing flood, Flows gloomy past the bordering wood; Now to their roosts wild turkeys stray, And ambush d hunters seek their prey. 70 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. This wandering, shy, secluded bird, This roamer of the forest-ground, Thro all the Western wilderness, In deuse, embowering haunt is found. In all the groves that shade the shores Of Mississippi s swelling flood, And where the grand Missouri pours, Thro every dim and tangled wood, In multitudes immense they roam Afar from human step and home. So shy that scarce the hunter s gun May harm them, bursting on the wing; So fleet that scarce pursuing steed Its rider within shot may bring; But only may he lie in wait, Like bandit watching for his game, And lure the victims to their fate The whistling ball, the rifle-flame. Seek them where gloomy shadows fall Beneath the forests grim and tall, In the deep alder-brakes, or where The dark pines lift their spears in air, And there where slow a streamlet creeps, Or swift through bushy ravine sweeps, Hid in the ferns that droop around, Your call deceptive, cautious sound ; Soon will you hear the answering note From the embowering thickets float, Soon will you see the noble game Step forth then steady be your aim! All stratagems, all cunning wiles, The settlers fail not to employ; For when the springing maize-field smiles, Their flocks the tender ears destroy; Then trench is dug, and train is led Of sprinkled corn along the trail, And where the treacherous feast is spread The flock is swept with volleying hail. H.OYII;. PLOVER. (Charadrius marnwratns.) \" <>W is the Autumn s royul prime, When woods are tilled with Autumn s brush, When hickry groves arc bright with gold, And maples wear a blood-red flush; The poplars bear a yellow crown, The oaks their robes of russet brown; The dogwoods their dull purple screen, Mix d with the alder s sable green, And where the sparling rivulet twines The greenery of the willow shines. The silver fretwork of the frost Gleams in the early morning light; I.almy and brisk the air is tost Over salt marsh and upland height; Now, shrilly sounds the plovers cry As circling down the breeze they fly. Where the salt meadows wide and far Sweep seaward to the sandy bar; Where pebbled inlet of the bay Is riotous with the billow s play, There thick the black-breast plovers soar, Where minute shell fish line the shore; There greedily their banquets share, There hover o er the fowler s snare. But where thy rolling downs outspread, O wild Montauk! their grassy plain; And where the Shinneck hills o erlook The vast expanses of the main; There, where the insect-swarms abound, The golden-plover Hocks are found. Oft have I stood, ere dawning day Flash d on the ocean rim its llame, With ready gun and throbbing pulse, To watch the great flocks us they came. POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. First a mere speck across the sky, A cloudy shadow, drifting near, But soon a musical, soft cry, And soon a myriad wings appear! They hover down the dusky air, Like rushing winds they whirl and swoop, Now sweeping low, now circling high, Then earthward to their banquet stoop. O brother sportsman ! has the earth Such thrilling charm to match with this- A moment with such rapture fill d, An hour of such unbounded bliss? QUAIL. (Ortyx Viryinianus.} IV/TORN with a roseate bloom hath fleck d The eastern sky with spangled gold ; The red October sun displays, O er purple hills and lonely bays, And wood paths where the dun deer strays, His flag of ruddy gold. The gauzy mists, that all night threw Their veil athwart the pure lake s breast, In wreaths ascend heaven s dome of blue, Or twine around each mountain crest The silvery crowns of dew. Sweet now at morn and eve the quail Repeats his plaintive, whistling note, And softly fall the answering cries That over wood and corn-field float. Now, sportsmen, with your gun and dog, Forth in the early morning pass, While yet the air is rich with blooms, And wet with pearly dews the grass; For now the bevies are abroad To seek in stubble-fields their feed, Or where the bushy covert drops Its juicy wreath, its ripen d seed. QUA 1 1, 73 Seek, then, where grassy tussocks bend r.y sheltering hedge or thorny glade; I .ut best where sweet buckwheat was reap d, Or where the oats in swaths were laid. He cautious, silent in your tread, For close, unseen, the coveys lie, And when arous d, on hurrying wing, Straight to some briery hedge they fly, Where, hid in thick impervious swale, The hunter s skill may nought avail. Be cool and steady when they rise, Let no weak tremors shake thy nerve, For swift and steady is their flight, _, Their speedy wings may never swerve; Sure be the eye, the finger true, For never swifter victim flew. First seek in open stubble-field, Or where in grassy clumps they lie, For then, alarm d, in sea tier d flocks To safer, denser coverts fly; Then, singly rising from their lair, " They leave their little lives in air." Go forth all nature welcomes thee! Now is a sweet, fresh autumn morn ; The blood- red sun shines thro the haze That veil d the coming of the dawn. The silver fretwork of the frost Still glitters white on grass and fern; The air is balmy in its breath, The woods with autumn colorings bum. The painter s palette may not catch The scarlet o er the maples spread, Vie with the russet of the oaks, Or purple o er the dogwoods shed. All nature, with benignant hand, Beckons thee forth with magic wand. 74 POEMS OF THE BOD AND GUN. COOT-SHOOTING. (Fulica atra.} late October s frosty breath Blows over color d woodlands guy ; From the remotest Labrador, From Baffin s and from Hudson s Bay, The streaming migratory flocks Of sable coot their journey urge, Following the coast-line s devious sweep To Florida s remotest verge. Since earliest spring-time they have sought The utmost northern isle and shoal; Their chosen haunt and breeding-ground, In latitudes beneath the Pole. The wild-geese and the brent-geese there In swamps impervious build their nest (So Northern fishermen declare), Where none may reach them to molest. But the shy coot-tribes o er the sands And reeds of rocky islands throng; There frame the nest and rear the young, And linger all the summer long. Off every jutting reef and point Thrust seaward from New England s shore, The wild-fowl shooters spread the sail And vex the waters with the oar. There, anchor d in a curving line, Two score of tossing boats extend, Each fowler prompt with uprais d gun To thin the flocks, where er they tend. The old-wife, swiftest on the wing, The sheldrake pied, and speckled loon, Join in the ocean voyaging, And flank each migrating platoon; Nor cease their sea-flights till the breeze Of summer climates warms the seas. WOLF. 75 Iii Massachusetts Buy, and far Where Cape Cod spreads its yellow sand, By e\vry ereek and cape of Maine, River and estuary grand, In Vineyard and Long Island Sound, And by its southern ocean shore, Their countless myriads are found. Winging as far as billows pour. By Jersey coast and Delaware Bay, From Cape Charles to York River tides, The black coot plies his dusky wing, And o er the tossing ocean glides. By Gardiner s and by Shelter Isle, Far out on sandy bar and shoal, These swarming water-fowl disport Wherever salty billows roll. And where Pcconic spreads its sheet, Engirdled by its hills of green, The coot and whistlers find a haunt In shclter d reach and cove serene. WOLF. (Canis occidentalis.} TN winter, when the snows lie deep In shapeless hillock, drifted heap; When thick the hollow vales they fill, And woods are trackless on the hill, The wild wolves, famish d, grim and gaunt, Forsake their rocky mountain-haunt, When frozen Nature s hand denies The food in summer it supplies. Forc d from their coverts, far they prowl With gnashing teeth and dismal howl, And, hid all day in darksome den, At night roam round the haunts of men. By cattle- fold or shelter d shed Where bleating sheep are hous d and fed, 76 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. When all the farmer s household sleeps, And watch-dog to the fireside creeps, These fierce marauders gather round ; They scent the air, they sniff the ground, Then with a farnish d onset break Thro wattled hedge and sheepfold stake, Rending with their demoniac crew The fleecy dam, the bleating ewe. The farmer at the break of day Looks on the ravage with dismay, The precious flock, complete no more ; The snowy sheep-yard, red with gore! From farm to farm-house spreads the tale, From upland hut to peopled vale; All arm, the "wolf-drive" to prepare, A hunt that all for leagues must share. Some from the dusty rafters take Their rusty guns of ancient make; And some, late soldiers of the war, The rifles that have slain so far; The small boys birding-pieces wield, Impatient for the hunting-field. Forth then exultingly they pour For circuit of ten leagues or more ; Their captains on their coursers borne, Arm d with the trumpet and the horn ; All wading o er the snow-heap d ground, All to some common centre bound, Marching with blast of horns and shout, To drive the hunted wolves in rout. Uuharm d the red deer boundeth by; Scathless the wild-cats from the bough Gaze on the rushing crowd below; The coon from hollow of the tree Looks down, amaz d the coil to see. Tis known in tangled-hazel swamp The wolves have made their winter camp; And here, vociferous and loud, Concentrates th avenging crowd, ROD AND GUN. 77 Engirdling as with iron ring The wolves that to their covert cling. At summons of the leader press Thro briery, vine-strung wilderness, A chosen band, with horn and cry To fright the victims till they ily; Who, mad with terror, seek to gain Some outlet of escape in vain; For everywhere a foeman stands To slaughter them with bloody hands; And soon is soak d the spotless snow With crimson blood from wounds that How. ROD AND GUN. r PIIE spring-time is here with gleam and glow, And softer the vernal breezes blow, The pallid ice-field extends no more O er the broad river-reach its crystal floor; All the open bay is breezy and white, All its dancing billows quiver with light. Then come, then come, brethren of gun and rod, When the earliest violets sow the sod, For the brooks arc alive with springing trout Alive in wilful and wanton rout. () come, then, brothers of rod and gun, Where the wild-fowl gather and waters run. Behold, by the Bay-shore s sedgy banks The wild-geese squadrons deploy their ranks; In wedge-like columns, in crowded files, They sweep o er the bay, over sandy isles; Over leafless woods, over spreading bay, On clanging pinions they urge their w;iv ; Now high over sailing clouds they pa--. Now prone they stoop to the yellow grass, Till with hollow honkings they settle low, And fold their wings where the currents flow. Then haste, then, brothers that love the gun, Where the brant-flocks gather at peep of sun ; 78 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Ere the first light crimsons the rolling deep, The dark flocks shoreward circling sweep; They wheel by jutting headland and cape, For the feeding-shallows their way they shape, And the fowler, hid by the weedy shore, Thins out their ranks as they hover o er. Soon will a tenderer glow suffuse The drifting clouds with rosier hues; Soon will a tremulous verdure creep Over upland pasture and woody steep ; Soon will the glory of summer pervade The ocean-border, the forest shade; And the angler his precious spoil may take The salmon, the trout by shore and lake; And when the colors autumnal shall stain The sumptuous foliage of wood and plain, The smokes of the frequent gun shall arise Where in stubble-fields the covey lies, Or where in the dusky forest the deer Urge far and fleetly their grand career. THE ANTIQUARY S ARMORY. WEAPONS OP WAR AND CHASE. hang on the carven oaken wall Of picturesque, ancestral hall, Armors in ancient battles worn, Banners and pennons shred and torn; Cuirass and helmet, gorget bright, Dinted and pierc d in stormy fight, Breastplate and morion, casques of proof, Hanging from rafter and groined roof. Burnish d shields that have turn d aside Bullet and arrow in battletide; Swords double-handed, claymore blade, By Scottish hands in forays sway d Weapons of every age and race In this old gallery find a place. THE ANTIQUARY S ARMORY. 79 Stiletto, dagger, and poniard keen, Toledo rapier, Highland skene, Banners that streani d from castle crag, Trafalgar Nelson s blazon d Hag, Standards at Moscow s gate that flew, Or wav d in the flumes of Waterloo, Banners of Cressy and Poitiers, Star-Hags that wav d on Bunker s height, Or Marston Moor in the vanish d years, Flags of the old Saratoga fight, Blood-red ensigns of Lundy Lane, Of Orleans, borne o er the British slain; Flags of the grand, chivalric joust, Where spears were shiver d and lances lost: Flags of Gettysburg s stricken field, Or where the cannon of Shiloh peal d; And many another tatter d fold, Scorch d in the fires, in slaughter roll d. There were weapons of Indian strife, Red tomahawk and scalping-knife; Buckler of skin and wampum crest, War-club and sling of the savage West, Shafts of a prehistoric race, Fashion d for ravage or the chase; Knife of the Norseman, keen to slay, Paw nee arrows of lawless fray, Spears of the ruthless Carib baud, Light assegais of Afric land, Deerhorn naliget, tipt with steel Of Arctic hunter of the seal ; A Feejee paddle and war-canoe Once mann d by a Cannibal Island crew. All these mementoes of peace and war, From frozen pole to the tropics far, Shine out as the sunbeam filters clear O er kandjar, creese, and spur and spear; They rest in peace from hunt and fight, The dust of years gathers on them white; They crumble in Time s corroding rust, The hands that fashiuii d them lie in dust, 80 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. These weapons remind of other years, When swept the Saxon with plump of spears, Of pulk of Cossacks in wild hurrah, Storming around Napoleon s war; Of Indian tribesmen o er grassy plain, The plunging chargers, the tossing mane, The swinging lariat, levell d lance, The massacre, the great war dance, And of many another stirring scene When these old weapons were bright and keen, FIRE-HUNTING DEER, nPHE summer days were in their prime, The wood-paths dim with sombre shade; The song-birds trill d their mellow chime, Gay flow rets blossom d in the glade ; Uncut, unclear d, the virgin woods Of oak and maple fring d the shore; While the umbrageous evergreen, Darkling, in towering height lean d o er Woods, where the raccoon, lynx, and bear, And dun wolves, made their secret lair. Up the calm river, as the shades Of glimmering eve began to creep, The hunters, in the birch canoe, With setting-pole and paddle-sweep, Eager by torchlight to ensnare The deer, when darkness shrouds the air. Battling the rapids of the stream, Fair shone the scene in twilight dim; The feeding ducks burst on the wing, Or mid the sheltering rushes swim; The heron flaps his dusky plumes, The raccoon climbs the nearest tree, The pied kingfishers startled flee, The musk-rat hastes across the tide, The woodpeckers like arrows dart; While high o erhead, on pinions wide, Eagles the realms of ether part. WILD CAT. 81 But when the hovering shades grow deep The fire-Hies flash athwart the gloom, The whippoorwills make sad lament, The frogs in lonely marshes boom ; And now the jack- light on the prow Illumes the wave with bar of light; The hunter s heart is throbbing now, Himself unseen behind the smokes, While the stout oarsman plies his strokes. Gazing, two dusky forms they see, Standing knee-deep within the tide; And now with hoofs they dash the wave To fright the insects from their side; Now, from the sweet aquatic grass Whereon they feed, they raise the head, To watch with curious gaze the flame Athwart the inky river shed; Then when the red reflected light Gleams on their glassy eye-balls clear, The volleying gun disturbs the night, And dies with gasping moan the deer. WILD-CAT. (Felts catus.) A MID the wildernesses vast That gird the Mississippi s shores, Mid woods whose shadows dense arc cast Where the Red River sluggish pours, The wild-cat makes his lonely camp, His dark, impregnable abode, Hid in the dusk, unwholesome swamp Where human foot hath seldom trod. In dense retreat, in hollow tree, Or natural cave it rears its brood, And hunts the forest s recesses To feed their gaping mouths with food. In silence of the darkling night, Or when the new day has its birth, It goes abroad with step as light As fall of thistle-down to earth. 82 POEMS OF THE BOD AND GUN. No bird may build its airy nest Beyond the wild-cat s plundering quest, For swift and easy as a bird It mounts, and scarce a leaf is stirr d. It runs, it flies, it springs, it leaps, As graceful as the antelope, Yet cruel as the tiger grim In Indian swamp or mountain slope. The hare, the possum, and the coon, It waylays in the forest-glade; Gainst poultry-yard and sheepfold pen Its ravaging inroads are made; So with all arts the human race Assails it in the pitiless chase. At day- dawn forth the hunters go With rifle and with yelping hound; They run the red fox to his den, They track the " cat" in forest ground; They drive him to some dense retreat Where high o erhead the branches meet; Close to some rough and gnarled limb The frenzied creature hides and clings. With foamy jaws and hair erect, Fierce glances from his eyes he flings, But deadly aim and rifle-ball Soon humble him in headlong fall. But if tenacious life remains, He meets the baffled, fierce attack, Then swift thro wood and briery bush He flies, the dog pack yelling at his back; He scales some tree-top, or doth plunge In some deep fissure of the ground, And then the death-fight is renew d Twixt the marauder and the hound, And many a ghastly wound doth show Before the quarry is laid low. PANTHER IN LOUISIANA. 83 PANTHER IN LOUISIANA. (Felis pardus.} flushing dawn had scarcely tipt The morning clouds \vitli Hecks of gold, Flush d the dusk waters of the stream That thro the broad savannas roll d, When from a wide plantation near A hunter with his ranging pack Went forth the wild-cat or the deer To follow in the forest-track. Thro orange-groves of spic d perfume, Thro canebrakes dense and cypress woods, That darken d each remote lagoon, Or bayou hid in solitudes, Known only to the woodland game, Wild animals that rang d the waste, The hunter with the lash and spur Press d forward in impetuous haste. Far- ranging in their circuits wide, Now struggling thro a hedge of thorn, Now scouring o er some plashy marsh, Snuffing the scent on breezes borne, The pack with bayings load the gale; At length, hot-footed on the trail, Soon in some forest-gloom the hound Proclaims some noble game is found. A panther of vast size and strength Is up for deafening is their howl, Frighting from lair the mottled deer And all the fluttering forest-fowl. With hair erect and eyeballs strain d, With well-strung nerves and flying foot, They madden on the fresh scent gain d, All clamoring in the hot pursuit. Their yelp thro swamp and forest rings Re-echoing thro the sombre shade, Then o er the lake its music flings, Fainting and failing down the glade. Soon a chang d clangor, shrill and sharp, Tells that the game, is brought to bay, 84 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. And the keen hunter joyously Rides in to mingle in the fray; Quick tethering to a branch the steed, He mounts a fall n tree s mouldering heap, Looks to his rifle, then aloft O er all the woods his glances sweep. He sees his prey, a panther huge, Perch d on a chestnut s soaring spire, Lashing his sides with swinging tail, His eyeballs blazing, fierce with fire. One instant and the hissing ball Tumbles the beast in fatal fall. With snapping jaws and gory fangs, Like fiends the mad packs tear and rend, They crush the bone, they clutch the throat, And soon the bloody contest j3nds. POLAR BEAR. (Ursus maritimus.) A MID the vast, eternal ice, The crystal plain, the drifting floe, Dark chasm, awful precipice, Buried for ages deep in snow, The polar white bear, grim and gaunt, Chooseth his solitary haunt. In cavern with its icy wall, With adamantine floor outspread, Where freeze the raindrops as they fall, Stalactites glisten overhead Like pearly spar in grottoes dim That with a prismy lustre swim, This monarch of the desert drear Dwells thro the dark, inclement year. Little of breathing life, I ween, Across the frozen waste is seen, Only the screaming auk and gull In restless flocks the breezes fan, And eider-duck and wailing loon, Or the white-plumag d ptarmigan. THE SAND-HILL CRANE OF MEXICO. 85 Man seldom wanders o er the plain To trespass on thy savage reign; Only the fur-chid Esquimau, T> aring his bone-lance or the bow, Or crossing with his skin canoe Some open water cold and blue, .May venture to dispute thy sway And dare thee in the frozen way. THE SAND-HILL CRANE AND OTHER WILD FOWL OF MEXICO. TTERE in this genial Mexic land, Where soft is breeze and bright the skies, Guy summer in December time, The sportsman finds his paradise. Here rustling corn-fields wide extend, Fair cotton fields of snowy white, With shallow pools o er which the fowl Circle and sweep in mazy flight. From every reedy pond and swamp The hovering multitudes upspring, In long lines streaming down the air, As o er the flooded fields they wing; Mallards and widgeon, redheads, teal, In wedge-shap d masses skim the reed, Far-spinning o er the ripen d corn, Or settling in moist lands to feed. Gray brant in clamorous columns sweep, Or, pitching, from the skies descend; The bronze curlews in long, black ranks On even stroke of pinions tend. The jacksnipes swarm in boggy ground, Hawks preen their wings in mesquite bush, The winnowing dove-flocks dense abound, Buzzards sail fast beneath the moon, And pelicans from far lagoon. The sand-hill crane hath winter home In this serene, delicious clime; 86 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN". Great flocks are ever in the air, As high the azure vault they climb. Where fields are open they are seen, Cluster d in dignified array, Watching your step, with outstretch d neck, Or on the wing a cloud of gray. Fairest of all this feather d tribe Is great white crane, the whooping crane, The wariest fowl of earth or air That haunt the pool or sweep the plain. Sometimes in zenith you behold Their floating forms like specks of down, In circles long, in spiral lines, Sending their bugle-clamors down ; Sometimes, commix d with duskier cranes, You see them pass in phalanx slow, Keeping time-stroke with flapping wing, Their plumage shining like the snow. On every hand, duck, crane, and brant Flutter and swing in devious flight, On soaring plumes, in shining ranks, Circling, or stooping to alight; Their beat of wings is like the roar Of surges on the rocky shore, ROOKY MOUNTAIN GOAT. (Capra montana.) C"\N Rocky Mountain cliff and ridge, Along the shelving Western slopes, Or in green valleys at their base, Where range the graceful antelopes, The wild goat gallops o er the space, Cropping the juicy grass at will, Or tasting the cold mountain rill. So wild and wary, fleet of foot Surpassing speed of hound or horse, That scarce the skill and arms of man Avail to check their headlong course. Where the Columbia River turns THE SCENERY AND GAME OF WYOMING. 87 Its North Fork, near the water s head, Their gather d numbers love to gra/.r, Far over the gray summits spread. And ofttimcs to that solitude Come trapper and frontiersmen rude; And then for days the cliffs resound With gun-report and hunters cheer, The baying of the eager hound, The gallop down recesses drear. There, then, o er granite ridge and peak, O er gorge and gulch and mossy rock, The hunters clamber, climb, and cling, Pursuing the wild mountain flock, And at the day-close, spent with toil, Return o erladen with the spoil. THE SCENERY AND GAME OF WYOMING TERRI TORY. ^TWILIGHT silently, softly falls, Touching valley and grove with misty wand, Kissing the sky good-night at the west; From far-off peaks of the mountain-land. All nature slumbers in perfect rest, Sweet sleep the earth enfolds. Night lures to soft Elysian dreams, And far and wide dominion holds; No sound invades save distant wail Of coyote from the upland steep, Or gentle tinkle of a brook In rocky butte or canon deep. And here in this Sweet- Water vale, How pleasant the passing years should flow; A vale engirdled by Rocky Peak, A grand, majestic show! Far off the Big Horn Mountains swell, Where gallant Ouster fought and fell, Where buffalo-grass and wild grease-wood Have redden d oft with human blood. POEMS OF THE ROD AtfD GUN". Here on these measureless green plains, The wild deer stretch away at speed. The prong-horn d antelopes abound, The lordly elk herds range and feed; But, ah, the buffalo that swept These wastes a score of years ago, These grazing-grounds of pastures vast, Have vanish d like last year s snow! No more the whooping Indian spurs In frantic gallop on their trail ; No more the hunter-troops pursue The fleeing herds in gulch and vale; No more their bellowing onsets sound, As in fierce combat they engage; No more with hoof they spurn the ground, Tossing their iron horns in rage. So here for ages was the scene, The battle-ground of savage strife, Long ere the emigrants had come To brave the battle-axe and knife. Here o er these grassy meads they swept, Hunting the bison and the deer; Rejoicing in the war and chase, In forays of their fierce career, With war club, arrow-shaft, and spear. INDIAN HUNTERS. TO ! as I strive the red man s fate to sing, A sigh pathetic sweeps the minstrel s string; Fain would he twine one mournful wreath to grace The urn that holds the ashes of their race. From sea to sea, from Mexic Gulf to Lake, Free as the winds the wilderness that shake, Shining with arms majestic, sternly grand, He mov d, the guardian sovereign of the land. No gilded court, no jewell d crown, had he, Nor silken slaves to bend the servile knee; INDIAN HUNTERS. 89 No sumptuous board, cnrich d with precious plate, Nor palace gorgeous with imperial state; No grand cathedral, where vain man adores, Through whose stain d panes light s color d torrent pours. Not such his state; the woods his only home, The hills his shrine, God s azure skies his dome, In whose blue depths celestial spirits seem To bless the kneeling savage by his stream. Rough was his garb; the hunter s dangerous toil Clad his brown limbs with wild beasts shaggy spoil; The forest-game a frugal repast gave, His simple drink the streamlet s crystal wave; His home a cabin form d of limb and bough, His bark the light canoe with bended prow. Content with these, life tranquil sped away, A pleasant dream, with blissful visions gay. He lov d the realm so brightly spread around, Rich with broad pastures, with wild wood-lands crown d; He loved his tribe, his children, and his bride, Nor ask d for greater joys than these supplied. When Twilight soft its roseate glories shed, And Eve her purple drapery cast around, And up the sky the Moon of harvest led Her train of stars, on their bright journey bound, Curl d the blue smoke from many a cabin hearth; The evening air with childish prattle rang, While aged chieftains mingled, in the mirth, And lit the pipe, or martial measures sang. Then loud his hollow drum the warrior smote, And reedy pipes with shrilly music sound, And bead-strong conch, and horn of startling note, And jingling bells to youthful ankles bound. Forth stepp d each forest damsel o er the turf, Her forehead grac d with many a wild wood flower, And milk white shells pluck d from the chafing surf, And the blithe dance prolong d the festal hour. 90 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. THE ELK, OR WAPITI. (Cervus Canadensis.) Tj^AR from the cultivated realm Where human labor fells the wood, Cleaves the rich glebe and tills the soil, Incessant toiling for its food, The great Elk of the wilderness, Boon nature s noblest, fleetest child, Since the Creation hath possess d And rang d, untamable, the waste, Cropt the sweet grasses of the wild, In savage freedom roam d and rac d. The Indian mounted on fleet steed, The steed that needs not bit or spur, The Blackfoot and the fierce Sioux, Unclad save with the robe of fur, Far o er the prairies flowery plain, Far as the Rocky Mountain base, For ages have pursued the herd, The elk-herd, madden d with the chase. But seldom white man face to face Hath met this wild, majestic game, Save soldier of the garrison With rifle of unerring aim. Shy and secluded, far he seeks In great green woods his food and rest, Browsing on tender twigs and buds, Or grasses spread o er nature s breast. Though blest with matchless strength and speed, He shuns th intrusive step with fear; Though swifter than the antelope, Fleeter than nimble forest deer, When danger threatens, and the taint Of coming foe infects the air, With head erect and ears thrown back, And eyeballs fix d in glassy stare, He eyes th intruder, bounds a step As if to try his strength for flight, Then, startled with a mad affright, THE FLIGHT OF THK BUFFALO. 91 His great horns thrown across his back, His taper nose projecting far, With mighty leaps he clears the ground And vanishes like shooting star. THE FLIGHT OF THE BUFFALO. (Bison Americans.) TXTHERE vast and far the rustling grass burns with its russet stain, O er prairies lone, beyond the throne, of Rocky Mountain chain, The lowing herds, the league-long herds, of bisons roam the wild, By streams serene, by meadows green, and where great cliffs are pil d; By willowy nook of crystal brook, along each ice-cold brink, The wallowing crowd, with bellowings loud, the gelid nectar drink; The juicy seeds, the tufted meads, delight their browsing ranks, Where scarlet flowers and tangled bowers, drape all the bloomy banks. In sluggish ease, beneath the trees, they pass the idle days, While gleams the flood and glows the wood in early autumn s haze; But when the breath of wintry death from pallid Northland blows, And drift from out celestial domes the flaky, fluttering snows, Then wide across those prairie-worlds, by hillock, crag, and lake, Their armies vast, defiling past, their long migrations take; In lengthen d line, those savage kine, impetuously pour, As torrent swift, with wrack and drift, sweeps by a sullen shore. The hoar-frost white spreads wasteful blight o er smiling nature s face, And thin and dry the grasses sigh, wide o er the pasture s space; So, over hill, through pool and rill, the crowding squadrons flow, With heavy tramp, like routed camp, when storm d by raging foe. 92 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. On either flank, with clang and clank, each patriarchal sire, With lashing tail and coat of mail and eyeball s flaming fire, With forehead large, like iron targe, and horn like steely lance; With flowing manes, like hurricanes lead on the grand advance. But hark ! a yell! those fiends of hell, the Indian tribes, ar e out The desert steed of matchless breed is galloping on their route; With brandish d spear, in fierce career, the impish riders wheel, The bow is strung, the lance is flung the cruel, crashing steel. The pistol rings, the bullet sings, demoniac whoopings swell; Those Arabs of the prairies exult with shriek and yell. Vain all the flight, vain all the fight, the vengeful charges vain; The bulls are down and corses brown incarnadine the plain. THE WESTERN EMIGRANTS AND SQUATTERS. "X^EARS since, far in the prairie-land, The bold frontiersmen press d their venturous way, A hardy, brave, indomitable band, Treading the wastes and wildernesses gray. The good French Father from Canadian wild Came with symbolic cross, in coarse black gown, To preach to Nature s rude, untutor d child Christ s martyrdom and crown ! The wyageurs from Northern waters came, Singing gay songs as blithe they plied the oar; The squatter kindled in the woods his flame, The trapper would the otter-streams explore; And there, in woods magnificently grand, The hunter came, with rifle in his hand, To chase the elk, the buffalo, and deer, And gaunt wolf howling in his wild career. From fort to lonely, solitary fort Thousands of miles they floated down the stream, Startling the panther in his lone resort Where howl of wolf and catamount s shrill scream Fill d the dark swamps and thickets all the day, And thrill d the silent hours when night was gray. THE WESTERN EMIGRANTS AND SQUATTERS. 93 The seasons pass d, the tender, budding Spring, The ripen d Summer with its ilowery bloom; Autumn with his red offering, Winter that brought his frosty seal of doom; And all was wondrous, beauteous to their eyes, Impressive majesty and golden skies ! Then came the hardy emigrants of old From rough New England s rock-engirdled coast, And where Ohio s crystal waves are roll d, Where Pennsylvauian woods by winds are toss d; From fair Kentucky, with her hills of green, From broad plantations o er Virginian soil All came, this laud so glorious, so serene, To people and redeem with manful toil. The Indians in their native haunts beheld These fresh invaders with regardful eye; They wist not then their final doom was knell d That the poor red men from their homes must fly ! One bond of brotherhood did seem to bind These divers races in one social chain. The red men welcom d with a greeting kind The coming stranger to his broad domain; They pour d the cup, they shar d the hunter s tent, They smok d the pipe and told the tales of war; In marriage-rites united they were blent. In war, in chase, they fought, they roam d afar; A common bond of fellowship did hold The Indian warrior and those hunters bold. But soon a new race o er the prairie-plain Came softly, one by one, with axe and spade; Crept o er the wild the farmer s white-topp d wain, And soon fair Nature s bloom began to fade, As the sharp plough cleav d smoqthly through the sod, And golden corn-fields rustled o er the clod : The old woods groan d and bow d the lofty head, And cultivated glebes were wide outspread. 94 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. The Indian then, the skin-clad trapper too, And stalwart hunter with his rifle true, Forsook their ancient haunts by stream and wood, And pass d away elsewhere to seek their food ; Slow and regretful vanish d all away, To find new homes beyond the setting day ! FRONTIER HUNTERS. TpAR in the distant West, By the majestic stream and flowery plain, Where endless prairies stretch their wide domain, He sits him down to rest. Far from the utmost East Far from his childhood s roof, his early home The wanderer s foot hath hither come to roam, Where Nature spreads her feast. The wilderness around Spreads its dense screen its thick primeval shades Where the brown deer thro all the green arcades In countless herds abound. The winds of autumn shake The ripen d nuts from trees, a generous hoard; The wild plums yield their offerings to his board From every bosky brake. The mast-fed, growling bear Falls, to his rifle true, a welcome prey; He slays the huge elk in the forest way, And the small timid hare. Wild berries, rich and red, Crimson the ground with their delicious store, Or from thick bushes their sweet treasures pour, While grapes hang overhead. , FRONTIER HUNTERS. 95 He builds his cabin rude On some fair knoll that overlooks the stream, And claims the soil as far as eye may beam, The valley, plain, and wood. An empire he doth hold Vast as the Old-World kings with sceptre sway A natural garden, stretching leagues away, Enchanting to behold. He loves this noble land, Its glowing beauty, and its vigorous life, Its genial skies, its elemental strife, So lovely, yet so grand ! Its loneliness he loves, And he sole lord and monarch over all ; He trembles lest the settler s axe may fall On his far-spreading groves ! He dreads to see those files Of earnest men, with hungry looks severe, Come with their white-topt trains to people here His quiet forest aisles. He dreads the emigrant, Coming with plough, and spade, and toiling team Greedy invaders of his wood and stream Each well-beloved haunt. But still their armies come ! Then, sad at heart, the red man s route he takes; Over fresh plains and solitary lakes Still westward he doth roam ! In some unpeopled glen, Far in the untrod woods or savage waste, His new-found home, his hut of logs is plac d, Remote from haunts of men ! 96 POEMS OF THE ROD AKD GU2ST. THE CHAMOIS FLOCKS OF SWITZERLAND. (Rupicapra Tragus.} TTIGH rise the mountains round, Peak pil d o er peak, Across whose frozen summits The winds blow fierce and bleak; Like sheeted ghosts they hover, Like wizard seers of old, With silver locks and streaming beards And robes of snowy fold. Majestic over all, the brow Of Mont Blanc casts a frown, Crown d with a regal diadem, A jewell d, icy crown. He soars in solemn majesty The monarch of the scene, While round the clouds of heaven Pause, on his breast to lean. Along his airy summit And round his dazzling head No human voice may whisper, No daring foot may tread; For many a frightful precipice Yawns o er the great abyss, Where he would find a sepulchre Whose step the way should miss; Where scarce the daring hunter Who tracks the chamois flock, Nor yet the toiling mountaineer, May scale the dizzy rock. And here, amid those lofty crags, The timid chamois feed and roam, Their food the aromatic herb, The pastures of the hills their home. HRANT. 07 Silent they move, save when a taint Of wolf or man infects the air; For then a hissing whistle bids The browsing Hocks beware, For then the monarchs of the herd With shrilly warnings beat The earth, and run from rock to rock, Then fly in swift retreat. In summer heats they seek the shade, The cool, dim shade of rock and cave, Where white the crystal icebergs cling And streams the verdant grasses lave, And when the savage winter reigns To darkest wilds they go, Feeding on tree-bud and the shrub, Upturning with their hoofs the snow Then hunters in those lonely wastes With light step stalk the prey; But, ah, beware of hoof and horn When game is brought to bay ! SEA BRANT. (Anas Bcrnicla.) IV/f ID barriers of eternal ice, Mid desolated climes unknown, Within the Arctic Circle s ring, Where Winter plants his frosty throne, The brant-geese all the summer long, Feeding, innumerably throng. But when the waning season warns The frozen regions to forsake, Those winged pilgrims o er the seas Their long aerial journeys make; Wafted all day thro realms of space, At nightfall resting from the race. At stations of the Hudson Bay The Indian and the hunters rear 98 POEMS OP THE ROD AND GUN. Their ambush of the wattled reeds, Far o er the salty meadows drear, And, simulating wild-geese cries, They slay the victim as he flies. In all the bays that line the coast Honking, their feeding crowds resort; Moveless, save rous d by passing boat Or by the gunner s sharp report. When tides are out and flats are bare The eel-grass from its roots they tear; Then, when the swelling tides arise, Swimming, they feast upon the prize. When winds grow frosty and the breath Of Winter all the air congeals, The brant -flock, soaring high in air, In spiral circuit whirls and wheels, Then, darting seaward on their tour, Seek softer skies and sunnier shore. HUNTER S CAMP AT NIGHT. TN the thick darkness of the midnight woods, I sit alone within my hemlock camp, Silent and thoughtful. All about me rise The dark, columnar giants of the wild, Funereal hemlock and majestic pine, The gnarled oak-tree and the quivering birch. And how profound the hush! when evening threw Its glimmering shades across these forest aisles The mingled voices of the living world Died out, and birds and creatures of the wild were still, The woodpecker its drum-like tappings ceas d, The partridge sought her nest; the pied bluejay Ceas d its harsh clamor, and the pigeon wild Folded its azure pinions and was still. As shades fell deep in tangled copse and glade, The cawing crow-flocks settled from their flight, The high-flying hawks descended from the air, And silence all around me wove its spell. MEXICAN HUNTING-GROUNDS AND SCENERY. 99 The tall black trunk* of the great forest kings That hcdg d me round seem d all instinct with life; Seem d to my fever d fancy like the forms Of the barbaric warriors who once trod These lonely wilds, majestic, stern, and grave, Those feather d forest chieftains, grim, severe, Painted for war and terrible with arms, With quiver, shield, and club, and lofty spear. Then thro the thickening glooms would seem to shine The eyeballs of wild creatures, wolf and bear, And great imperial stag with branching horns; But when I snatch d my rifle they would seem To disappear, and melt away from sight. Then sudden from the dry dead leaves around I rais d a camp-fire that illum d the woods, And caus d how strange a change! The sombre shades Vanish d away, and the rough boles of trees Thro all their drooping foliage shone and smil d In the blithe, cheerful radiance of my fire; So all the phantom spectres fled away. As in my hemlock camp I sank to rest, I felt secure in such companionship Of those red flames that seem d to guard my couch, And all the shapes that fancy conjur d forth Vanish d like dreams and rest and sleep were sweet. MEXICAN HUNTING-GROUNDS AND SCENERY. II on a bare volcanic cliff Above the drifting clouds I stand, And gaze o er many a shining league Of the flowery Mexic land; Beneath me ancient forests lie, Their green tops rippled by the breeze; Their massive foliage heaves and rolls Like tumbling billows of the seas; So thick they weave their leafy screen That scarce a broken sunbeam falls Thro their green arches to illume 100 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. The sombre shadows of their halls ; And many a gay, resplendent vine Like glittering serpent climbs their tops; The cactus twines its color d crowns, The aloe its gay garland drops; And radiant birds with spangled wings Dart through the forest openings. And here the browsing deer-herds roam ; Now scouring the extended plain, Now lost in arbor of the wild, Now trampling by the surging main ; And through the thick umbrageous depths The shy wild-turkey leads its brood, And swarms of chattering monkeys sweep Along the summits of the wood. High soaring in the empty air Vast cones volcanic rise like clouds, Each with its vapory flag of smoke That ever the tall height enshrouds. The Indian, ages long ago, Or ere the Spaniard trod the shore, With awe beheld those mystic flames And hearkeu d to the crater s roar; Deeming the goblins of the mine, With incantations weird and dark Mingling their orgies in the gloom Of midnight, lit each lurid spark. Far down, amid the valleys green, Soft scenes o erspread the smiling land, Flowers of bright hues and fragrant smell Are sown broadcast by nature s hand; All the gay colors that entwine The rainbow, here celestial shine, Each radiant with a matchless bloom, Each aromatic with perfume. Afar I hear the tinkling bell Of the slow caravan ascend, And voices of the muleteers In soft, harmonious cadence blend; Far-off o er Guatemala s plain, CANVAS-BACK AND RED-HEADS. 101 O er peasant huts I see the smokes, And from each little chapel hear The evening bell s soft-chiming strokes. And, glistening in the setting sun, The distant city glitters bright; Belfry and cupola sublime Irradiaut with the streaming light. CANVAS BACK AND RED HEADS. Canvas-back (Anasmlisneriana). Red-head Pochard (Ana* ferina). TN sharp November, from afar, From Northern river, stream, and lake, The flocks of noble canvas-back Their migratory journeys make; The frosty morning finds them spread Along the flats of Barnegat, Where grows the Valisneria root, The duck-grass with its russet thread; But chief where Chesapeake receives From Susquehanua brackish tides. By calm Potomac and the James, Feeding at will from morn till eve, Mid those aquatic pastures green, The ribbon d grass and bulbous root, Where slant the reedy edges lean. By thousands there the wild-fowl come To taste the rich, delicious fare: The red -head and the canvas-back, The widgeon, with his plumage rare; The ruddy duck, the buffel-head, The broad-bill and Canadian goose, Loving o er placid shoal or cove Their flapping pinions to unloose. Through all the day, dispers d around, They swim and circle o er the bay; 102 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. At eve, in congregated flocks, To mouths of creeks they take their way; While some a wakeful vigil keep, Others at anchor float asleep. When winter early sharp sets in, And frozen is the river s face, To its salt confluence with the bay The flocks seek out their feeding-place. And where across the ice a pool Of open water they discern, The hungry flocks their flight suspend And toward the friendly pasture turn ; And there the lurking gunner waits (Amid the ice-blocks hid from sight), With heavy gun and deadly aim To thin the numbers that alight. THE DUSKY DUCK. (Anas obscura.) gEPTEMBER nights have scarcely felt The first cool breath of autumn time, Ere high the black duck pinions fan Our shore-line, in their flight sublime. At first these swift fowl skim the cloud, And high in lessening circles sweep; Then slow to lonely bays descend, Glad to repose their wings in sleep. And so for passing weeks they haunt The inland marsh and muddy creek, Where in the shallows or the grass, Their pastime or their food they seek. Most shy, at midday they disport In ocean surf or ample bay; But when the evening shades pervade And fades the twilight of the day, THE EAGLE. Then with a soaring flight they rise And seek some lonely marsh remote, S.mr salt-pool in the meadow scoop d; And here their quacking numbers float, And here the watchful fowler lies In ambush for the dusky prize. THE EAGLE. (Ihd uitus lucocepluilm.) A/fONARCII of the realms supernal, Ranger of the land and sea, Symbol of the Grand Republic, Who so noble and so free? Thine the boundless fields of ether, Heaven s unfathom d depths are thine; Far beyond our human vision, On thy vans the sunbeams shine. Borne on iron-nerved pinion, Forth from Pole to Pole you sweep, O er sea-islands, craggy mountains, O er the blue and trackless deep. Now thy winnowing plumes o ershadow Northern cliff and iceberg grim, Now o er Southern, soft savannas, Thy unflagging pinions skim. Him who feeds the hungry raven And the sea-bird of the rock Tempers the inclement breezes To the shorn and bleating Hock Leads thee o er the waste of ocean, Guides o er savage wild and wood, And from Nature s bounteous storehouse Feeds thy callow, clamorous brood. O er the mountains of Caucasus, Over Apcnuiue and Alp, Over Rocky Mounts, Cordilleras, O er the Andes herbless scalp; 104 POEMS OF THE ROD AtfD GTO. Far above their snowy summits, Where no living thing abides, HE that notes the falling sparrows Leads thee, watches thee, and guides. Thou wingest where a tropic sky Bendeth its celestial dome, Where sparkling waters greet the eye, And gentlest breezes fan the foam ; Where spicy breath from groves of palm, Laden with aromatic balm, Blows ever, mingled with perfume Of golden fruit and honey d bloom. Green shores adorn d with tropic wood, Gay grottoes, island solitudes; Savannas where palmettoes screen The Indian s hut with living green ; A land like visionary dreams, Delicious with its groves and streams, Realms such as these behold thy sweep, Careering in the upper deep. THE LITTLE BEACH SANDERLING. (Calidris arenaria.) ~D Y the beach border, where the breeze Comes freighted from the briny seas, By sandy bar and weedy rock, I frequent meet thy roving flock; Now hovering o er the bending sedge, Now gather d at the ocean edge; Probing the sands for shrimps and shells, Or worms marine in hidden cells, A restless and inconstant band, Forever flitting o er the sand. Sandpiper! haunting every shore Where er the waves of ocean roar; THE LITTLE BEACH SAtfDERLING. 105 Old voyagers that roam the deep Tell that your dusky pinions sweep O er the remotest islands set In ocean s emerald coronet. Far where Siberian coasts extend, Far where Australian borders trend, Far up the icy Labrador, Far where the Mexic billows pour, Are seen thy pinions, roving bird ! Thy melancholy note is heard. Years since a wanderer my way Through Syria s desert regions lay; Around me, far and wide the waste Of desert limitless was trac d; Far off, the blue Judean hills Threw up their purple pinnacles; Far off, the Lebanon, With all its stately cedars, shone; And close at hand, with trampling feet, The sea the yellow beach did beat. And, pacing slow that distant strand, My thoughts return d to native land, Sought like a bird the distant home O er twice a thousand leagues of foam; When sudden the familiar cry Of the small beach bird whistled by. It was thy well-known pilgrim flock That flits by native reef and rock, And like a blessing did it cheer My heart, and warble in my ear. When Autumn lays his sultry hand O er all the glimmering, ribb d sea-sand, Then all the lengthen d sea-coast rings With voices, and is bright with wings; Then every shell-strewn bay and cape Each sunken reef the sea-weeds drape. Each jutting headland, and each bar Where the surf tumbles fast and far, Is winnow d by the pinions gray Of sea-birds sporting o er the spray. 106 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. The willet and the shrill curlew, The teal with his gay wings of blue, The golden plover and the gull, Are there, in tempest and in lull; But none so dear to eye and ear As thy soft plumes and pipings clear. SQUIRRELS. (Squirelus.) TXTHEN soft May breezes fan Hi awaking woods, And with her fairy wand the blue-ey d Spring Touches the swelling blossoms and the buds, Waving with warm caresses twig and spray, So dead and wither d in their winter trance, Then from his secret hole in mossy wall Or hollow tree the striped squirrel peeps. Then comes the saucy chipmunk from his den To seek his food; he trips across the road, He skims the stony wall or wayside rail, Or, perch d erect upon some swinging bough, Loud chatters to his mate in endless talk. High up each tree he clambers, now aloft Swinging on tapering branch that tops the wood, And now darts down the rough and gnarled boles, Or skips across the sward from tree to tree, Then oft the gunner comes with dire intent, Or idle schoolboy in his holiday. As fades the year and falls the shivering leaf Forth come the village maidens to the wood, To gather the blue grapes that load the vine And dropping nuts that strew the forest floor. Then frequent on the naked boughs is seen The nimble squirrels. Now erect he sits With plumy, bushy tail and uprais d paws, Seeking the nutty spoil ; anon he leaps From branch to branch, the gunner s easy prey. Far in the West, where Illinois great stream Flows thro the prairies islanded with groves, The sleek black squirrels build their lofty nests, RAHIUT. 107 And the fox-squirrel, noblest of his race, Feeds on the bounteous mast that strews the ground; At edge of corn field, on some pasture oak Or towering chestnut, he delights to build, And fills his granary with ivory nuts And golden wheat and juicy Indian corn. RABBIT. (Lepm Amerieanus.) r PIS a fair haunt, a lovely scene With vale and stream and woods between! Yonder across the upland bill The snowy sheep flocks browse at will, The cattle thro the meadows sweep Where springs the clover, fetlock deep, The scented fields in swaths are laid By the swart mower with his blade, While up the winding dusty road Creaks the big hay-team with its load; While mingled notes of toil and play Rejoice the night and charm the day. The craggy woodpaths all around, And thickets, with the hare abound; Beneath some tussock close and warm It makes its leafy-shelter d form, Or neath a hollow tree or heap Of stone- wall where the ivies creep, And there when yelping dogs pursue It, skulking, hideth, lost to view. Secure from hound and hunter s greed, At night it ventures forth to feed, Nibbling the buds and grasses sweet That cluster round its home-retreat, Or feeds on berries that afford A honey d, an ambrosial hoard. When e er the evening shades pervade The tangled copse and dusky glade, The voices of the solemn night Harmonious swell as fades the light. 108 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN". The cawing crows, slow winging home, Sound hoarsely in the falling gloom; The cooing of the blue wood-dove With plaintive wail pervades the grove ; The russet thrush its soul of song Pours out melodious sweet and long; The fern-owls through the shadows wheel, The white moths from their coverts steal ; The rabbit then, when all is still, Limps from his warren on the hill To crop the clover of the ground, Fearless of gun and cruel hound. Then thro the long moonlighted night It gambols in the ghostly light, Brushing the dews from shrub and grass As round in circling wheels they pass, Printing the turf as if a band Of fays had come from fairy-land. RUFFED GROUSE PARTRIDGE. (Tetrao umbellus.) T^THERE greenwood shadows shift and swim, As in cathedral arches dim, Casting a weird and solemn shade Thro the primeval forest-glade, While here and there a sunny beam Thro canopy and vault doth stream, Illuminating with its glow The checker d turf that spreads below, There the shy partridge loves to brood, Deep in the shelter of the wood. High soars a patriarchal oak, Its umbrage scath d by lightning-stroke, Upon whose topmost bough doth dwell An eagle, monarch of the dell, O erlooking from his eyrie grand The wide expanse of forest land ; Now rising high in air to sweep In circling rings the upper deep, RUFFED GROUSE I A KTKIDGE. 100 Now pois cl and balane d in mid-space, As resting from his airy chase; Now sweeping downward on its way As pirate bark swoops ou its prey. Yonder a chestnut grove is seen Waving its royal Hags of green ; A lovely spot, a cool retreat, Where shade and silence love to meet, But in the mellow autumn-time (When brisk October breezes chime, When fruits arc ripe, and leaves are red), Vocal with music, loud with tread, For there the village children haste The chestnuts, brown and crisp, to taste, And there the partridge loves to bring Her young when evening folds its wing. In rocky regions, where the pine And spruce and hemlock intertwine, Forming an overhanging roof Against the rain and sunbeam proof, So dense that scarce a ray may pour Across the dark and russet floor, There doth the speckled partridge come In dim recess to make a home, To sound the drum or forth to lead The young, on berries ripe to feed, Prompt on affrighted wing to break When foes the tangled thickets shake. They love the lofty, breezy height, The hillside with its sunshine bright, The long, mountainous range of hills Where bubble forth the crystal rills, Where oak and laurel intertwine, And shakes its plumy crest the pine; And there they love to lurk and feed On fallen mast and dropping seed; And there the red luxurious fare Of melting strawberries they share, The partridge-berries scarlet fruit, The blue-berry s o erladen shoot, 110 POEMS OF THE BOD AND GUN. And spicy bud and purple grape, Where vines the sunny hillside drape. When bleak November hoar-frosts creep Along the mountain-ranges steep, They speed before the rising gale To seek some warm, sequester d vale, And there where stood the harvest sheaves They feed at will in morn and eves, Gleaning the grains so honey-sweet Of oat and barley, and buckwheat, Secure by day in tussocks green, At night in sombre evergreen. PINNATED GROUSE. (Tetrao Cupido.) T^THEN winter o er the prairie throws Its mantle of the drifted snows, The grouse-packs o er the landscape white In the collected flock unite. On rail and naked woods they brood, Denied the prairie s generous food: So then the fowler seeks in vain To harass them with leaden rain. But when the budding Spring returns, To scatter from her brimming urns Her quickening light, her rosy hues, Her softly falling showers and dews; When twig and branch in living bloom Their vernal loveliness resume, And soft buds on each tender spray Blossom, and le"aves their palms display. Then the great grouse-flocks separate, Each pairing with some chosen mate. When August and September days Flush the broad prairies with their blaze, The young broods, now matur d, expand Their wings and flutter o er the land, Feeding in corn-fields and in grain, At mid-day hidden o er the plain, Then sudden smoke and pealing gun, Tell that the sportsman s joy s begun. WILD PIGEON. Ill WILD PIGEON. (Columba lieia.) rpIIE autumn day is fleck d with gold, As slow the twilight sun declines; The western cloud s eiicrimsou d fold With a surpassing beauty shines; And as the decp ning shadows creep Athwart the glimmering landscape s breast. And o er the purpling mountains sweep, The drowsy breezes sink to rest. The roe buck to his dingle goes, Where thick the wood its covert throws; The red stag that had paus d to drink Beside the rivulet s plashy brink, Exhausted flings his dappled side Along the clear, pellucid tide. Tis then the pigeons seek the wood To roost, a swarming multitude. Deep in Wisconsin wilderness, Or forests vast of Michigan, The bending boughs their bosoms press, The air their clanging pinions fan. So great their numbers, hunters say They bend the bough and break the spray, And when their frighten d myriads rise, Tis like the thunder of the skies. Years since in forests of the East They gathcr d to the harvest feast; They swarm d by river and by shore, In vast flocks flew the pastures o er; They swept innumerable the plain, Gleaning the corn-seed and the grain; Then, winging to some grove their flight, Sought roosting-places for the night. When emigration to the West In eager emulation prcss d, And axe and plough and farmer s toil Open d the treasures of new soil; 112 POEMS OF THE ROD A^D GUN". And million acres of the wheat Ripen d in summer s fervid heat, And bearded rye and yellow corn Shook their bright tresses in the morn; Then to those fields and pastures new These emigrants on pinions flew. When June with rose-red cheeks aglow O er banks wild strawberries doth strew ; When August on the sunny hills With sweets the luscious blueberry fills, And o er the heated pasture pours The blackberries in honey d stores, And ripens on the swinging vine The grapes, like amethysts that shine, Then to this ripe, abundant fare, So sweet, the pigeon -flocks repair, Sharing the never-cloying feast Our Maker offers to the guest. SEA-GULL. OEA-BIRD, skimmer of the waves, Whither doth thy journey tend? Is it to some southern shore, Where the meadow-rushes bend, Where the orange-blossoms blow, Where the aloe and the palm Flourish, and magnolias glow, Filling all the air with balm? Rather is thy pilgrim wing Fleeting to some northern bar, Where the rocky reef juts out, And the sand-beach stretches far? There in hot and silvery sand All thy pearly eggs to lay, There to teach thy little brood O er the tumbling surf to play. THE DEATH OF THE LAST ENGLISH SPARROW. 113 Haply sailing o er the brine, Painted gainst a lurid sky, On the gray horizon s verge Thou dost even now descry Some lone bark with shaltcr d must, Bulwarks swept, and ragged sail, Fighting with the ocean-blast, Lost in shipwreck and in gale. Restless, roving, lonely bird, Wanderer of the pathless seas, Now where tropic woods are stirr d, Now where floating icebergs freeze; Seldom doth the solid shore See thy wings expand no more. THE DEATH OF THE LAST ENGLISH SPARROW. (Passer domesticus.) song-birds rejoice in valley and wood, , For the sparrows have gone, that pestilent brood ; The meadow-lark warbles his paeans of praise, Robin-redbreast is sweet with his jubilant lays. The blue-birds that perc h on the old garden gate And the little brown wrens now with joy are elate, The blackbirds with musical chatter declare, As their hovering pinions circle in air, That the fierce, fighting sparrows no longer molest, To sting with their bills or harrow the nest; And no longer in orchard or green forest glade Will the haunts of the innocent warblers invade. The cat-birds that lurk where the thickets are dim, The martins that round the barn gables now skim; The swallows that feed on the insects of air, The humming-birds brilliant as emeralds rare 8 114 POEMS OF THE KOD AND GUN. The oriole splendid with purple and gold, The bright little yellow-birds, fair to behold; The gay bobolink, whose minstrelsy flows Like the bubbling brook thro the meadow that goes; The brown thrush, that hermit of deep solitudes, The lone chicadee that chirps in the woods ; All these native harpists, a musical band, Rejoice that the sparrow is dead in the land! These foreign invaders all scorn d a fat slug, Scorn d army worm, Hessian-fly, forest-moth, bug; Would not feast on the insects that poison the fruit, That strip the green leaves which garland the shoot. But stain d are their bills with the blood of the grape Whose clusters of nectar the trellises drape ; They feed on the strawberries, luscious and red, And on all of the sweets of the garden are fed; On the round ruddy globes of the peach-tree, that fills With fragrance the air as the honey distils; On the brown juicy pears that burst as they fall, On the sweet purple plums that droop o er the wall ; On the cherries ambrosial, whose clustering gems Clasp and crown the light twigs with rare diadems. But now since the sparrows have met with their doom, The harvests may flourish, the gardens may bloom. Yes! now the broad acres of ripening grain May brighten in sunshine and freshen in rain; The fruits of the orchard their treasures may store, The song-birds may warble as ever of yore, For the sparrows will rob and molest never more, DUCK-SHOOTING IN BARNEGAT BAY. 115 DUCK-SHOOTING IN BARNEGAT BAY. JS^OVEMBER with its rosy light, November with its frosty night, November that hath stript the woods Far up in Northern solitudes, November, sharp November s here, With its clear, crystal atmosphere. The breeze is fresh upon the bay, The white caps o er the billows play; The east wind bloweth from the seas A brisk, invigorating breeze. From distant shore, remotest rock, Comes down the migratory flock. From Baffin s Bay, from Labrador, From Canada, those legions pour, From where the stormy waters break Along the vast Superior Lake, From Winnepeg and Lake of Woods, From Saginaw s transparent floods, From Hudson Bay s remotest isles, From where the Manitoba smiles, They come, the winged armies come, To seek in gentler climes a home. Hark! hark! When evening s dusky gloom Prevails, and twinkling stars illume, And new moon curv d like Indian bow, Sails up the skies serene and slow, Then fast upon the breeze of night, Loud honking, come the wild-geese flight, Slow circling o er the sleeping bay In lengthen d file or close array; They hover ere they sink to rest, Wing-weary, on the water s breast. On muddy flat by marshy sedge, In shallows at the channel-edge, The wild-ducks from the North and East In numerous gather to the feast. Oh! far and fast theii flight hath been, ITrom distant stream and marshes green, 116 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Where since the springtime s earliest days They ve linger d, their young broods to raise, And now the gusty north winds pour Their winnowing pinions to our shore. The shy black-duck voracious feeds On the long duck-grass with its seeds, And, as he plumes his dusky wing, Suspicious glances round doth fling, He scents his foeman in the air. A flashing oar-blade s sudden glare, A crackling reed, a bending grass, Alarm them, and away they pass. With one quick spring they upward dart, And like an arrow-flight depart. The whistling widgeon, from their flight Afar, in countless flocks alight. They skim the flats, they skirt the shore, They shyly view the landscape o er, Ere on the feeding-grounds they stoop In broken file or muster d group; And when the day is dark with rain, And shrill the piping winds complain, Their restless flocks flit to and fro, Now soaring high, now pitching low. The canvas-backs from northern coast, And red-heads, an unnumber d host, In watery pastures to repose Hasten, their flagging wings to close. The gray duck and the dipper come, The brant-geese from the ocean-foam, The brilliant mallard, and the teal With eye of light and wing of steel, All gather in the autumn day To haunt the waters of the bay. Hid in the sedge-grass of the shore, The fowlers their thick ranks explore, They anchor their decoys and wait, Impatient, yet with joy elate; They pour the volleying shot like rain, And joyful number up the slain. MY PARKER GUN. 117 MY PARKER GUN. TX7IIEN the dew is on the grass, and the corn-leaves, thin and white, Are rustling, are tinkling, in October s dawning light; When the filmy mists from river, from thicket, and from wood In silvery wreaths are rising over meadow, over flood, Then I follow hard the quail, the speckled, piping quail, Thro stubble of the oat-field, thro wheat-field of the vale, With my trusty Parker gun. When the wind is on the bay, and November breezes play O er the marshes, o er the shallows, o er the sandbars and the spray; When the wild-geese flocks are passing and the hovering brant are massing, And the bluebills and black-duck are multitudes surpassing When the canvas-backs, the red-heads, the mallards, and the teal In great flocks are circling, as o er the wave they wheel, Then I seize my Parker gun. When the midday August heats, in shady swamp retreats, O er alders of the rivulet with sultry fervor beat; When thro the bowery shades scarce a sunbeam bright pervades, And the startled woodcock breaks thro the thick-entangled glades, Then my Parker gun resounds. When September breezes pass o er the waving, billowy grass; O er the herbage of the prairies, o er the far-extended plain; When the speckled grouse-flocks spring on the upward soaring wing, O er the uplands, o er the woodlands, and the stubbles of the grain, Re-echoes then my gun. When the summer breezes play, "o er the twinkling open bay, O er the shallows, o er the coves, o er the sand-spits of the shore, When the snipe-flocks are speeding, and the jack-curlews are feeding, And yellow-shanks and brant-birds in airy circles soar, Then I ply my Parker gun. 118 POEMS OF THE EOD AND GUN. And when the green-back plover, over plains of Montauk hover, And gray-backs and black-breasts are speeding on their way, Then I set my wood decoys, and the volleying flame destroys The frighten d flock, the bleeding flock, that o er my covert sways, When I raise my Parker gun. And ah! what joy I take, where the ocean billows break O er the islets, o er the bars of the green Virginian land, When the crispy yellow sedge at the water s rippling edge Is alive with duck and snipe, and I eager grasp in hand My beloved Parker gun! WOOD-DUCK. (Anas sponsa.) TN May-time, when the lilac-plumes Droop from the branch their purple blooms; When chestnuts clap their leafy hands, And every bud with joy expands; When in the moist, sequester d nooks Of woods is heard the call of brooks, The wood-duck builds its downy nest, Secure from prowling schoolboy s quest. The swampy, shallow creeks they haunt, Where thick woods o er the waters slant, Whose interlacing branches make A dusky evening in the brake ; And there their little nests are made In hollow mossy log decay d, Or where the woodpecker had bored The crumbling bark to hide his hoard, Fast by the stream whose ripples beat The tree-roots of their close retreat. Most beauteous of all the race That skim the wave or soar in space, With plumage fairer than the rays The bird-of- paradise displays, SUMMER WOODCOCK-SHOOTING. 119 A mottled purple gloss d with green, All colors in the rainbow seen ; No tropic bird of Indian skies May rival thy imperial dyes. Least wary of all fowl that wing O er salty bay or inland spring, They haunt the pond whose reedy shore Extendeth by the farmer s door, Or rivulet whose waters trill Their melodies below the mill; And here the ambush d gunner lies To gather in his lovely prize. Fair are thy haunts, O bird that glows With hues of violet and rose, By lakelet, by transparent stream, Fair as the landscape of a dream, Fair with the drooping groves that throw Their shadows o er the current s flow; Fair with the bordering slopes that lave Their grasses in the crystal wave, The crystal wave reflecting back The sky-cloud drifting on its track, Where morn and eve enfold their wing Celestial, and the bluebirds sing. SUMMER WOODCOCK-SHOOTING. (Scolopax minor.) r riIE July noonday swoons with heat, Yet pleasant is the wood s retreat, For there the drooping branches spread A checker d umbrage overhead. Where scarce the sun-spears, quivering bright, May pierce the foliage with their light, Ah ! there so shadowy sleeps the wood Where hermit woodcock seek their food, (Piercing with bill the oozy edge Of stream where bends the water-sedge), That well the gunner may invade The cool recesses of the shade. 120 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. The alders there weave densest screen, The willows lift their shields of green ; The woodbine twines its glossy crown, The grapevine drops its garlands down. There coppice thick and thicket dense, That hem the brook with thorny fence, Unite their verdurous shades to greet, In woodcock haunts, the sportsman s feet. Turn, gunner, then from harvest vale, From wheat-fields haunted by the quail, For not yet may the gun molest T.he bevies of the quail in nest. Spare thou those russet-plumag d flocks, Till ripen d corn is heap d in shocks, And all the sumptuous golden grain Is garner d from the harvest plain. For then, in sharp October days, The quail-flock through the stubble strays; And pealing shot and smoking gun Will boast of ample triumphs won. But rather seek the pi ashy swale, Low in the moist and boggy vale, Or pass thro bushy swamps that hide With briery hedge the brooklet side. These shy, secluded birds all day In cool, thick-shaded haunts delay ; But when the woods at eve are dim To open feeding-grounds they skim. They bore for larvae in the soil, Or marsh-worms, with a greedy toil; Loving in springtime to arise In spiral circles to the skies; But ever tis a welcome mark In open glade or woodland dark. THE DEEll PASS. THE DEER PASS. (Suggested by a Painting by Ldttdscer.) r |M I ERE hangs a noble picture on my wall, A matchless landscape of the Scottish land, A Landsecr poem of the mountain-range! A stream, now crystal-clear, now halcyon-calm, Leaps madly, rushing down the ravines dark, Mid boulders of the splinter d granite rock, Foaming and Hashing on its stormy way. In foreground of the picture stands a group Of the red deer that haunt the Scottish hills; A stately stag, with branching antlers crown d, With ears erect, as looking for his foes, And round him flocks of browsing brindled does, And their shy fawns of graceful, sk-nder limb; With their small heads erect, as if they caught Some taint of danger poisoning all the air. These stand on ample plateau of the cliffs, Where sight may all the dim horizon scan, The verdant valleys and the heathery downs, The gray old castles and baronial halls, And plains with farms and villas overspread, So that no daring mountaineer might climb The rugged fastnesses and scape their view; Nor unseen might the chieftain of these hills, With all his tartan d, kilted clansmen come With rifle and with hound to work them harm. Beneath that foremost group, a darkling tarn, A rock-girt pool of inky water spreads, O er which no clump of gloomy fir-trees rise, But only the lush ferns, by autumn touch d, And moss and heath embroider the low marge. In rear, a winding road of beaten track Runs up the hills, where, scatter d, cropping herds Wander at will ; here half hid mid the crags, Here full in view, reclin d upon the turf. In the far distance, soaring high in air, The beetling summits of the mountains sweep, 122 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Half hid, half seen amid the floating clouds And misty vapors of the empty air. Tis a grand scene, majestic and sublime ! Worthy the painter s brush, the poet s pen; A vast assemblage of high-soaring peaks, Granitic slopes, and dark defiles and dells, And falling torrents, glistening in the light; Roam d by the graceful deer-herds of the wilds. WATCHING FOR DEER. /^\UT in the woodlands all alone, Out in the forests dim and drear, I lay with rifle at my side, In earnest watching for the deer. I seem d like sentinel of the war On distant outpost for vigil plac d, Guarding the dangerous picket-ground, As to and fro on my beat I pac d. How intent I mark d the hostile camp, The flash of-steel in the order d line, The gallop of horsemen on the march, The gleam where the big brass cannon shine! E en so, through the long arcades of woods, Through the column d ranks of giant trees, Through tangled thicket of bramble and weed, My glance every moving object sees. I see the rabbit leap through the glade, The squirrel clamber the gnarled oak, The speckled partridge lead forth her brood, The eagle sail o er with pinion-stroke; But still no form of the dappled doe, No branching antler of noble stag, Were seen in the vast expanse of woods, O er grassy slope or rocky crag, All still and solemn as lonely grave; No rustling stir of the leaves in air; All nature seem d in a drowsy swoon, No life-throb, no pulsation there ! WATCHING FOR DEER. 123 The sluggish river that wundcr d by Slipt noiseless, voiceless, on its way; No ripple of laughter in its course, No prattle of merriment gay; It seem d as if alone in the world, Aloof from human kind I stood, With naught above but the silent skies, Naught around but the lonesome wood. Then methought a feeble and fitful sound Came wafted along the fields of air, A whisper-like moan of the distant surf, Or sigh through the grass of uplands bare. Is it the cry of the hunting pack? Is it the clamorous yelp of the hounds? Yes, for I see them in far-off glade, I see them burst through brier and vine; I see them dash through the shallow stream, Now group d together, now rang d in line. Fast through the forest, fast they speed, Fast by the herbless and treeless waste; Onward, remorseless as cruel death, Onward they press in tireless haste. And there at their head, at brief advance, I see a stately stag in career, A stag that bounds, that struggles for life, The proud, the hunted, the frantic deer. Nearer, yet nearer the quarry comes, Panting, exhausted, well-nigh spent; And ere my levell d and deadly tube Its leaden message had surely sent, The poor, tir d creature s dying sigh Was heard, and the hound s exultant cry. 124 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. REINDEER. (Germs tarandus.) TpAR spread thy bleak, inclement solitudes, O Lapland ! girdled in by icy seas, And friug d by icebergs and the crystal floes, Floes all adrift in flow and ebb of tides, Grinding o er rocks and sands that skirt the shore. In lapland realms run mountainous defiles, Peak, pinnacle, and cliff, and gulches grand A bleak and barren, desolate expanse, Seam d with black ridges, with white torrents swept, And in the winter-times untrod by man. Here dwell the herdsmen all the summer-time, Here rear their log- built cottages and huts, And make their homes along the mountain-slopes, And lead a social and a cheerful life; But when the winter threatens, they migrate, With all their flocks and herds, to milder climes. Herding their thousand reindeer in the plains, More frightful far are all these dreary wastes, Than those wild mountain- slopes and rugged crags, For here stretch savage roads and barren plains, Trees without fruit, and pastures verdureless! Far as the eye may reach can naught be seen But sterile fields; no landscapes flowery, No springing grass, no harvests of the grain. Here the white mosses o er the acres spread, Moss white as snow and ghastly to behold. Yet bounteous nature yields this precious food, The sole, poor food the reindeer herds may crop. Thick, dark around the gloomy forests bend, Shrouded with blacken d moss in hideous gloom; Dark, trailing mosses, like funereal flags That droop their festoons in cathedral aisles. All summer long the gadfly and the gnat Torment the herds that browse the mossy plain ; But when the winter kills those insect pests, And herdsmen fill the valleys with their herds, HAUNTS OF THE ASIATIC LEOPARD AND PANTHER. 125 His pallid moss, so grievous to the sight, Seems to the Laplander a treasure rich, His only harvest, for it feeds his flocks, And is to him the choicest hoon of earth. While it o erspreads his endless dreary moor He envies not the verdure and the bloom Of southern landscapes with their fruitful wealth. Clad in his deerskin garb, he drives his herds, Fearless and careless, o er the desert space, Asking no fare luxurious, but content With the pure milk and smoke-dried flesh they yield. Ah, who so happy as the Laplander! When the glaz d snow is crusted with clear ice, And fur and fast for many a lengtheu d league, Warm in his sledge, he urges on his team. Swift as a courser in the race- course field, Swift as a war-horse in the shock of arms, The flying reindeer skims along the plain, And skirts the gloomy wood in matchless speed. HAUNTS OF THE ASIATIC LEOPARD AND PAN THER. (Felis Leopard us.) TN India s realm, where nature s affluent hand Pours from her urn rich treasures o er the land, The dark-hued Indian drowsily reclines By shadow d stream, beneath luxuriant vines; Doom d to light toil where thick the honey d fruit Invites his taste from many a burden d shoot; Where the banana and the orange pour Around his way their free and bounteous store; Where the rough cactus yields its juicy pear, And ripe pineapples perfume all the air. Tis a fair land, where plants of matchless dyes Paint all the soil, as rainbows flush the skies; A solemn land, where forests rise sublime, In whose green depths soft fall the steps of Time! Enchanted land, whose mountain summits glow With the white lustre of eternal snow ; 126 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN". A realm in whose grand wilderness abound The great wild creatures of the forest-ground. How fair those groves, how clear the bubbling streams In Asiatic realms where Ganges gleams, And thro savannas murmuringly glides, Until it mingles with the Bengal tides! Behold ! far down the mountain solitudes, Beneath the line of snow, the bending woods, Kiss d by the sunbeam, all their colors blend, While far away the verdurous plains extend. Enchanting pictures of commingled bloom Burst on the vision spice- wood lends perfume, Citron and orange glisten on the shoot, The brown pomegranate drops its lucious fruit, Luxuriant vines swing high the purpling grape, And loftiest trees with graceful festoons drape, Tis a fair scene where Peace drops down to rest, Folds, like a bird, her pinions o er her breast; Where all the glimmering shades at hour of eve Their filmy veils and vapors interweave. There the strip d tiger has his chosen home, And there the tawny, savage panthers roam, Panthers more fierce than tigers gaunt and grim, Or leopards perilous to life and limb, More valorous in charges, more fierce to meet Than all the prowlers of the wood s retreat. While over all the Central India s space The panther lurks for man, the leopard race Stealthy and noiseless creep thro rocky pass And lie conceal d in tangle of the grass; Then, springing agile from some branching spray, They strike the victim and secure the prey. There where the jungle-swamps the lagoons drape They seize the monkey tribes, the gibbering ape. The sand-grouse first seek out that forest lake, There speckled pea-fowl haste their thirst to slake, There spotted deer and antelope and bear Gather at midnight in that darkling lair, And soon the leopard and the panther brood Share the gorg d feast and revel in the blood. THE HUNTER AND TRAPPER. 127 THE HUNTER AND TRAPPER. TN the dusk and hush of the woods, Far away from the haunts of men, Now o er the steep mountain-slopes, Now deep in some darkling glen, I rove, and I pitch my camp, Alone in the wilderness, Where ne er human voices may curse, Or human lips may bless. My home is a wide, humble place Without fa9ade or column or dome, No sumptuous hall to invite, No marble palatial home; No gilded and groin d lofty roof, No walls resplendent with art; No sculptures, no paintings renown d, So dear to the proud human heart. My home is at base of a rock, With the wild vines and mosses o ergrown, O er which an imperial oak Its shelter majestic hath thrown. A pure, merry brook runneth by, It prattles and talks to me long; It gives me cool nectar to taste, And it charms with perpetual song. Sweet twigs of the cedar my couch, My roof is of willow and reed, And the bark of the birch-tree my wall, And no better protection I need. I am free as the breezes of air, I roam o er the mountains at will, In the depths of the forest I plunge And scale the bald cliffs of the hill. 128 POEMS OF THE BOD AND GtHST. I follow the tracks of the deer, The panther I seek in his lair, And I dare in his cavernous haunt The tusks and the claws of the bear. My iron-tooth d snap-traps I set For the beaver, the otter, and mink, By the shore of the forest-fring d lake, Or fast by the rivulet s brink. 1 know not a sorrow or care, Remorse or regret or despair ; I rejoice in the vigor of health, And pine not for honors or wealth. REVISITING IN FANCY THE GROUSE-SHOOTING PLAINS OF ILLINOIS AFTER THIRTY YEARS ABSENCE. (~YER prairies green of Illinois, O er pastures measureless, I tread ; A flowery garden all around, An azure firmament o erhead; No tufted grove, no woodland wide Within the circuit of the plain, Only a billowy, grassy slope, Like rolling hillocks of the main. These are the same fair scenes I knew More than a score of years ago ; These the same grassy meadows spread, These the same flowers that used to blow; But all how changed! the pastoral scene, These peopled spaces all seem new, For farm and villa crowd the waste, And cities flash upon the view. The songbirds sing in orchard tree, The blackbirds swell their tuneful trill, The meadow lark delights the plain, The bluebird chants on wooded hill; But ah ! the speckled grouse forsake The stubble-field, the corn-field s edge; No more the mottled flocks abound GROUSE-SHOOTING PLAINS OF ILLINOIS. 129 O er open waste, by wayside hedge ; I may not rouse them, as of old, Across the broad and boundless plain, Feeding where harvest wheat-fields spread, Where wav d the golden shocks of grain. Where stretch d in olden days gone by The prairie s limitless expanse; Where swept, o er flowery meads, the breeze, Rejoicing in the sunbeam s glance, I see new villages extend, Villa and town, and rural grange, The fresh turf broken by the plough, The old-time landscape new and strange; The peaceful coverts of the game. Of grouse, of woodcock, of the quail, Invaded, where the poacher s net And ploughboy s lawless guns prevail. The emigrants from foreign lands Have here with white-topp d wagons come, Forsaking the ancestral roof To find on virgin soil a home; And here like swarming bees they pour, They fell the wood, they sow the plain, And the wild forest deer and grouse Affrighted flee from their domain. Well I recall those blissful days, The joyous days long since I pass d, The crimson morns, the dewy eves, Too sweet, too glorious to last, When by Fox River s crystal tide I sought the duck, I slew the quail; When by Rock River s grassy edge, O er prairie plain, o er verdurous vale, I follow d the brown quarry s flight, Seeking in upland and in dale The sportsman s pastime and delight. Then few and fur the villages Sprinkled along the rushing tide, Batavia and Geneva s street, And Elgin, now watchmaker s pride; 9 130 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And by thy green, romantic shore, O swift Rock River, well I knew The little hamlet, Oregon, And youthful Dixon, fair to view; But now they tell that peopled town And crowded cities line the shore, And art and luxuries abound Where solitude had reign d before; Yet, ah! this flow of busy life Hath swept the shore and scour d the plain, And the wild game hath fled away From prairie-land and harvest-grain. LAKE TAHOE, COLORADO. day is done, the sunset fires grow pale Behind the lone Sierras, but the light still glows In pine-clad promontory, wooded cape; The nearest mountain peaks grow rosy- red, And red the far-off heights where snow-drifts rest Rich tints of orange stain this lovely lake, Where it lies still and solemn by its shores Under the shadow of its stately pines. The sunset has pass d through each state of bloom Through every pomp and rioting of hue, Through all the ecstasy of rich coloring, Into a dreamy rest, till over all Succeeds the deep solemnity of night; And when the moon wheels up the heavenly dome, Silence prevails, save when the wild-beast cries Awake the slumber of the woods around. When all these jewell d peaks grow wan and cold The flickering blaze of the red forest-fires Glitters and flashes on the craggy rifts Where miners toil and smelting-flames gleam out Each granite slope, each chasm and ravine, Flames redly out, as if a swarthy smith Beat his great anvil by the smithy forge. Grim, greedful men have come into these hills HUNTING THE ELK IN THE ISLAND OF CEYLON. 131 To seek the hidden treasures of the earth, To search in sandy placers and in gulch For gold inlaid in crevices of rock, Hid since creation s day; they sift the soil, The precious yellow metal to secure; And in the quarried shaft to find the ore. And yet this lovely lake lies placid still As when, years since, the Indian pitch d his lodge And the lone trapper roam d the wilderness, Ere came for gold the mining multitudes. A fair land this, of flowery vale and slope, With all the ecstasy of hue inlaid; Deep fairy dells where gelid streamlets run, Far-spreading plains where grassy pastures wave, Brows d by the cropping elk and bounding deer; A land enrich d with winding rivers bright, Gemm d with fair lakes of crystal purity. Here blows the fresh elixir air of life, Through branching wood and forest recesses; Here bend the silvery birch and spiring fir, The quivering aspen and the cotton-wood, The regal pine, with yellow lichens clasp d Through which the crested jay and pigeons dart, And the red dragon-flies like arrows glance. A solemn land, with mountain-ridges seam d; With canons dim with pines and cold with snows, Now dark with shadows, and now bright with light, Now kiss d by brook, now swept by waterfall; Where on this earth such paradise of green, And where such grand, majestic mountain-range? HUNTING THE GREAT ELK IN THE ISLAND OF CEYLON. A N open forest stretches far and wide, In whose dim lanes and vistas could be seen A verdurous plain with all its billowy slopes; While from its utmost verge the blue hills rose, And far in distance rang d granitic mounts, Seeming to float in air above the clouds. 132 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Here on expanses of the table-lands The hunter mov d no hut or human dwelling near; No circling boundaries save mountain-tops, No fences save the trunks of fallen trees, No paths save those of- elephant and elk; And here a river runs in whose deep pools And tortuous course the Great Elk makes his stand; Here, too, the hunter, arm d with spear and knife, Comes far afoot for leopard, elk, and boar, Comes with his foxhound and his bloodhound pack, Comes all afoot, for o er these boggy plains No horse may pass, to penetrate the swamps, The jungle-thickets, with their tangled brakes Sown with lianas and the cactus-thorn. Thro these green glades, beneath the drooping trees, So like a princely park, the wild game rove; Rove o er wide downs, with densest jungles sown, Rove thro tall lemon-grass, their favorite haunts. Here spotted- deer, the mouse-deer and the red, The brindled leopard and the bristly boar; The snipe, the partridge, and the gay pea-fowl, Hold their wild homes, but noblest of the game The big elk challenges the yelping hound And dares the hunter in the desperate chase. The hunter, arm d with boar-spear and the knife, Goes forth at early morning with his pack To seek the elk; he tireless tramps o er hills, Thro valleys and the thick-entangled woods, Unleashing hounds and listening for their cries. At last he hears them! No, twas but a bird; Again! No, tis, but a torrent s hollow roar! Again! Yes, tis the chorus of the hounds As they surround a great buck elk at bay, At bay in pool form d by the river s flow. Now with a plunge he charges at the pack, And with sharp forefeet strikes them neath the wave; They rising quick hear their brave master s shout, Who springs into the stream and cheers them on. Again, again, the elk-charge! Ah! beware, Ye daring hunters, gallant men, fierce hounds! OCTOBER. 133 Now down the river swims the dauntless elk, Gallops o er shallows, swims the deepest pools, Dashes down rapids, leaps obstructing rocks, While rage the hounds and roars the torrent-tide. And still the fearless hunter cheers them on. Again the elk at bay! a noble sight! With wide-spread nostrils and with bristling mane, Eyes all aflame, he long defies his foes; At length the hounds prevail the master s knife Descends amain and the brave creature dies. OCTOBER. TT is October, and the glory of the year Is in the skies and on the woods extended far and near; It glows in burnish d clouds, it flushes all the air; It lies in hollow vales, in uplands brown and bare. The tufted groves have lost their bright midsummer green, And now a softer russet-flush creeps o er the woodland scene; O er distant purple hills there floats a gauzy veil, A silver vapor hovers o er the river in the vale. The orchard trees all glisten with globes of yellow gold, That bend the bough and strew the earth with opulence untold The ripen d corn-fields shake their pennons thin and white, And to a feast, the chestnuts, the village school invite. The gossamer spider-web is strung from tree to tree, And up the air the thistle-down floats like a ship at sea; The asters and the dahlias like flames in gardens glow, And by the roadside wild flowers display a royal show. Dim seen, the cautious angler glides on from brook to brook, Now by the open meadow, now in some bushy nook. And now across the mill-pond, with water-plants o ergrown, I sec his floating boat, and where his lines are thrown. 134 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And o er the salty marsh the gun s report I hear, And see the snipe and curlews stop in their swift career; While o er the open bays I see the wild-ducks wheel, The red-neck and the widgeon, the whistler and the teal. O glorious days of autumn ! with all your pomp of skies, Your harvests and your fruits, your flowers of matchless dyes How dear to manly sportsman your ripe, imperial time, Your sports by "stream and forest," in Nature s royal prime RIFLE-PRACTICE. TT is a thousand yards away ! Sight well your piece, as if there lay In ambush close a sharpshooter Lurking beneath a forest fir; A picket-guard, a scout, a spy, With levell d tube and practised eye, With steady nerve and vision true, Intent to send a ball at you. Shoot quick, yet careful be your aim, Your target is no forest game ; But a tried soldier, train d to war, And skill d to slay his foe afar. See! in the shimmering sunbeam An evanescent rifle gleam! Be sure its sudden flame will leap, Be sure its whistling ball will sweep; Then shoot, but with deliberate art, Or soon the death may reach your heart. Sight well your piece, as if there lay A deer five hundred yards away, A noble stag with antler crown d, Scornful of steed or yelping hound, For oft his hoofs have led the chase Triumphant in the headlong race. Steadfast and stately see him stand, With head erect, in stature grand, RIFLE-PRACTICE. 135 Pawing the turf in angry rage, Tossing his horn, a, battle g;igr! Threatening your body to impale If nerve should shake or ball should fail; Imagine that your target-aim Is levell d at such mighty game. Sight well your piece, as if a bear, Growling and grim, were in his lair His eyeballs glaring on his prey And you but twenty yards away; See the great, crooked iron claw, The churning foam of grizzly jaw! See how the eyes Hash lurid llamc. Imagine then such monster game Confronts you; and if tremors shake Your nerves, remember life s at stake. Sight well your piece, as if a plain, A prairie, stretch d its vast domain, Where far and wide as eye may glance Rolls out a limitless expanse. No friendly woods their glooms extend To the horizon s azure end; Naught but the billowy slopes display Their grassy hillocks round the way; No yawning chasm or gulch to yield A refuge in that dreary field; While there, in fancy, you behold A tawny bison, grim and old, With savage eye and lashing tail That beats his flanks as with a flail, Raging to toss with horn in air The foe that would his fury dare. Ah! steady then be hand and aim; For death or life you stake the game! Hold firm your piece! In fancy stand Far off in Asiatic land, In tangles of pineapple rove, Palmetto jungle, bamboo grove, Where wave the frills of pallid fern And orchids with gay colors burn, 136 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Where cocoanuts their crowns upthrow, Areca-palms their fronds of snow, And there in that weird forest hall, Confront the tiger of Bengal, The royal tiger, strip d and grim, With blazing eye and crouching limb. Then quick the aim and sure the shot, Or you shall perish on the spot ! WHEN THIS OLD GUN WAS NEW. this old gun was new Twas in life s youthful time, When flowing locks were golden-brown That now are white with time. When skies were bright and meadows green, Days all too short for play, And precious was each moment Of the weekly holiday ! Ah, then when first the flush of dawn Lit up the eastern sky, How joyous from the garden gate Out to the fields to fly! Sometime with little slender rod With line of silken strand, We d seek the winding river s marge, A gay, exultant band. Sometime we d seek the old mill-pond, Down where the trees leaned o er, Where water-lilies were afloat, And cat-tails lin d the shore, To cast for chub, or perch, or trout, Or pike, or yellow bream, And fill our wicker baskets With treasures of the stream. FALCONRY. 137 But greater yet the joy to lift This old gun from the wall And pass forth where the piny woods Rose shadowy and tall. For there the blue wood-pigeons flew, There on wild berries fed, And when this little gun outspoke How many were the dead ! Twas but a simple flint-lock thing, Long ere the cap and cone, But still its powers seem d marvellous, And the gun was all our own. How precious seem d our powder store, Precious as sands of gold, Our shot-bag was a treasury Of leaden wealth untold! Since then full many years have sped, We ve hunted far and near, But never was such sporting joy As in that earliest year. A costlier weapon we have swung, The smart breechloader borne, But none so dear-belov d as this, The child gun, bruis d and worn! FALCONRY. (Falco.) ~C>ED banners stream out from castle- wall, The cavaliers gather in lordly hall; They are gay with plumes and apparel bright, With gilded baldrick, and doublet white, Ever ready for tourney or border fray, For falcon flight or stag at bay. Twas a grand old hall where pennoncellcs wave From oaken ceiling and crypt and nave; Where ancient statues with lance and brand In armor complete in niches stand. 138 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Tripping lightly down from each spacious stair Come matrons graceful and maidens fair, Fair damsels a rosy and sparkling band, With gauntlet and jewell d whip in hand, In flowing riding-robes array d To fly the falcon in forest glade. Sirloin and venison-haunch on the board Are deftly carv d and the red wine pour d; Beakers of claret, flagons of beer, Are quaff d in response to toast and cheer. Then forth down the granite steps they pass To the court-yard esplanade of grass. Ostler and groom from manger and stall Lead forth the thoroughbred charges tall. The cavaliers quick to their saddles spring, With jingle of spur and bridle-ring; Fair maidens are rais d with knightly care To their palfreys, equipt in housings rare. Then the rough gamekeeper and dainty page Bring forth the falcons from perch and cage, The stroug-wing d merlins to sweep the wood, Equipt with jesses and bell and hood. Then forth down the bowery vale they ride To marshy mere, to river-side, For there, amid sedges and tufted reed, The long-limb d herons secluded feed. The buzzard, the goshawk, and the kite Are but mean assassins in their flight; But the shapely falcon of noble fame Is the royal hunter of forest game. On, on they ride; resound horn and hound, While beaters explore the coverts round; The falcons from hood and jesses are freed, When partridge and quail spring up at speed ; But loud resound cheerings when herons rise From oozy marsh to ascend the skies. With frighten d cry he expands his wings, With outstretch d neck from his ambush springs, Springs upward in soaring and steady flight Until lost in the skies to human sight. MY DOGS SANCHO AND NEPTUNE. 139 But frantic and cruel the falcon still Pursues the fugitive, eager to kill. He follows the prey, he soars on high, Like an arrow he cleaves the upper sky, Then swings with a downward swoop on his prey, And the heron falls dead in the forest way. MY DOGS SANCHO AND NEPTUNE. "V^OU know, my dear Sancho, the shooting is o er, That the gun o er the meadows may thunder no more; You know with regret the " close season" is here And the end of the fun is the end of the year. That iu hedge-row and wheat-field, in stubble and weed, The coveys of quail unmolested may feed ; That in intricate swamps, where rivulets run, The woodcock have vanish d and silent the gun ; That far in the forest s sequester d retreat The wings of the partridge securely may beat. So, farewell to the sports of woodland and field, The last shot is fir d, the last volley peal d. Old Neptune! brave child of bleak Newfoundland! Your joys are all over at bayside and strand. The snipe have all fled from meadow and marsh, Where the honk of the geese rose discordantly harsh ; The brant and the duck in phalanx no more Stretch across the broad bay or enliven the shore, Nor entice your old master, with boat and decoy, To follow the sport with passionate joy, While you with a dash and a splash and a swim Would plunge for the fowl and bear them to him. I sit by my fireside s flickering blaze And muse o er the past with its glorious days; I think of the morns of October so bright, When flush d the gray skies with the bloom of the light, When all the gay woods are color d with dyes, All the foliage illum d with the glow of the skies; When joyous, light-hearted, I d pass from the gate To range o er the billowy uplands elate, 140 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. To plunge in the woodland s dim, glimmering shade, Where the whir of the partridge was heard in the glade, Or pass thro the dry stubble-fields of the grain, Where the shocks of the wheat so lately had lain; Where the quail were at feed, or hid in the hedge In tussocks of weed or hillocks of sedge, While Sancho crept on with eyes all aflame, Alert for the faintest first scent of the game. And now by my hearth, in sluggish repose, Half-watching the flame o er the ember that glows Lie Neptune and Sancho, both idly at rest, In comfort luxurious, so perfectly blest! Half-awake, half-asleep, they blink as the blaze In their slumberous sense so fitfully plays; And methiuks, as I gaze in their eyes, I can trace The thoughts and the musings that wrinkle their face. They are thinking, mayhap, of their triumphs again, Of the autumn foray, or the summer campaign Of the coveys they rous d, of the flocks they pursued By the hedge, in the field, or at edge of the wood; And I know that when drowsy with sleep ye recline, What exquisite dreamings and visions are thine; For you whine and you yelp, and your paws seem to move As if in pursuit of the game of the grove. THE OPEN SEASON FOR QUAIL-SHOOTING. TT is October morning, the golden, glorious prime Of the autumnal season, the sportsman s royal time; And now the hoar-frost jewels, all glittering and white, Shine o er the grassy meadows and o er the upland height; And far as eye may wander a filmy vapory veil Floats o er the brimming river that windeth down the vale. I gaze o er woods and orchards, resplendent with the hues With which the lavish autumn the drooping leaves suffuse, Where ivies and the woodbines and garlands of the vine Are redden d and embrown d, with vermilion splendors shine. HUNTER S SONG. 141 And where the oaten harvests and fields of wheat were spread, All bare the russet stubble is crisp beneath the tread, And yellow corn-stacks like the tents of armies spread around, While in the busy granaries the beating flails resound. Now by the blue-lake borders, and by the river s edge, Where swing the cut-tail clusters, where leans the rustling sedge, I see the black-duck squadrons, the wood-duck and the teal; I sec the ambush d fowler, I hear his volleying peal. And as I skirt the thicket edge, or through the stubble pass, I see the bevies of the quail spring from the faded grass; In every weedy tussock, in every swale, they hide; And as they sail o er hedges, in winnowings far and wide, The sportsman s heart exulteth with promise of the joy When first the " open season" his gun and dog employ. For not until November its earliest dawn shall bring May shot be fir d in coppices where quail burst on the wing; For then from morn tiil evening the echoes shall repeat The gun s report in open field or in the green retreat. Till then the speckled flocks may feed and fly at will, May range the sumptuous stubbles, may sweep o er plain and hill; When comes that day relentless, ah then, poor flocks, beware! Swift be your flight or ye may leave your " little lives in air." HUNTER S SONG. Air "The Bright, Rosy Morning," etc. r PHE red of the dawn o er the sky pours its flood, It brightens the upland, it flushes the wood; The hound and the bugle to the chase call away, While love cheers the night, boys, let sports charm the day! Let us quaff the rich wine of life while we may! Chorus While love cheers the night, boys, let sports charm the day! 142 POEMS OF THE BOD AND GUN. From hut on the mountain, from hall in the plain, Come, urge the fleet courser with lash and with rein; The herds of wild deer through the woods speed away, While love cheers the night, boys, let sports charm the day! Let us quaff the red wine of life while we may! Chorus While love cheers the night, boys, let sports charm the day ! Far, fast o er the wilds, in the madness of fear, Flies the wolf, flies the bear, in their frenzied career, And swift as the lightning flies the hoof of the deer. While love cheers the night, boys, let sports charm the day ! Let us quaff the bright wine of life while we may! Chorus While love cheers the night, boys, let sports charm the day! EL CONQUISTADOR. "Half-way down, while picking our way through an old windfall, Ignotus kicked something which rattled. Stooping to see what it was, he picked up a jagged, rusty knife and a bleached human skull. Nothing else could we find though we searched carefully. Of what tragedy these were the sole me mentoes we could only conjecture. Was it red man or white, hunter, warrior, miner, or prospector, who had perished miser ably in this gloomy thicket? What was the manner of his taking off by wasting disease, by famine, by ravening wild beast, or by his brother man? Was it, indeed, a man s skull at all, and not, perhaps, a woman s?" Forest and Stream, May 19. hunters toiling up a cliff Of the blue Colorado range, Paus d for a moment to survey The landscape, wild and strange; Far off, a chain of mountains dim Along the horizon crept, While groves and valleys soft below In tranquil beauty slept. EL CONQUISTADOR. 143 Near by El Conquistador rose, Its steep sides dark with tufted woods, Its peaks wind-swept and lightning -scarr d, All seam d and rent with torrent floods. And here a little mountain vale Its natural garden fair outspread; Fair with its grass, its trees, its bloom, And the bright, blue heavens o erhead. And here the careless foot uptum d A skull, a jagged, rusty knife. Were these the sole memorials Of some foul, murtherous strife Sole relics of a tragedy That stain d these grasses green; These mouldering bones that here have lain For years, unknown, unseen? Was it the red man or the white, Hunter or miner, Indian brave, That perish d in this lonely spot, Dead, and denied a grave? Or, haply, twas some tender maid, Some Indian squaw, some emigrant, Sailing across Atlantic seas, To die in this sequester d haunt. But who this mystery may solve, The story of these bones unfold! Ah, never! till the last Great Day, When all earth s secrets shall be told. Ah, many who seek this Western clime Were outlaw d men from foreign shore; Men steep d to the very lips in crime, With heart of iron and hand of gore. They blast the rock, they dig the mine, They sift the sands where nuggets shine, And ever in savage midnight fray Are prompt with the bloody blade to slay. 144 POEMS OF THE EOD AND GUN. NAW-KAW, A CHIEF OF THE WINNEBAGO TRIBE OF INDIANS. Q NAW-KAW! on my wall thy portrait stands; And as upon thy stalwart form I gaze, Upon thy brawny arms and nervous hands, I seem to wander back to other days, When thou, a hunter bold, dicls t roam the plains; Forth on thy frantic horse would headlong ride, To chase the flying buffalo amain, Or, warrior fierce, woulds t lead in savage pride, Thy merciless tribe, triumphant o er the slain. Above thy head a dusky plume is plac d, Thy left hand holds a big-horn s snowy fleece, Thy right hand with a feather d pipe is grac d, A pipe of war or calumet of peace. A red-deer robe is o er thy shoulder thrown, And glittering medals shine upon thy breast; But knife or hatchet, or the club of bone, Thou bearest not, nor war-sign eagle crest, For haply in thy garb of peace thou now art drest. Years since this painting came from artist s hand That now conspicuous adorns my room. Great chief! since then have vanish d from the land Full many of thy tribesmen to their doom! This new year, Eighty-six, beholds thy game Thinn d out o er valley and o er mountain-chain; The steam-horse came with all its iron train, The greedy emigrants and miners came, And soon the game and tribesmen melted from the plain ! O er the broad land the Indian s reign is o er, His gay crown trampled in the very dust; Nor more is seen the flashing of his oar, The battle-spear is tarnish d with the rust; No more his wigwam sends its curling smoke, But his proud neck hath worn the servile yoke; Tribe after tribe have vanish d and have died, And dull oblivion o er them waves its pinions wide! Tin: 4LBATROB8 LWD I LM.riN. 145 THE ALBATItOSS AND PENGUIN. (Dionitiliii c.rnl, ms.) I/ A It off in southern seas by myriads throng Those feather d tyrants of the surging tide, Following the fish-shoals in their devious way, Following the smaller wild fowl o er the deep. Far ofT Magellan s stormy strait they swarm, Far oil the rocky rampart of Cape Horn They hovering seek their prey, and build their nests Along the rugged precipice of isles. Then it is well in contemplative mood To take a stand upon some jutting cliff And view the rugged eyrie where they build, Amid the granite cavities of rocks. There they may rest, secure from harm of man, With the broad seas around to yield them food. Beneath them beats the all-surrounding main, Beyond spreads out old ocean s free domain ; Above, the skies cerulean spread a dome. To pace the shore when the salt tides are out, To view the color d shells that pave the beach, Or glean the dulse and sea kelp of the rocks; To sit on rocks when Hows the rising tide, Attentive to all sounds that fill the air; To view the snowy flocks as high they rise, All this exalts the mind to happiest mood. The giant albatross of southern seas, The cruel king of all aquatic tribes, Hovers aloft or plunges in the deep, Eager to tear with beak and crooked claw, The shining fish that skim the surface wave, Or seize the lesser sea-fowl on the uiug. Afar from human haunt, remote from land, They float, they drift in worlds of upper air, Seeming lo slumber without Hap of wing, And dropping seldom to the lonely shore, Save when they come to breed and build their nots. 10 146 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. They roam, they rob, they never feel fatigue, By night, by day, forever on the wing, Forever prowling, ever at their feasts. One only friend have they of all the tribe The clumsy penguin; they together seek Some desolate bleak island of the sea, And there construct their nest and rear their young. The pelican, the cormorant and gull, And solan goose, avoid the dangerous spot, Where, like a vast encampment in set lines, Like tented field, these armies of great birds, The albatross and penguin, have their home. Yet now those lonely haunts that once they sought, Unknown to humankind for countless years, Are quite forsaken, and more desert shores They seek, secure from human harm. ENGLISH SKYLARK IN AUSTRALIA. (Alauda " The light-feathered minstrel began, as it were, to tune its pipes. The savage-looking miners gathered round the cage that mo ment to listen. Then the same sun that had warmed its little heart at home came glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more, till at last, amid breathless silence and glis tening eyes of the rough diggers hanging on his voice, out burst in that distant laud his English song." TN the Australian land, hard by the farmer s door, Spread idly on the grass were miners half a score: In the acacia s shadow, perch d in its gilded cage, A small brown English lark their earnest thoughts engage. Tiiey were a rough and rugged crew, of almost savage mien, Of swarthy cheek and bearded lip, as e er on earth were seen ; Their bare and brawny arms were scorch d by foreign sun, As if in blazing smith-forge their daily toils were done. They were exiled convicts, and doom d to felon toil, Banish dfrom merry England, their fathers native soil; In gulch and stony gully they d found the wondrous gold, Had fought with nature till they tore the treasures from her hold. KM.l.ISll SKYLARK IN Al STIIAUA. 147 The little feather d minstrel began to tune his throat; The surly diggers gathi-r d rouud they would not lose a note: At first a faint chirp; but ere long, as ancient memories came, The cadences of other years burst from its little frame. The same sun that had warm d at home the bird s melodious strain Came glowing on his heart to thaw the frozen fount again: With breathless lip, with glistening eye, press d round that eager throng, To hear in this remotest land the old familiar song. Ii swellM his little throat, it gush d from him amain; And every time the minstrel check d the song s enchanting strain, Of its fair theme to think the meadow and the stream, The clover blooms, the daisies, the springtime s golden beam, Oh! oft from many a bosom rough, and many a wicked heart, A soft sigh told how fervently they listen d to his art. Il( -:mr again; again he sang with all his tuneful soul, Of the gentle summer showers, of the clouds in heaven that roll: From adamantine bosoms then sprang the kindly tear, That fell on rough embrowned cheeks in drops like crystal clear. These men so full of oaths and ire, cupidity and crime, Had been white-headed boys in vanish d childhood s time; Long they had stroll d the dewy fields, had stemm d the river s tide, With brothers and with sisters rejoicing at their side; There they had seen the skylark rise and soar aloft in air, Singing the self-same mellow song that was vibrating there. Their little playmates in the sod had slept this many a day, While they had grown to stalwart men, remorseless, prompt to slay ; And yet no liquid note is chang d of this immortal strain; While hearing it, long years of vice from minds withdraw their stain The past with all its early scenes, smiles in the song-shine clear The faded lights, the fleeting joys, come back from each lost year. As the little feather d minstrel still bubbled in its flow, Each one recall d the cottage, the aged mother s woe, The clover and the curfew, the playmates that ne er grew To be like them so wicked, but died when life was new; And their souls were touch d and softcu d, as if with Heaven s own dew! 148 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. SPARE THE SWALLOWS, (llirundo urbica.) " The milliners now demand the breasts and wings of swallows for decorating ladies hats. To supply the call thousands of these birds are killed by agents of the millinery taxidermists. The birds that nest under the eaves or fly in at the diamond- shaped swallow-hole ought not to be sacrificed to this new whim of woman. Spare the swallows." Forest and Stream, Supt. 13. O PARE these little children of the happy air, The blue-wing d, sharp-beak d, harmless swallows spare! When the pink petals of the peach unfold, When the shy violets blossom in the mould, When buttercups display their urns of gold, And birds enchant the air with songs of spring, And vines in woods their verdant garlands fling, Then hearts and homes are throbbing with delight As the spring swallows gather in their flight, Rehearsing their sweet carols as they fly ; Now sweeping low, anon careering high, Swift as a pointed arrow from the bow, At every rosy dawn, at sunset s glow. Around the old barii gables, moss d and gray, They circle swift in wild, ecstatic play; The insect pests that hover in the breeze, Whose larvae taint the grain, the budding trees, These nimble guardians of the air assail, And save the ripening harvests of the vale. Where sweeps th unruffled lake its sheet of blue v The restless swallows their forays pursue, They skim its azure plain, they skirt the pool, They dip the wing, the beak in eddies cool; Nor leave the keen pursuit of insect prey Till fades the glimmering twilight of the day. And where the river-borders, slant and steep, O erhang the currents flowing dim and deep, The blithe bank-swallows build their airy home, The crumbling sands their storehouse and their dome. ) TIIK \VIII IM OORWII.I.. 1 ! . Anil lie ro in myriads from each hermit cave They dart forth into space, they skim the wave. Hut when the autumn glory of the woods Fades in its pomp thro all the solitudes, Then like a whirling cloud they take their flight F<r brighter climes, and vanish from the sight. Ah, pity tis these plenteous wing d guests, That please our hearts and rid life of its pests, That charm the blithesome air with chirpings sweet, And fill with merry sound each cnlm retreat, Should die that Youth should win another grace To nod above the witchery of her face! Ah ! she fornets that to enhance her bloom, A sweet bird dies to yield its purple plume. THE WIIIPPOOllWILL. (Caprimulffus vociferus.) "If there is one bird we love above all others, it is the whip poorwill. Even in our boyhood we loved this bird with all our heart; and in these latter days, when we seldom or never hear its voice, our affection seems to be more intense than ever, ami for the strange reason that it recalls long-departed joys." CHARLES LANMAN. "VV/"HEN the glory of sunset fades in the skies As the shadows of evening descend o er the hill, And vnpors from forest and valley arise, Then murmur thy notes, O sweet whippoorwill ! I hear in the thicket the rustle of wings, In the dusk of the foliage discover thy shape, Scarce seen where the ivy its canopy flings, Scarce seen where the grape-vines the trellises drape. All hush d is the air, for the robin hath peal d His last mellow note at the close of the day, And the meadow-lark s song is silent o er field, And silent the blackbird s melodious lay. As I roam the broad uplands with setter and gun, Intent on the quail as they spring from the ground, I note not the shadows at set of the sun Till the gush of thy minstrelsy warbles around. 150 POEMS 03? THE ROD AND GUN. When I float in my boat o er the lakelet serene, Intent on the splash of the trout and the bass, I note not how evening hath darken d the scene Till faint thro the dusk thy symphonies Sweet, gentle, and low, thy charming refrain Is heard in all places from prairie to sea, Mid the South orange-groves and the pine woods of Maine, From Gulf of St. Lawrence to far Tennessee. How dear to the heart thy tender cadence! When heard in the peach tree that shadows our door, When perch d on the rail or the brown garden fence, Thy tremulous anthems at intervals pour. O sweet evening bird, we welcome thy call, That fills every heart with emotions of joy, Reminds of our home in hamlet or hall, Reminds us of childhood and bliss of the boy! THE KINGFISHER. (Alceclo Ispida.} the river winds through its green retreat, Smiling, rejoicing on its way, Whose ripples and rifles ever beat The old tree-roots and boulders gray; Where o er the sedges shallows and sands, The cat-tail tufts and river reeds, At whose edge the patient angler stands, The kingfisher flies and feeds. Perch d on a bending, wither d spray That leans o er the water s flow, He watches intently for the prey That swims in the stream below. Patiently, motionless, long he sits, Like sentry on the castle height; Unharm d the insect by him flits, The bee and the butterfly bright, TIM: EINQFI8HBB. 151 For his dainty food is the finny race, The minnows below that swim, The silver shiners, the roach and dace, The trout o er the surface that skim. Lovely and spangled with all the dyes That melt in the sunset skies. Wings bright as the peacock s plumes, Or hummingbird s mottled blooms, With long bill like that of water-crane, And crown of dusky greenish stain, No lovelier robber infests the streams, Where water runs or fish school gleams. Where er sea-beaches far expand, By shingle-banks and stretch of sand; Where er o erleaning woodlands shade The clear brook twinkling thro the glade, O bird rapacious! is thy haunt, On trees that o er the currents slant. Pois d in mid air like osprey white That o er sea borders takes its flight, It balances its spotted wings, Then downward like an arrow springs, Impaling with its pointed bill The shiny fish of pond and rill. The silent angler, as he glides Along the river s rushing tides, Hears oft thy sharp, discordant cry, As your gay pinions flutter by; But ne er molests thy sudden dash, Thy downward plunge, like sunbeam flash. Hut the boy gunner s cruel e\ Mark thy bright plumage for his pri/.o, In ambush takes his deadly aim, And slays thee, his resplendent irame! 152 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. THE LITTLE CHICKADEE WARBLER OF THE WIN TER WOODS. (Parus atricapillus.} brown chickadee still chirps on the tree, Though it yields scanty wealth of larvae and bee, Though its branches are stripp d of blossom and leaf, And shrill blows the wind with a murmur of grief. Though orchards are bleak and woodlands are bare, And the breath of the winter hath frozen the air, Though the brook in the meadow is shrunken and low, For the blight of the ice hath fetter d its flow; Though the river is white with the icicle gleam, And the foliage all wither d on banks of the stream, Yet this blithe little bird remains with us still, To flit o er the valley and skim o er the hill. Ah, sweet little warbler, why linger so long; Why cheer our bleak forests with musical song, While far in the South spread tropical groves, And perfum d the breeze perennial roves? There lie scenes that are fill d with midsummer light, Where flower-spread fields are cheerful and bright, Where the roses and lilies bloom all through the year, And gardens are bath d in a rare atmosphere. There the scented magnolia sheds its perfume, And its spiring pyramid whitens with bloom, And the insects that live in the grass and the air Invite ye a sumptuous banquet to share. But the chickadee does not care to migrate, She is chirping and carolling early and late; Her sweet little chatter saluteth the day, And trilleth till twilight fades into gray. The chickadee hath plumage of brown, And wears on its head a black little crown. Its song is not querulous, but fluty the note That in liquid cadences flows from its throat. THE YOSKM1 I ! YAI.U .Y. 153 Mid the foliage of suinnu-r it lurks in the woods, Where it calls to its mate in the: green solitudes, Hut in winter it comes to our orchards to share The larva- and seeds, its delicate fare. Clad in soft downy plumage, the chickadee Fears no cold in its nest in the hollow of tree: And it comes to the garden to pick up the seed The dear little children cast out for its feed. As you walk in the grove on a calm winter day, You may hear his sweet call from hedgerow and spray, And with him the nut hatch and creepers abide, And downy woodpeckers, all painted and pied. As you pass, all is still save their tremulous chime, Or leap of the squirrels as the branches they climb, The dropping of nuts, or flight of the quail, Or whir of the partridge in tussock or swale. O sweet little warbler, may nothing molest The six snowy eggs that repose in your nest! For the symphonies gentle your fledgelings repeal Make the life of boon nature in winter s retreat. THE YOSEMITE VALLEY. A SCENE sublime is here disclos d Mountain and vale, with streams between; A verdurous garden, far outspread, With drooping woods of living green; And the Sierras snow-clad cr With all their plumy pine-trees drest. The tourist, lost in wonder, looks O er mountain ranges white and vast, Crown d with the everlasting snows, Swept by the fierce, tempestuous blast. 154 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Here rises high in empty air El Capitan, thy royal cone, Thy bases girt with mighty woods, Thy summit, a majestic throne; Deep in the hollow vale below The rolling Merced pours its tide, Reflecting in its mirror d face Great shadows of the mountain side. And here behold earth s grandest fall, The great fall of the Yosemite, Pouring adowu three thousand feet Its cataract of torrents white. One sheeted ghost of snowy foam, From cliff to granite cliff it leaps; Now a bright rainbow arch of light, Now a wild river prone it sweeps. List to the thunder of its voice, Look to the lightnings of its flash; List how the solid earth doth groan, Look to its dazzling arrowy dash ! Where in this rounded world may be Such matchless, grand sublimity! How noble these great lakes outspread In this remote enchanted land! Vast Buena-Vista, Tulare, Kern, Outstretching their expanses grand. And here in league-long bay and cove The wild fowl swarm the swan, the crane, The mallard, pelican, and teal, And geese that browse the grassy plain. And here wild creatures roam at will, The bear, the puma, and the deer, The wild-cat with its snarling whelps, The antelope, of swift career. No grander sportsman s paradise Is spread beneath the bending skies! Tin: QB1A1 1HTABCTIO W.M.I. Of [OB. 155 Here mariposa grov< - <\icnd. And calavrra. king of all The mightiest fon-st trees of earth, Dark-foliaged, spires supremely tall! For ages have their tops sublime Wrestled with storm and hurricane, Hallled the rage of snows and hail tulting their great brows in vain; Far be the day when they shall bend Their necks to ignominious end! And ever as the ages flow, May this fair Eden of our laud, Unchang d in wondrous grandeur show The works of its Creator s hand. THE GREAT ANTARCTIC WALL OF ICE. TTERE rose a vast ice-barrier, looming high Its solid wall of adamantine ice, Like a grand city with pale granite wrought. Here seem d to rise a great cathedral dome, A monkish minster of the olden time, With its dim campanile of sacred bells, Its painted windows glittering in the light, Its doors with arabesques and roses crown d, And flying buttresses and groined roofs, Its water- spouts with grotesque gargoyles wrought, O erspread with images of martyr d saints, With long processions bearing high the Host. Beyond these icy bergs, old scientists Have a tradition that the open sea, The great Antarctic Ocean, spreads its space; That here dwell nations of mermen and maids, Krakens with power to drag down mighty ships, Sea-serpents of immeasurable length. And there, they say, the Southern Ice king dwells, Thron d in his royal palace; here drives out The frost-fiends to their labor on the bergs, Compell d to store up treasures of the snows. 156 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Here, too, extend vast fields of giant kelp, Green pastures of the ocean measureless; Here mackerel shoals and herring countless swim; Here ivory- tusk d walruses far disport, And grim sea-lions. Here the albatross Spreads its broad wing, and penguins skim the waves; Here wounded whales to these lagoons resort, Where sword-fish or the thresher ne er pursue; Secure from whaler s lance and sharp harpoon, Feeding at will amid Medusa bunks. O bleak Cape Horn! the voyagers name thee well "The Cape of Storms;" a bare, inclement rock, Lifting aloft its rugged shaft of stone Above the foamy surges of the sea. Well may the seamen bound for India s strand, Or sailing far to Afric s palmy shore, Crossing the broad Atlantic, or the calm Long billows of Pacific seas, Tremble to round the stormy Cape of Horn ! For here assail the sleety hail and snow, And here fore er careers the raging gale ! THE SAGUENAY RIVER, GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE. "Three centuries ago Jacques Cartier, the bold investigator, sent a boat s crew to explore the penetralia of this mighty river, and they were never heard of afterward. What wonder, then, that for subsequent decades of years it should have been invested with a weird and supernatural character!* CHARLES HALLOCK S Fishing Tourist. JJERE in the wild Canadian land The Saguenay pours out its tide A dark, tumultuous, savage stream, Whose boiling, raging currents glide With matchless speed and sullen roar Downward to ocean s rock-bound shore. With eddying whirl, with sudden shoot Its fathomless abysses sweep; mi: -AH i:\.\v BIYEB, QOLf OK ST. I.AUKLV B. l.V, Now o er a hidden shoal or Imr, Now o er irranitir ledges deep; So, ever with a pallid basic The seaboy speeds across its waste Dark talcs, weird tales of wreck, Of woful horrors, incu relate, Of its immeasurable depths, Of great ships hurried to their fate, Of dangerous rocks where, tempest-tost, Brave men were in vast whirlpools lost! So with stern awe the seamen pass Within th iron-bound headland s sweep That guards the portals of the stream, A granite gateway to the deep. Across its tides are shimmering mists, Huge, spectral phantoms, gray and grim, That hang like shadows o er the cliffs, And over gulch and gorges swim. Fierce, gushing winds expand their wings, Cold as the blasts of Arctic shores; They shake the solid granite walls, And the lone pine that o er them soars; The place is like some funeral vault, For all is barren, wild and bleak; The inky waters duskier still With shadows of the soaring peak. Ou either hand two rugged capes Grim Trinity, Eternity In savage grandeur seem to frown On sailing ship and weltering sea; Little of verdurous life may cast A smiling bloom across their side Nor birch nor fir may drape the cliff, Or cascade plunge its foamy tide, For all is awful solitude Boon Nature in her fiercest mood! 158 POEMS OF THE ItOD AND GUN. BRIEF SUMMER IN THE ARCTIC LAND. n^HE dog- sledge season now huth pass d away, The reindeer team from harness is releas d, And merry June, the Arctic summer, comes. The wandering Chookcheese and Korans leave Their earth-built cabins at the mountain foot, To dwell by surges where the salmon leap. When vanish the last snows from vale and mount, Boon Nature the hot Arctic summer brings; And as the genial sunshine earth pervades, The snowdrifts melt, the icy rivers thaw; Brown patches show along the warm hillsides, And earth with flowers and grasses softly smiles. There is no spring, but hot midsummer reigns, Chasing away stern winter s ruffian mouths; There is no wet, long lingering time of spring, No slow unfolding of the buds and leaves But Summer waves his wand, and all is bloom. Quick vegetation bursts the icy bonds, And with one sweep reanimates the world. Nature comes dancing with her beaming face, And with a lavish hand pours forth her wealth. Wax-like petals of the blueberries show; Primroses, buttercups, and cowslips bloom, And brighten all the mossy stretches of the plain. The birches, alders, willows, tremulous flush With all the greenery of swelling leaves, The river banks grow green with waving grass; The warm, still air of day is fill d with sounds, The trumpet-like refrain of geese and swans, Who pierce with wedge-like phalanxes the air, Winging on stormy pinions to the north. Innumerable ducks of unknown name Swarm in each little pool that studs the plain, While fish-hawks, gulls, and broad-wiug d eagles scream And hover by the foamy river-mouths, And all the rocky coast-line is alive With myriads of the red-beak d puffin-tribes. FROST PICTURES ON WINDOW-PANE. 159 Over the land innumerable fly The circling swallows, ravens, and the crow; But only one poor bird, the sparrow, sings. Thriv i^ no longW night, but only day. The fading day melts gradually into night, And the brief twilight blossoms soon with light. At noon of night, one by the window sits, Inhales the scent of flowers on night winds borne, Listens to murmurs of the surge afar, Traces the progress of the hidden sun By the full Hood of rosy light which streams In the north skies behind the purple mounts. 1 1 is broad daylight, and yet nature sleeps, And a weird culm pervades the heavens and earth. FROST PICTURES ON WINDOW-PANE OF "TURF, FIELD, AND FA KM."* TRACE the silver fretwork of the frost upon my pane, The erystalli/.ing pearl-drops of the snowllake and the rain; And 1 know it is but vapor, condensed upon the glass, Yet how lifelike are its scenes that before my vision pass! I seem to see grand mountains, rising while amid the sky, . The Alps, the Andes, soaring majestically high; I trace their airy summits, each peak and snowy cone, Their caves and dark ravines, where never sunbeams shone. I see the falling torrents and the irla/.iers frozen sea, The larch, the pine tree forests, the sombre cypress-tree Works of no mortal painter, wrought by no human hand, Trac d by the fairy Frost-queen with her imperial wand. I seem to see a race-course, the grand-stand s crowded height; The flutter of gay ribbons, of Hags and banners bright; The brave steeds and their riders, impatient for the race, Each speeding like an arrow to take the foremost place. And methinks I hear the shoutings, like thunders of the surf It is the frantic plaudits at some triumph of the TURF ! Again tin; picture changes: I sec a landscape wide, A fox-hunt, a deer-hunt, where fast the huntsmen ride. I see along the woodside the coveys as they rise, * A great Sportsman s Journal. T 160 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And quick the quail-flock flutters, and swift the partridge flies. I see the flash, I see blue smokes above the thicket float; I see them on the river, ascend from fowler s boat; I seem to hear the guns that o er the marshes peal d, And echoiugs of reports in every stubble FIELD. And now the frost discloses a lovely summer scene, The waving grain, the bending woods, with shining streams be tween. I see the gray old homestead o erhung with elm and oak, I hear the plough-boy s whistle, the Hail s resounding stroke. And all this scene of beauty, that every sense may charm, Spread on the frosted casement, is some secluded FAKM. One other scene a home-scene, a fireside scene of joy A blazing hearth, a flaming lamp, sire, mother, girl, and boy. The father reads a printed sheet, the evening hour to charm, It is the sportsman s journal the TURF, the FIELD and FARM. PRAIRIE-CHICKEN SHOOTING. (Tetrao Cupido.} 1NTOW far the warm September days Flush o er the prairies with their blaze, September, with its memories Of healthful breeze and genial skies; For now is nature in her prime, The glorious September time, When torrid heats of summer glare Are tempei- d in the liberal air, And in its latest days there blows The first breath of the northern snows. The year yet wears its robe of green, Nor fading, yellow leaf is seen ; The orchards have not cast aside Their emerald dress of summer pride, The wayside flowers of hedge and lane Are tinted by no frosty stain; Yet all the harvest fields lie bare Where late the golden wheat-shocks were, I UAIKIIX HlCKliN ^HOOTING. 161 And oat and rye are gather d in To fill the granaries crowded bin; So there the greedy grouse-flocks feed, Luxurious, on the juicy seed. In yellow stubble-fields they hide, Scarce by the gunner s eye descried, Till the keen scent of pointer true Detects those coveys hid from view, And then on clashing, startled wing They rise, and frighteu d, upward spring; But quick the pealing shot is heard, And bleeding, lifeless, drops the bird. Years since I roam d thy broad domain, Illinois, thy grassy plain, Roam d in September s perfect day Thro endless pastures far away. Though vanish d long hath many a year Since then I trod those stubbles sere, Since by Fox River s pleasant shore, Or where Rock River s currents pour, 1 wandcr d, watchful for the sight Of teal and wood-duck in their flight; But ah ! the blissful joy to tread Where er my devious footsteps led! To seek the grouse-packs in their lair And end their little lives in air; Iii weedy coverts to arouse The shy, the strong- wing d speckled grouse; To seek them out at blush of morn, Ere they forsook the ripen d corn, To seek in coverts of the swale The russet bevies of the quail, To seek in boggy marsh and swamp The woodcock s solitary camp. When winter snows lie white and deep In many a drifted, shapeless heap, Those prairie fowl, no longer found In fields, their autumn feeding-ground, In shivering, gather d legions seek The tree-top branches, bare and bleak, 11 162 POEMS OF THE ROD A^D GUK. Or cluster ID long rows where wide The fence-rails welcome rest supplied; And there, close hidden, in his blind, The fowler ample spoil would find. Though years have whiten d with their snow, Time s blossoms wither d cheek and brow, Yet still in memory s magic glass Those blissful scenes unfading pass, Nor may they fade, as fades the past, Till life is render d up at last. SCENE IN KAMSCHATKA. TT was mid-day, and yet the setting sun Glow d like a red ball at the horizon s edge, And a dim twilight on the landscape fell. As on we journeyed a white ptarmigan Would rise at times and whir away in flight; A magpie through the pines on muffled wings Would pass, or yellow fox flit by ; An eagle high in firmament would soar, But naught of other life or sound prevail d. Far off, a belt of timber by a stream Waver d and trembled in its outlines faint, And the white, ghostly mountains far away Were upthrown in a myriad airy shapes, Which melted quickly like dissolving views. Each feature of this Arctic scene was strange, And as we gaz d the red sun seem d to rest On a white peak, then sudden fell the night. White, cold, and silent, the great waste outspread, Like a vast ocean frozen in its sweep, Faint-lighted by the crescent of the moon, And by the blue streamers of Auroral Light, That flash d and flicker d in the southern skies. E en when the sun arose, fiery and round, In haze of frozen vapor in the south, It gave no light or warmth to cheer the waste; With its red glare it only seem d to drown A VISION OF TIIK PAST. 1G3 Th 1 Aurora s streamers, blue ami tremulous; While the white radiance of the moon and stars Ting d like a stormy sunset the bleak snows, And ht a mirage, Moating up the air. The Aurora touch d the barren, dreary steppes, And quick it seem d a tropical, blue lake, Upon whose distant shores rose walls and domes And slender minarets of Orient climes; But soon the splendid pageant pass d from sight, And the bright mirage melted into air. When at nightfall the camp-fires rais d their flames, And all luxurious sought the bearskin couch, How pleasant was the talk of native land! While our stout Koraks, picturesquely group d Around the blaze, sang wild, barbaric songs, And told their tales of hardships o er the steppes. How weird the scene! the steppes one crystal sea, Far stretching until lost in gloom of night; While overhead the constellations bright Of Orion and Pleiades shone out, Celestial clocks to mark the waning hours. Then quick th Auroral panorama grand Faded and vanish d, until naught but mist Fur in the north horizon show d the place Where Arctic spirits draw their gleaming swords To wave them nightly o er Siberian wastes. A VISION OF THE PAST. (In Christmas number of the New York Spirit of the Times.) TN the darkness of my room, at the dusky noon of night, I sat and mus d o er other years that were supremely bright. No flame of lamp, no blaze of fire, to cheer the midnight gloom; No spark of star, no beam of moon, the darkness to illume. Yet as adown Time s corridors, I turned a wistful eye All shades of darkness vanish d from landscape and from sky. I saw as in a gallery, the portraits on the wall ; The features and the forms I knew, and each I could recall; As memory s magic wand I wav d, the ghosts of other days, The apparitions of the past, were present to my gaze. 164 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Like landscape paintings I beheld each old familiar scene Where we had trod the meadows or track d the woodlands green. We climb d the breezy upland, we pluug d in bosky dell, In summer groves, or where the leaves of russet Autumn fell. In hemlock solitudes where roam d the wild deer-herds of Maine, Where stately stag and tawny doe held undisputed reign; Where drum-beat of the partridge and woodcock s lonely cry Were heard in piny forests, or where the brook swept by. And where the Adirondacks their wastes immense extend, Where blue the mountain summits with the horizon blend, And sparkling stream and crystal lake like gems the vales inlay, There, well equipp d with rod and gun, we lov d to take our wny. And where sequester d prairies of Illinois outspread, Those measureless green pastures where thick the grouse-flocks fed, Where myriads of wild pigeons and coveys of brown quail Fill d grove and plain, there oft we lov d to follow on the trail. We saw again in fancy, old ocean s reefs and bar, Each shelly cove and sandspit, outstretching gray and far, Where oft we lay in little boat at ambush for the flight Of dusky brant or honking goose, from daydawn till the night. And oft where reedy marshes and league-long meadows spread, And plover-call and curlew-cry were resonant o erhead There oft amid those screaming flocks, to deal out death we came, And home return d with sumptuous spoil of migratory game. And when the winter days had come, and sports of field were o er, And gun and rod and dog dismiss d, we sought our homes once more; We lov d to sit by fireside, there to enjoy again, In genial talk, the thrilling sports of wood and wave and plain. THI-: B< !.M:I;V ANI> <;\MI: <>! \VVOMIM;. (air Loring, of old Hoston. tin- prince of fowlers rsirc, C :in I forget our royal sport, our hunts beyond compare? Forget our " Cypress," " Acorn," in these recording rhymes, Well known in thy old sanctum, () Sjiirit <>f tin Time*. Tall son of York kind Porter! who might forget thy namcv What memories fond do brighten at mention of thy fame So genial in thy presence, so cultur d in thy mind, Giant in si/.e and strength, as woman soft and kind. Nor may such names us Roosevelt, Ned Buntl me, Clarke, ;md Scott, Sibley and Pic-ton, Foster, Wilkes, and Anthon be forgot; All brethren of the rod and gun and, chiefest among all, Frank Forester! What scenes those names recall! Dear Herbert! who so brilliant, so versatile as thou? Whether in smiling mood or with a clouded brow, So earnest in the field where flew the birds of air, Or where the trout and salmon fiash d in the summer glare. These portraits of old faces, these pictures of the Past, Glow ever in my mind, to fade they will be last; T.iit, alas! the heavy shadow of the grave has clos d forc er O er many that we cherish d. so precious and so dear. 166 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. FISH. SALMON OF LABRADOR. (Salnio salar.) ~DY the wild Canadian shore, By the sandy Labrador, By the rocky Mingan Isles, And where Anticosti smiles, Numberless the salmon shoals Gather where the salt tide rolls. Rivers, streams of crystal clearness, Pour through that far-reaching strand, From thy river-month, St. Lawrence, To the coast of Newfoundland, Far as where the Belle-Isle strait Opens to the seas its gate. Cold, those rivers, as the fountains From the wilderness that flow, Cold as waters of the mountains Gelid with the ice and snow. There amid the salt abysses, Or the river s spring fresh tide, Gleaming, flashing, leaping, diving, Shoals of lordly salmon glide. Where the river of St. John Mingles with the ocean surf, Brown with weedy rocks and sand-drifts, Green with bordering velvet turf, There the angler with his tackle, When the July suns ride high, From the dawning to the sunset Goes to angle with the fly. AUTUMNAL FISHING 167 Near thy alder-skirted border, When the Rattling Run doth twine, He erects his hut of branches, Branch of hemlock and of pine; Floors it with the cedar saplings Flagrant, soft as couch of kings; There enjoys the forest pleasures And the sleep that labor brings. Morning with its dewy fresh n< With its rosy, smiling skies; Calls him to the brimming river, River of transparent crystal, Where in ripple and in eddy, Or in pool, to cast his flies. AUTUMNAL FISHING. r |MIK river runs with turbid flow, The weed-chok d rivulet creepeth slow For all the hanging woods, that fringe Their margins, blush with autumn s tinge, And every breeze that murmurs past Doth from the fading branches cast A painted leaf of gold or red Athwart the limpid surface shed. Patient the wandering angler heaves His lures amid those floating leaves, Till spinning line and humming reel Soon fill with spotted trout the creel. Unwearied now the anglers take Their pilgrimage to Greenwood Lake, They float along its lovely shores, Scarce dipping the suspended oars; They skim across its azure face Forgetful of the finny race, For, lost in admiration, they Linger the fair scene to survey, Forget the black bass to ensnare While gazing on a scene so fair. 168 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And now, along the surging deep, Where loud the salty breakers sweep, The fishers on some jutting cape, Where sea-kelp the black boulders drape, Swing the long rod, and cast the line Across the eddies of the brine; And ofttimes turn the wistful eye The gorgeous woodlands to descry; To view the panorama grand Of foamy sea and fairy land, Those bending skies of heavenly blue, Earth rich with every matchless hue. O roseate skies, O cloudlets pure, That sail the upper depths of air; O earth, with all thy garniture Of royal groves and woodlands rare; O breezy bays, and lakes serene, Soon will the winter s icy breath Blight all the glories of the scene And seal the fading year in death. THE SALMON OF NEW BRUNSWICK. Jp^AR up the wild New Brunswick coast, Cool crystal streams outpour From turfy bank and mossy rock, To chafe the ocean shore; From hidden, ice-cold springs they come, Far up the forest-land, Where silent tarn and lonely pool Their watery fields expand. Fairest of all, the swift St. Croix Rolls on its mighty stream, Fair with its clear, pellucid deeps, Fair with its sparkling gleam ; Thro meadows fring d with willows, Thro forest- worlds of pine, It pours its gelid waters To mingle with the brine. THK SALMON OF N F.W I! K I N S\\ I < K . 1C9 With fume and splash tumultuous It dashes on its way, Past black, basaltic ledges, V.(<i boulders, moss d and gray; Xo\v dark it sleeps in shadow, .Mid overhanging woods, And now reflects the heaven From its transparent floods. And here in some secluded cove Or recess of the strand, The salmon drops its pearly eggs Amid the pure white sand; And here the infant fish disport, Beyond the reach of tides, Each little school resplendent With gleamy, silvery sides. When melting snows, at winter s close, Make cold the river s flow, Then nature teaches that they turn To warmer tides below. Well-grown in size and strength, they pass Along the budding shore, The salt, warm depths of ocean To welcome and explore. They pass by banks where hazels Their catkins soft display; Where willow-palms their velvet tufts Hang out from sprig and spray; Where purple violets ope their eyes, Or flocks of wild-ducks lead Their yellow broods of ducklings From out the sheltering reed. So down unto the sea they pass, Down torrents swift and sheer, Past labyrinth of stake-nets, Past rocky wall and weir; 170 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Past huts where smokes of woodmen Float, cloud-like, in the air, Past shores where fishers camp-fires Along the salt tides glare. They reach at last the sea, which far Is spangled where they play; They roam the abyss of ocean, Where none may trace their way; Yet, still they turn, year after year, With an unerring aim, To haunt the noble rivers And brooklets whence they came. BROOK TROUT. (Salmofontmalis.) T1TERE where the Avillowy thickets lave Their drooping tassels beneath the wave, There lies a deep and darken d pool Whose waters are crystal-clear and cool; It is fed by many a gurgling fount That trickles from upland pasture and mount, And where the tree-shadows fall dense and dim, The glittering trout securely swim. It is a weird and mysterious spot, A ravine hollow d for fairy grot; Where mossy boulders and branches that lean O er the dark abyss are kept ever green ; For the gushing spout of a waterfall, That leaps o er the sloping granite wall, With its refreshing foam and its spray Keeps herbage and foliage forever gay. Twould seem as though fairy fingers had flum Their prodigal wreaths, o er the branches hung; The delicate woodbine tendrils swing, The glossy-leaved ivies closely cling; The grape-vine clambers from shoot to shoot, Waving its purple clusters of fruit; The tree honeysuckle sheds perfume, The laurel is lavish with rosy bloom. OK SCOTT S "FISHING IN AMERICAN WATERS." 171 And here, where the eddies, so pearly-white, Sink jiwjiy into gloom or wheel into light; \Vhrrr the trunk of decaying pine-tree doth throw Its leaning bridge o er the current s llo\v, The patient angler, with rod and line, May cast his Hies and his tackle so fine, And soon his basket a treasure will hold Of a/.ure fishes o erspangled with gold. Tis a wild, wizard place, for the shadows that rest O er the cavernous grot, o er the rivulet s brea-t, Seem ever so weird and so mystical there That men say tis haunt of the spirits of air That strange goblin shapes, grotesque and immense, Are disclos d to the passer-by s terrified sense, And ne er will the ghost-frighted school-child invade With footsteps intrusive the gloom of the shade. In the meadows below, neither thicket nor bush Cast their shadowy screen o er the rivulet s gush, But boiling o er pebbles, and bright in the sun, The frolicsome waters all twinkle and run; And there, when the cloud-shadows darken the day, The skill of the angler will triumph with prey, And his creel overflow with glittering prize, With trout all enamell d and radiant with dyes. ON READING G. C. SCOTT S "FISHING IN AMERI- CAN WATERS," IN WINTER. A/FUSING o er these fair pages, I forget These falling snows and the white, crystal ice That free/e all nature in this wintry day, But taste in fancy the refreshing airs Of spring-time with its roses and its blooms. What though the twisting brook lies mute and still. The frozen water-wheel revolves no more, In adamantine death the river rests, And grinding ice-floes chafe the dreary coast? Still in these pages I recall once more 172 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. The voice of waters, and explore again The flowing brook and grassy-margin d stream. I seem to see along the wither d woods, O er willow thicket and o er alder copse, O er the brown herbage of the upland field, And down the dipping hollows of the vale, A soft brigl it verdure, tremulous and green, Creeping and rustling o er the landscape s face. The brook, releas d from iron bondage, leaps And laughs and runs exultingly away; The river gleams and ripples into light, Singing, with all its waters as it flows Past sandy coves and under branching groves. Again the spring-trout, with his spotted side. Flashes o er sandy shoal and purple deeps; Again the spangled salmon of the sea Cleaves the salt surf and leaps the crystal fall; Again the bass, with silver scales emboss d, Gleams in the combing breakers of the shore. Celestial fancy with her fairy wand Enchants each wintry landscape till it smiles; Far off, immense, each Northern lake expands The vast extent of all its watery world, Its dark abysses, its transparent coves, Its tranquil bays, its forest-girdled edge, And all the blissful haunts the angler loves. O thoughtful angler! loving well the toil To tread the tangled brook or river-marge, To wield the tapering rod o er ocean tides, Or breezy gulf, or inland lakes immense, We thank thee for the lessons thou hast taught This added treasure to the angler s lore. Fair smile the skies, and soft may breezes blow (The soft south breeze to angler s heart so dear), And green may blossoming groves their garlands show. And woodland choristers fresh tune their harps, When thou dost follow in the coming year The gentle angler s meditative art. rHANNKl.-1 .ASS lISHIMi IN ri.OKIDA. CHANNEL BASS FISHING IN FLORIDA. tl Scitrnops osccUntii called red drum ou the Virginia coast; spotted bass, or spot, in South Carolina; red bass or channel bass in Georgia and Florida; red fish in New Orleans." S. C. CLAUKK, in " l i*liiii<j "jf the /-. /ixf Atlantic Coast." scmic-tropic land, where gentle breezes blow And flowers perennial in wild gardens grow ; In this bleak northern realm I dreamful muse Of the rose colors that thy skies suffuse. Fain would forget that here the frosty air Inclement sweeps o er hills and meadows bare; Here spear-point icicles depend from wall, Frost pictures dim the casements of the hall ; The river mute in pulseless slumber sleeps, A ghastly pallor o er its surface creeps. The crystal waterfall, that erewhile tost Its volum d sheet, is now enchain d with frost; A filmy veil is drawn across the sky, Thick down the air the gem like snowflakes fly; The fields, the uplands stretch a frozen waste, And all the summer landscape is effac d. But bright, O Florida, the waning year Smiles o er thy waters and thy cloud-lands clear; The fowler comes thy swarming flocks to thin, The angler comes the luring spoon to spin, To take by sandy beach or marshy grass The tarpum, grouper, or the channel bass. The noble bass, with scales intensely dyed, At bay and inlet drift in with the tide; A roving fish, deep channels it explores, Mudflats and oyster-beds and shelly shores; Where slimy wreck lies buried in the deeps It finds its chosen haunt, its harvest reaps; A fish omnivorous, it seeks its prey Wherever mollusks hido or mullets play; A fish voracious, it is brave in bite, Persistent, strong, tis valorous in fight; 174 POEMS OP THE ROD AND GUN. As gamy fish the red bass has no peer, No rival champion in the currents clear. Warm-weather fish, in summer s sunny time They swarm the shores of genial southern clime; There, off the sand-flat, anchor d in his boat The angler sees them fearless round him float; They circle near in heedless leap and play, And fall to trolling-liue an easy prey. But when the north winds smite Floridian coast, By beach, by island vanishes their host; In the deep holes, dark recesses of tide, Sulking in castle, they delight to hide. In soft May season, when the seas are warm, Around the sandy beach they love to swarm; The angler then thro crested surf may press And cast his mullet bait with sure success, Cast it in sloughs, inside the surf that flow, And gain a prize with every vigorous throw. THE YELLOW PERCH. (Perca flavescens.) T IGHT laughs the morn of June ; soft bends the sky, One boundless sea of azure, save where fleck d By sailing cloud, slow flitting o er its space. It s the school-child s holiday. He hears Far off the call to field and wood and brook ; He hears the hollow plash of waterfall, The murmur of the river s full-brimm d tide, The songs of birds, the rustle of the leaves, And all the joyous sounds of rural life. With rod in hand he seeks the winding brook, In dim secluded hollow of the wood, Or treads the weedy, willow-girdled marge Of lonely inland waters, or the shore Of mountain brook, unshadow d by a tree, Where brawls the crystal tide o er sands and stones. Leaning on mossy rock, at edge of pond, Screen d by the shadow of some drooping tree, The golden hours slip by. Around him swim THi: YKII.OW 1 KUrlI. 175 His prey, the spangled perch, so rough with scales, Gorgeous with olive back and russet /ones That gird them round, and sparkling yellow sides. When far advanc d the summer, the shy perch Forsakes the dim and amber-tinted deeps, To seek the clear and colder tides at edge Of whirling eddies and of ripples swift. And there pursues the minnows as they glide. When the green water-weeds mature in growth, Hid in their friendly shade he loves to lurk. lie loves the grassy bottoms, but when first The nipping black-frost cuts the fading weeds, And wither d are the submerg d water plants, Those yellow shoals to river-deeps retire. Wide o er the world the red-perch finds a home In varied climates. In the grandest streams Whose currents gladden European realms, Far up beyond the influence of tides, And in the tiniest rivulet that creeps And trickles down the Alpine mountain slopes, They still abound in legions infinite. The school-child loves them well. No sluggish pond Where clangs and toils the churning water-wheel, No darksome pool beneath the leaning dam, No brimming river and no crystal brook Where range the gorgeous perch, arc unexplor d. They love the open sparkling stream that sweeps By grassy meadow and by daisied field; But when the blazing heats of midsummer Burn fervid o er the surface of the Wane, They seek for haunt the checker d leafy screen By the o er-leaning willow branches made; But when the rosy twilight fades apace, And evening drops her purple curtains round, The swarming school swims joyous forth again. To seek the open stream s wide spread e\pan>r. 176 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. A FAR-WESTERN RIVER. TT was a lovely stream, deep in the forest s heart, A stream from human habitation far apart, Like jewel by some careless hand dropt down, In green oasis to the world unknown. No homes of man, save here and there display d A mossy log-hut by the hunters made, By rough frontiersmen rais d, a robust race That follow d here the wild beasts of the chase. Trappers and scouts, who had no heart to know The beauties of the stream, its ebb and flow, In vain for them the waves would murmur song, In vain the wood-arcades the sound prolong. O woods magnificent, how grand ye are, Lifting your stately columns high in air, O ershadowing the stream with banners green, Upholding your broad shields, an ample screen! The water-fowl here come the gelid fount to drink, Wild antelopes disport along the grassy brink, Great buffaloes dash by, and song-birds of the wood With madrigals salute the list ning solitude. In winter, when the brooks are voiceless all, And scarce a tinkle hath the waterfall; When crystal ice ensheathes thee with its mail, Then lonely art thou lifeless, cold, and pale. Ah, all the summer silences and sound! Delicious are they in this peace profound, Where all calamities, despairs of life, Have never vex d your haunts with baleful strife. Thy virgin waves have never heard the tread Of angler loitering by thy sandy bed ; Have never seen the gay delusive fly Dropt in the ripples where thy fishes lie. Here through the ages they have sportful play d In calm lagoon, or neath the white cascade; There spangled trout like Indian shafts have flash d, Thro deeps transparent dusky bass have dash d. BROOK-TROUT "OUT OF SEASON." 177 Soon white-topt wains of emigrants shall come, Mill-wheels shall clank and factory-spindles hum, Along thy shore the busy crowds shall pour, And Nature s peaceful reign pervade no more. Fashions and forms of civil life will reign, Woodsmen and traders throng the lonely plain; Loud, gainful life o er all the realm prevail, And Solitude depart from stream and vale! THE BROOK -TROUT S COMMENTS UPON DELMONI- CO S DREAM. NOTE. At a dinner given in the winter of 1867-8, at Dclmon- ico s establishment in New York, to General Sheridan and other distinguished officers, a dish of brook-trout "out of season" was set before the guests, who all declined to partake of the prohibited dainty. The late lamented poet, Sergeant Miles O Reilly, who was one of the number, published a sportive poem soon after wards, in which he describes the worthy host as being haunted in his dreams by the reproachful spirit of the doomed trout, and which suggested these verses. It is fair to say that Delmonico, who was a true sportsman, was not responsible for the presence of the unseasonable fish, as lie was then absent from the country. f ^RISP, juicy, brown as autumn leaf, The murder d beauty grac d the board, Its life of pleasure come to grief, Its blood untimely pour d: Stark on its silver dish it lies, Wliile sparkling glasses round it shine, Vases of flowers entwine their dyes, And flames the ruby wine. Delmonico, of world-wide fames, Hath spread the board to tempt the guest; Phil Sheridan is there, and names Of bravest and of best! But none of all the jocund band Gather d that festive board about, "\Vill touch with sacrilegious hand That poor " unseason d trout." 12 178 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUK. Outstretch d upon its costly bier, The murder d victim thus doth seem To murmur low in fancy s ear Its sad lamenting theme; Reproaching with a piteous strain Delmonico, the sumptuous host, And the mean poacher that hath slain And thus outspake the ghost: "Ah! Del., no marvel you confess, In dreams of night I blight thy sleep, That on thy drowsy soul I press, And o er thy slumbers sweep; No wonder that tormenting dreams Of vengeful sportsmen haunt thy rest, In visions of depleted streams, Where poachers dark molest ! " Ah! lovely was the life I led In crystal streams of azure deeps, Where rippling o er its golden bed The river-current sweeps; There weeping- willows droop their plumes, The twinkling birch its pomp displays ; The air is fragrant with perfumes, All flush d with sunny rays. " Disporting in the gelid tide, Enchanted sped each fleeting year, Far-floating with my spangled bride In watery career. I lov d each curv d and yellow bay, The sandy bar, the pebbled cove, The shallows where the lilies lay And trees their shadows wove. " And fair the brook in winter-time, When mute and frozen in its bed It sleeps beneath the frosty rime All motionless and dead. AN AMCAKirM IN A IIOOKSTOIIE WINDOW. 179 For there I fear d nor seiue nor net, Nor poacher s steel nor angler s line; Secure in waters, could forget The snares for me and mine. " Though dead, I pardon for the sake That thou hast said that never more Shall guest " unseason d trout" partake Within thy social door. My poor ghost shall not haunt again; May sleep with gentle balms descend, And dreams Elysian steep thy brain ; Be thou the poor trout s friend!" ON SEEING AN AQUARIUM IN A BOOKSTORE WINDOW. TTERE in your cell of glass, Fast by the thronging avenue, ye keep Your home, O finny natives of the deep! That all may see who pass. The sunshine of the day Gleams thro the pictur d windows in your home, And the soft twilight gilds your crystal dome With many a checkered ray. The school-child stops to look, And views your playful sports with wondering eyes, Charm d with your glittering scales and mottled dyes, Bright troutlings of the brook! He enters at the door To seek some book, so dear to heart of boy, But drops the pictur d page the pretty toy Thy wonders to explore. He marvels how the bright, The spotted trout, that loves the meadow d stream, The gold-fish, shining like a prismy beam, The_minnow, silver-white, 180 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. Should swim harmonious there, With the salt minnows, eels, and crabs that creep, And all the grotesque creatures of the deep, And the same dwelling share. He feels that God above, Who order d in His wise and heavenly plan That all the varied brotherhood of man Should live in peace and love, Hath so ordain d the rule That all the lesser tribes of land and sea The fish, the fowl though diverse, should agree In nature s common school. Will e er that day have birth When the meek lamb shall with the lion rest, The kid find shelter in the tiger s breast, And love pervade the earth? When all this earth that tread The birds of air, the beasts that range the wild Shall gentle be as new-born helpless child, And blood no more be shed ! EEL-SPEARING BY TORCHLIGHT. (Anguilla.) T^HE skies are dark; the moon is hid Behind the dusky cloud of night; A bank of drift-fog from the surge Hangs heavy on the sea-shore height; No hovering breeze uplifts its wing Aside the misty gloom to fling. But see! a star along the wave Moves slow and devious, to and fro; Now like a blazing camp-fire flares, Now, flickering, trembles faint and low. Anon it steady glows and burns, As hither thro the gloom it turns. WIIKX THIS <)!.! KOI) WAS N K\V. 1S1 Tis the cel-spearer s pitchy torch That like a lightship s lantern flings Its ruddy, quivering bar of light, As in the rigging high it swings. Nrnier and nearer, thro the dusk, The smoky flambeau slow doth float, And now the gnome-like fisherman Shows dimly in his drifting boat. Standing with trident spear uprais d, All shadowy on his task intent, He shows like goblin of the mine On some weird, fiendish orgie bent. He pauses, for the shooting flame Reveals the slippery prey below; With sudden plunge he thrusts the spear, Then draws it upward to the glow; And see! the captives twist and coil, Dark victims of his midnight toil. WHEN THIS OLD ROD WAS NEW. T\7"HEN this old rod was new, Twas in the vanish d time, When step was light and eye was bright, And youth was in its prime. Oh! bright were then the skies In the glory of the dawn, When the dews that gemm d the grass Shone in the rosy morn. Then oped the garden gate, And down the bowery lane, Iledg d in with elm and chestnut, My hasty path was taVn; And to the brawling brooks That thro the meadows twine I hurried fast, with heart elate, With the new rod and line. 182 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. When this old rod was new, Full oft by the mill-dam edge, Where the water-lilies grew And the cat-tails and the sedge, I stood on the bank, and threw My line for the perch and bream, In the cool, transparent stream, When this old rod was new. And up where the mountain brook Pour d swift over stone and sand, Over yellow sand and crystal stone I ve stood with this rod in hand. Then, where the dark eddies whhTd, In the shadow of pine and yew, I cast my silken tackle When this old rod was new. I knew that under the bank, Where deep was the pool scoop d out, Where the black tree-roots were hidden, There lurk d the spotted trout. Then cautious and muffled my step, And skilful the cast that I threw, And glorious the captive prizes When this old rod was new. And oft on the ocean border, Where the salt sea-surges beat, On weedy and slippery boulder, Have I stood my daring feet ; And there from profound abysses The bass from their caves I drew, Rejoicing in my triumphs When this old rod was new. And now that the silver circlet Of Time on my head is laid, And years with their wintry blossoms My furrow d brow invade, T11K I OY ANOLKK. 1 ^ : > I still by the brook and the seaside, Those early sports renew, And find the pastime as pleasant As when this old rod was new. THE BOY ANGLER. TTNDER the bridge that spans the stream- Stream that gurgles and prattles away, Stream that flashes with many a gleam The boy would pass the holiday. I wonder if ever in all the earth A happier heart warm d human breast; If ever such perfect, such rapturous mirth, Was known as in that Eden blest! I wonder if ever a gorgeous king, In midst of all his jewell d court, Royal with sceptre and crown and ring, Had ever such rich, ecstatic sport. The bridge was ancient with log and beam, And over it droop d the willow-trees, Dipping their catkins in the stream, Asylum for fluttering birds and bees; And here in this dim, secluded cave The boy would come to muse o er the wave. He mus d, for he lov d all beauteous sights, All sounds delicious that charm d the place; The insects gay, small water-sprites, That skimm d and circled in mazy race; The water-ouzel flitting there, The blue kingfisher, perch d on spray, Then dropping quick from leafy lair, Shrill screaming as he seiz d his prey. And here the poor barefooted boy, With tatter d jerkin and hat of straw, Enjoy d the bliss, the speechless joy, The angler s rapture, without a flaw. 184 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUtf. He watch d the minnow s quivering fin, And silvery perch go swimming by, The sunfish darting out and in, The pickerel snap at the gaudy fly; The little shiner, like diamond spark, Shoot through the waters deep and dark, And the trout, like glancing Indian shaft, Defying even his cunning craft. It was a pleasure to note the frog That sat open-mouth d on weedy log; To note the turtles, all speckled o er, Bask on the slippery rocks of the shore; The muskrats paddling in sluggish play, And mink and the otter on their way. It was pleasant when hot midsummer days Scorch d earth and air with fervid blaze, When the very atmosphere seem d to swoon With the drowsy influence of the noon, To sit in his hermit cell and share The voices of nature in the air; The chirp of the cricket in the grass, The snap of the grasshoppers as they pass, The anthems of song-birds in the hedge, The whistle of snipe across the sedge, And all the entrancing symphonies Of breeze and of wave, of birds and bees All paintings of nature s matchless art, All music of nature that thrills the heart. THE PORPOISE. TN all the tides of ocean in the seas That chafe around the utmost Northern coast, Where toppling cliffs from icy pinnacles Plunge in the surf, and icebergs roll and toss, And crystal floes of adamantine ice Drift on their way there art thou frequent found. THE ANGLER S CHANT. 185 The fur-cl:ul Esquimau, in t>kiu cunoc, Plying his paddle in inclement seas, Follows thy schools; und the swart Laplander With his bone lance pursues thee to the death. And in serener latitudes, where smooth The smiling main scarce ruffles its expanse, Hound Indian isles that gem the purple deeps, Where spicy forests breathe ambrosial balms And palm-trees dip their tassels in the wave, There, too, thy gambolling multitudes abound. The Patagouian, on his rocky cape Gazing o er ocean, views ye as ye pass, And the big ship that through Magellan s Strait Heats gainst the battling winds, beholds thy course. Far in Pacific tides, the passing fleet Bound for remotest India, meets thy shoals, Tumbling and plunging past the foamy prow; And oft the seaman on the vessel s deck Transfixes thee with lance or sharp harpoon. In the salt bays and estuaries wide, Far as the broad Atlantic beats the coast, From coral reefs of Florida to the rocks Of utmost North, thy roving schools abound. THE ANGLER S CHANT. AH, the shriek of the reel, the trout-fisher s reel! No sound is so sweet to the ear; The hum of the line, the buzz of the wheel! Where the crystalline brook runs so clear. Here s a shade on the stream where the willows bend down, Where the waters sleep drowsy and dim, And there where the ripples whirl amber and brown The lords of the rivulets swim. Then fling the light tackle with delicate cast, Let your fly like a cobweb alight, A dash and a splash, and the victim is fast, While your reel sings a song of delight. 186 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. See, yonder a green-moss d boulder enchecks The stress of the turbulent tides, And there amid bubbles and foam-bell flecks The gold-spotted brook-trout hides. The sweet breezes blow, the morning sun shines, The white clouds drift slow down the sky; Tis a day that is perfect for sport with the lines, For artistic cast of the fly. Ah, haste to the shore, brother angler, to-day, On the weedy gray rock take your place, Where the surf, at its base, makes glorious race, And, like rainbows, glitters the spray! Cast your eye o er the blue expanses of sea; Plow lovely, how grand is the scene! The great rolling waves, now dusky, now green, Forever rejoicing and free, See the flash of the bluefish over the main, The gleam of the bright striped bass! Then the braided line fling, let the reel hum its strain, And so the gay moments shall pass. BUNKER-FISHING. (Alosa menhaden.) QN ocean waters, sound, and bay, The twinkling Maytime sunbeams play, And white with foam the billows shine Where the moss-bunkers lash the brine. Above them flocks of seagulls swing; Beneath, the hungry bluefish spring, And, deadlier still, the surf-men strain The oar, and run the meshing seine. Where sweeps the broad and breezy bay Engirt by shores with woodlands gay, In shoals innumerable as sands That sparkle in the wrinkled strands, BUNKER-FISHING. 1S7 The bunkers gather on the flood, Roaming the ocean-paths for food; And here the fisher-boats invade, Deep with the shining burden weighed. Off by the low New Jersey shore, Off where Long Island surges roar, Off where the Narragansett Bay Its tribute to the sea doth pay, Off Massachusetts Bay profound, Off Maine shores with their pine woods crown d, Off where the billows chafe and fret O er rocks along New Brunswick set, The fish innumerable pass O er tumbling seas, or seas of glass. The watchman s eye from sandy mound, Or eyrie in some tall tree found, Surveys the broad extended main, Views of the fishy shoal to gain; And when the welcome prize draws near In acres, o er the waters clear, He hoists his signal to the breeze, That all may hasten to the seas. Then rush the crews from shop and field, Leave plough in glebe the oar to wield; The surf-boat down the beach is drawn, The oar is seiz d with arm of brawn, The boat is launch d where breakers pour, While guides the helmsman with the oar. Then hard and emulous the toil, Rivals all anxious for the spoil ; The ablest boat, the manliest crew, Tug hard with muscle and with thew, And victor in the race surrounds The leaping fish with snaring bounds; Then laden is the boat, till more May not be added to the store. They pull for shore, and soon the soil Is opulent with scaly spoil ; In glittering heaps the shiny hoard O er all the yellow sand is pour d ; 188 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And iiot the wealth of Indian mines, Dug deep where never sunbeam shines, So fair, so gorgeous to behold As this rich spoil of blue and gold. SMELT-FISHING. (Osmerus eperlanus.) rpHOUGH keen the blast sweeps free and wide, With blood half frozen in his vein, The fisher, o er the icy tide, Heeds neither pelting hail nor rain. With eye intent upon his task He toileth all the winter day, And soon the clear transparent ice Is glittering with silver prey. And in the autumn s latest time, When first the streams run icy-cold ; In Indian summer s ruddy prime, When maple leaves are touch d with gold, And all the dim and smoky air Tempers the sunshine s steady glare, Then up the salty tides that flow And ebb along the river-shore, With silken line and tapering rod He loves the waters to explore, And take the sheeny smelt that gleam Athwart the ripples of the stream. Then oft to city wharf and pier The youthful angler makes resort, Rejoicing in the pastime dear, Charm d with the well-rewarded sport. In winter days the frozen baj r s Are whiten d with the fisher s tent, Like scene of war, when white and far Outspreads the pitch d encampment. Then blithely rings the skater s steel, As round in circling sweep he flies, Tending his lines, and prompt to snatch From air-hole his resplendent prize. III. A K-BASS FISIIINi; IN WKSTKKN STKKAM*. 189 lil.ACK BASS FISHING IN WESTKKN STREAMS. TN Western rivers dark and deep That How thro open prairie land, Pa-t sandy blnft and wooded steep, Thro solemn forests lone and grand, The dusky black bass float and swim, Or o er the placid surface skim. In shallows of the river-reach Where rock and pebbles chafe the tide, Where o er white gravel and the sand The rushing waters foam and glide, There oft the angler with his fly Takes the black rovers where they lie. But often in the middle deeps Where fathomless the water sleeps, Or where some stony dam or pier, Obstructs the currents swift career, There oft the struggling, finny spoil Rewards the angler s patient toil. THE STURGEON. (Acipenser sturio.) \\" HERE the broad Hudson graceful sweeps Along its fair, romantic shores; Where past its western, wooded bluffs And frowning Palisades it pours; And upward where the narrowing stream Is girdled by the embracing bank; Far upward where the tufted woods Umbrageous gather, rank on rank, And downward where its outlet yields Its generous tribute to the deep, Tin- white-scal d sturgeons glide or leap; A hard-sought prize to net or spear, Wherever they urge their free career. 190 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. Up the wide Sound, and far as trend The rocks that hem New England s coast ; Up the Maine rivers, broad and deep, Where boiling tides are ever tost, The silver-spangled sturgeon roam In the fresh tides or salty foam. And often gazing o er the main Where the Atlantic billows break ; O er that illimitable plain I see them their mad gambols make ; Now swiftly shooting o er the surge, Now leaping upward, each its length, In course eccentric on they urge With matchless speed, surpassing strength. The billows brighten where they leap, The spray flies upward, white and high, Then sudden to abysses deep They settle, lost to human eye. Far, far along thy dangerous edge, O Maine, with reefs and rocks beset, Lin d with the seaweed and the sedge, Where ceaseless the salt surges fret, I ve seen the gleaming sturgeon play Along old Ocean s endless way. And where thy rivers pour their tide, Penobscot, Androscoggin wide, I ve seen far up the drooping woods The sturgeon flashing in the floods. Ah me! how pleasant to recall Those college days, so distant wide, When you and I, dear Longfellow, Wander d in converse, side by side ; Wander d neath Brunswick s piny woods, Or by the Androscoggin s floods; Now pausing by the way to note The pigeon flocks above us float, Or catch the sudden flash and leap Qf the great sturgeons o er the deep! 1M< KBREL-FI8HING THROUGH Till: ICE. 191 Though Time has long inscrib d thy name High on the scroll of poet s fame, Yet well 1 know thy memory strays Far back to scenes of vanish d days, To Brunswick woods and waters blue, When we were young and life was new. Though Time has sprinkled on our brows His white, inevitable snows, Slill in our hearts the. life-tides pour As warm, as loving as of yore. PICKEREL FISHING THROUGH THE ICE. (Esox lucius.) TX7IDE o er the lake s transparent plain An adamantine floor is laid, A pure and crystalline domain By unseen frosty fingers made; So firm, a marching host might pass With ponderous guns the bridge of glass; And here the ice-boats skim or beat Swifter than yachter s sailing fleet, And, pois d upon the gleamy steel, The flying skaters whirl and wheel. The eeler comes with trident spear To thrust with keen and barbed grain ; The pickerel-fishers gather near, To hew with axe the crystal plain, And there with baited lines all day, On circling skates they watch for prey. A hundred flapping tents arise To screen them from the blast that blows, And the white lake with canopies Like warlike vast encampment shows. It is a fair, secluded spot Hid in dense woods of evergreen, A frozen lake of lucent glass Friug d with its sombre forest screen ; 192 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. The larch, the hemlock, and the pine And spicy cedars hem it round, In whose thick, interlacing shades The speckled partridges abound. In summer tis a sparkling lake With golden sands and purple deeps, Where skims the yellow pickerel, Or through profoundest waters sweeps. But when the winter days are come And Christmas carols thrill the air, And snows besiege the farmer s home, And pallid woods stretch bleak and bare, And spreads a solid icy floor Across the lake from shore to shore, Then joyous troops delight to wheel And whirl upon the glancing steel, To build great bonfires to illume The scene when falls the evening gloom, From dawn till midnight hour to make Wild frolic o er the crackling lake, To hew deep chasms in the clear, Pure ice for passage of the spear, Or set the fish-lines to ensnare The lurking pickerel from his lair. A jocund and a youthful crowd Assemble there with laughter loud; Bright golden locks o er brows of snow, Cheeks with the roses scarlet glow, And darker tresses flowing down Like torrents from the mountain s crown; Eyes gleaming like the diamond spark, Or star-beam flashing thro the dark ; These gather all in mad delight, To see the finny treasures bright That flash and glitter as they leap From dim abysses of the deep. O riotous, glad winter-time, With brow of snow and locks of rime. With sifting drift on garden-rail, With woods resplendent with the hail, BLATKIISIl. 193 With shapeless snow-henps o er the ground, And roofs with pearl tiaras orown d, And house-eaves thick with jewels set, Bright as the polish d bayonet; With wreaths the old walls to adorn, Where youth and beauty dance till morn; With silver tinkle of the bells O er country roads, thro sylvan dells; With skater s shout and singer s si ruin Far o er the wide, rejoicing plain; Ah! with all these no festival So gay in summer s gilded hall! BLACKFISII. (Tauloga Americana.) "^yHEREVEIl by extended shore The rough rocks sow the salty deep, Wherever kelp and seaweed cling And crab and starfish crawl and creep, The blackfish find a lurking place, Deep in the waters at their base. \Vhere sunken ledges pave the floor Of ocean with granitic blocks, Where the projecting reef throws out Its bulwark of the craggy rocks, The anglers for the blackfish stand On summit of the sca-wash d crag, And with the slender fishing- wand The blackfish from their caverns drag. Where er a hapless bark hath met Its fate along the dangerous shore, And with its broken ribs and keel Lies rotting on the ocean floor, There where the clinging shell and weed Gather, and barnacles abound, The blackfish seeking out their feed In numbers by the hook are found. 13 194 POEMS OF THE ROD A1STD GUK. THE SHARK. (Carcliarias glaucus.) HPHE seaboy sailing o er the main, Far-gazing o er the watery plain, Sees oft the black fin of the shark Pursuing his careering bark. Quick thro the ship the joyful news Like wildfire runs from stem to stern; From bulwark high, from sloping mast, Leeward all eager glances turn. The master seeks the massive hook With iron chain and hempen line, And soon the baited snare is out Far trailing o er the seething brine. The greedy monster with a plunge Rushes to seize the tempting bait, And, rolling on his dusky back, Gorges the hook and finds his fate. Away in madden d haste he flies, Lashing the wave with forked tail, But gainst a score of tugging hands His desperate strength may naught avail. Soon bleeding on the deck, a prize, The ruthless ocean tyrant dies. Tis said in Indian seas remote, Off the white reef of Bengal Bay, Cruises the great man-eater shark, Hungry and keen for human prey. There Indian damsels dread to plunge In combing surf and curling wave, Fearing that terror of sharp teeth, That jaw remorseless as the grave. But brave the manly diver dares With sharpen d creese to meet his foe, And, plung d beneath the lurking fiend, Stabs till the tides with slaughter flow. So the swart diver for the pearl, Taught from his youth to search the deeps, With keen blade meets him in the surf, And slays him wheresoe er he sweeps. SPECKLED BASS AT LAKK I KIMN, MINN. 195 HAKE. (Phycis furgatus.) ( yFAl sandy bar and rocky floor That pave the bottom of the deep, Where kelp and dulse and seaweeds Haunt Their garlands where the currents sweep; Where rove the haddock and the cod, The shcepshcad and the silvery bass, The dark hake schools rejoice to feed In pastures of the salty grass. The fisher in his rocking boat From reef to reef pursues his prey, Now in abysses dark and deep, And now in shoaling cove and bay, But best the sport when night her veil Of shadows o er the ocean spreads, And the red moon along the seas Her glimmering effulgence sheds. Then when the drowsy breezes fold Their wings and swoon away in sleep, When not a milling ripple curls The motionless undimpled deep; When drops the moon her golden bridge Of light athwart the level main, And heavenly constellations burn, Stars flood the night with twinkling rain, Tis then the fisher s toilsome trade Is with abounding spoil repaid. SPECKLED BASS AT LAKE PEPIN, MINN. TT is a fair, pellucid lake, With towering bluffs encompass d round, Heavy with woods of fir and pine, With gloomy cedar fo rests crown d; And here in some secluded haunt, Afar from human care and vice, The lover of the woods and streams Seeks out an earthly paradise. 196 POEMS OF THE ROD ASTD GUN". Sweet falls the summer sunshine here, The morning with its dewy flush; The breezeless, calm, unclouded noon, The glimmering twilight with its hush. Spring here its earliest violet drops, Summer its rosy garland weaves, Brown Autumn comes with purple grapes, Winter thro all the woodland grieves, Yet ever in this pastoral vale Content and endless peace prevail. The tenants of the crystal deeps The watery pastures rove at will, Gleaming with gold, and ray d and strip d With all the colors that distil Thro the curv d rainbow, hung on high, A painted arch across the sky, And here the trout-schools, and the pike With jaw immense and mottled side, Swim free and far, and muscalonge Cleaving like Indian shaft the tide. Most lovely of all finny tribes That haunt the pool or skim the foam, The speckled bass, in armor bright Like mail-clad knight, delights to roam ; Studded with gorgeous spots of brown, With scales of azure, gold, and green ; With opal stripe and lucent bars, No fish more beautiful is seen. Where far the sandy point juts out They churn the waters till they boil. Swift-darting to and fro, they urge Their sports, and mingle in turmoil. But when the evening shades pervade And dim in shadow rests the lake, In deepest caverns of the pool Their cool secluded homes they make; Yet even there the angler s fly, Or mimic minnow deftly spun, Will tempt them from the azure deeps, Decoy them, till the prize is won. TIIK KIXOFISH. 197 Till-; KINGFISH. (Menticimts nebulosus.) "The kingfish, or whiting as it is called along the Southern coast, is the gamiest fish for its size known to the angler." L. O. VANDOREN, in " Fishes oftlie East Atlantic Coast" OFF where the slender light-house lifts, Like sheeted ghost, above the surge, Casting its warning flames at night Far to the dim horizon s verge Round sunken reef and hidden rock Where shells and sands inlay the floor Of ocean, there the kingflsh glide And the sea s secret worlds explore. Resplendent with their russet head, Their silvery and azure sides, They dart like meteoric showers Across ^he salt tumultuous tides. There anchor d, when the tides are low And first the young flood bubbling flows, The fisher far the spinning line Deep down with trustful ardor throws. Seek them when roars the tumbling surf . Along the inlets of the shore, When swift between the sandy banks The tides thro deepen d channels pour. Go where Fire Island opes its gate To let the boisterous waters in, Or where the surf at Barnegat Thunders in hoarse, incessant din, And there within the Inlet-jaws When deep and darksome flows the tide, Feeding in schools innumerous The greedy kingfish gleam and glide. The old colonial times Num d this of all the fish the king; The noblest, gamiest of the tribes O er ocean wandering. 198 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. It glows with evanescent tints Of silvery hue and shades of gray, With sides of bluish white, and fins O er which all rainbow glories play. He is an eager fish to bite At sand- worm or at sheddercrab; And when death-stung by barbed stab, Heroic, stubborn, full of fight, Quick to the bottom depths he flies, Then dashes left and right, Nor yields submissive till he dies. At every wharf and pier and ledge The anglers haste for perfect sport; Along the Battery s grassy edge And by the ancient fort, Up the North River and the East, Manhattan gather d to the feast. A century since those times hath past, And when the British standard fell From fortress wall and frigate mast, Those noble fish all fled as well, And few remain by stream and bay The angler s efforts to repay. Yet far along the Jersey shore, Off Sandy Hook, Long Island Sound, And where the Southern surges pour, The king-fish still abound. At inlet of the Barnegat, Off Long Branch sunny cliff and cove, O er hidden bar and muddy flat, Their swarming myriads pour; And far adown the Southern coast Where Chesapeake bays expand, And where Cape Hatteras tides are tost, And Florida s green strand, They skim the wave, they plunge the deep, And through the great Gulf onward sweep, ON I.ON<; ISLAND SOUND. 199 PORGEE. (Pagrus argyrops.) TN all the tides that sweep the coast By Labrador s remotest shores, Far down to where the Chesapeake Its ailluent flood to ocean pours, The porgees, bright with silvery scales, In numberless great schools abound, At river-mouth, in open bay, In estuary and in sound. Where foams the flood-tide swift and clear O er sands and shoals of ocean s bed, Their flashing, shifting multitudes, Quick darting to and fro, are spread; Where whirls and wheeling eddies spin O er weedy rock and hidden ledge, Their pearly legions mustering fill With swarming life the channel-edge. Rough ocean coasts and open seas, Where cruise piratic blue-fish foes, They soon forsake for cove and bay, And where the shallow river flows. Yet there the fisher still pursues; And anchor d yacht and dory boat, And pier and wharf with anglers liu d, Thin out their schools where er they float. ON LONG ISLAND SOUND. T WANDER daily by thy shore, Thy rocky shore, Long Island Sound, And in my little boat explore The secrets of thy depths profound. I trace the great brown rocks far down, O er which the salt tides ebb and flow, Encrusted with their rugged shells, Rocks where the ribbou d seaweeds grow ; 200 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And there the glancing fish I view, The weakfish and the dusky bass : The bergalls and the blackfish schools, And silvery porgees as they pass. Fast-anchor d in my swinging boat, The welcome nibble to await, I feel the sheepshead at the line, The sea- bass tugging at the bait; And as I gaze across the wave I see the shining sturgeon leap, Springing in air with sudden flash, Then splashing, plunging to the deep; I see the porpoise schools sweep by, In sportive gambollings at their play, Puffing and snorting as they rise, Wheeling and tumbling on their way ; And never wearied is my gaze As o er the blue expanse it roams, Viewing the endless billows roll, White-crested with the yeasty foams. SPANISH MACKEREL. (Scoinberomorm maculatum.) T^THEN fields are green and woods of June Are vocal with the song-bird s tune, When willows lithe, a lovely group, Full foliaged o er the meadows droop; When hazels their soft catkins ope By rivulet edge and grassy slope, Then swift those rovers of the deep O er all the Northern surges leap. Far off the billows of Montauk, Above them hovering gull and hawk; Far off the isles of Orient Where the Sound s billowy waves are spent, And by the rough New England shore Where the vex d tides incessant roar, Their gleaming schools flash far and wide, Disporting in the flowing tide. COMMON I M -KKUEL. 201 Most beautiful in shape and hue Of all that swim the waters blue, Fairer than plumage of the bird Or fur of the wild forest herd, Remorseless are they as the grave To all the tenants of the wave; No speed, no cunning may avail When these marauders may assail. But yet a cruel fate prepares For them its fierce destructive snares; The fishers with their swarming boats Spread out their mesh seines and their floats; The yacht sweeps round them with the sail, Or stoops the sea-hawk in the gale, While flashing squid and trailing line Drag them reluctant from the brine. COMMON PICKEREL. (Esox reticulatus.) OEPTEMBER woods are fresh and green, September woods are bright, September s early morning glows With its encrimsoning light; O er upland slopes a dewy haze In vapory beauty clings, Soft as the film that fancy s veil O er earthly vision flings. Serene afar the purple cones Of the Green Mountain stand, Like arm d and stalwart sentinels Guarding a sleeping land; Serene and smooth (Jhamphiin s blue lake Spreads out its dimpled sheet, Washing its wood-engirdled shore, Bathing the mountain feet. In shallow cove, near grassy bank, The pickerel-weeds grow green and rank; In hazel girded, crescent bays Sprinkled with isles, an endless maze, 202 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUK. The yellow-tinted pickerel Lie hidden, motionless and still; The dorsal fin, the forked tail Scarce stir the waters, clear as air, But jaws are open to assail And glassy eyes all murderous stare. But when the small fry of the lake, The minnow and the shiner bright, Across the limpid surface break, Shooting like pearly sparks of light, Then, as an Indian tiger grim Rends antler d stag in jungles dim, So doth the water-tyrant slay The helpless, unresisting prey. SEA-BASS. (Centropristes nigricanus.} TA7IDE off Long Island s yellow beach, Where fisher s plummet scarce may reach, Deep-sunken in the depths of brine, Where sea-weeds all the rocks entwine, Where kelp its beaded ribbon flings, And the black mussel closely clings, And sea-dulse their long tresses flaunt, There the dark sea-bass makes his haunt. And where the Sound outspreads its plain Extended to the tossing main, Off Orient Point and green Plum Isle, Where the Gut currents chafing boil, Where Gardiner s Island and Gull-rocks Breast and repel the ocean shocks, There goes the fisher with his boat Above the sunken ledge to float, Skilful to take with baited line The sable sea-bass of the brine. I love to stand on rocks that throw Deep shadows on the tides below, And note the varied life that sweeps The salt abysses of the deeps; THK SEAL AT LABRADOR. The sword-fish and the spouting whale, The porpoise tumbling in the gale, The dolphin and the grampus dark, The sharp-finn d, man-devouring shark, The blue-fish leaping as they pass, The strip d and pearl enamell d bass; The crab, the shrimp, the mussel-shell, The sea-egg with its thorny cell, The moss to slippery rock that clings, The dulse, the sea-weed with its rings, Its emerald garlands drifting wide, Rising and falling with the tide, All these, the wealth of waters blue, Are ever wondrous, ever new. THE SEAL AT LABRADOR. (Oalocephalua nlulinus.) A THWART the river s brimming Hood, Behold the tumbling seals at play! Now diving in the seething deeps Now dashing o er the boiling spray; Their round black heads now rise, now sink, Still watchful of the rifle s aim, Still mindful of the birch canoe And Indian lurking for his game. Perch d on some brown, weed-tangled rock They bask luxurious in the sun, Watching the salmon s flashing leap, As thro the surging tides they run; And here they teach their young the art To swim, to dive, to clutch the prey, The art the salmon to o ertake, The salmon of the watery way. The finny tribes, with bright scales lin d, Painted beyond the limner s art, In meteoric brightness flash, With lightning speed the waters part; Yet swifter, with rapacious jaws, 204: POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. The plunging seals their victims snare. Then bear them to some darkling pool, With their swart cubs the spoil to share. Stout sealing vessel ! that doth spread In stormy seas the venturous sail, Battling with walrus and with seal, And grappling with the mighty whale, I love o er frozen realms remote To follow thee where er you float. SHEEPSHEAD. (Sparus ovis.) inlet of the Barnegat Opes to the tumbling surf its gate When the young-flood tide washes in Limpet and crab, a welcome bait; Then where the affluent current pours The deepest o er its muddy floors, The greedy sheepshead hidden lie, To seize whatever may float by. And there in little boat that swings At anchor in the flowing tides, The angler line and plummet flings, And takes the robber when he wills. Patient and motionless he waits, Unmindful of all meaner prize; His hand upon the humming line, Fix d on his task his eager eyes; The flashing blue-fish may rush by, The pig-like porpoise tumble near, The dusky shark may lash the foam, And sturgeon from the wave leap clear. He heeds not but awaits the jerk Of sheep s-head, deep below that lurk. Far down the Bay, where salter tides And stronger, fiercer current pours, Where Absecum its inlet opes Between its shelving, sandy shores, WHITK-FISH OF THE NORTHERN LAKES. 205 There, too, the fishermen resort, For pleasant pastime, noble sport, And pluck triumphant from the deeps The treasure that old ocean keeps. WHITE-FISH OF THE NORTHERN LAKES. (Coregomis albus.) "COAMING afar o er Erie Lake The white-fish its fair surface break; In countless myriads they explore The windings of the shelving shore. Now seek some green sequester d cove, Now off some beetling headland rove, Now lurk where emptying rivers bear The generous food the fish may share, Seeking the bounteous gifts brought down From distant woods and pastures brown. Anon they seek the middle deeps Where fathomless the water sleeps, Perchance to fly from fierce pursuit Of the great trout that o er it shoot, Or from the muscanonge s chase, The greedy tyrants of their nice. The fisher stakes his net and weir, The persecuted shoals to snare; The seiner runs his net around Where er the glittering scales abound: They drag them to the neighboring shore. Where sands are brighten d with their store. Yet, spite of foe and net and seine, Unnumber d myriads still remain; So countless and prolific they, Scarce may their glcamy millions fail, Swarming in lake, and cove, and bay, In sleepy calm and howling gale. 206 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. THE SWORD FISH. (Xipldas gladius.) /^\FF where Nantucket s sandy isle Juts seaward with the reef and bar, And where the Martha Vineyard rocks Baffle the surges fierce and far, The hardy fishers launch the boat With courage that no perils daunt, To grapple with the dangerous foe, The sword-fish, in his ocean haunt. Skilful are they with sharp harpoon, Skilful to wield the deadly lance; For of ttimes have they o er the seas, Where waves tumultuously dance, Pursued in open boat the whale, Though typhoon threaten d with the gale. Sailing the billows leagues from shore With glass th horizon s rim they sweep, And where the foamy surges pour They know the sword-fish play and leap; Steady the helmsman guides the way, High on the prow the spearman stands With arm uprais d and prompt to throw The harpoon, quivering in his hands. And when the heedless fish are near, So near they brush the vessel s side, He flings the prong d death dealing spear, Its very shaft with crimson dyed. Now comes the danger, for the prey, Madden d with pain, may strike the boat, Thro plank may thrust its bony way, So the poor craft may scarcely float. An oaken cask, with frantic haste, The spearman casts into the main, And so the wounded creatures waste On its tough sides their strength in vain, Till sick, exhausted with the strife, They end the struggle with their life. HAULING OF THK SKINK. 207 HAULING OF THE SEINE. AS PRACTISED ON THK EASTERN COAST OP LONG ISLAND. r PHK sea is like a mirror scarce a crest Of the white froth-foam gleams across its breast; And like an infant s bosom, fast asleep, Scarce sinks, scarce swells the smooth breast of the deep, So smooth that scarce the shell-embroider d sand Is ruflled by the waves that kiss the strand; So smooth, that scarce the green sea- weed that grows In shallow cove its ribbons may unclose; So smooth that scarce the salty kelps may shake Their beaded garlands where no ripples break. Now good the time to lift the close-mesh d seine, Outspread along the sandy sea-beach plain, Men coil it careful in the surf -boat s stern, Cork-line and lead-line all complete in turn. Now haste, bold fishers, for a gleaming line Of flashing fins doth sweep across the brine; And shows where bright the treasures of the deep, Swimming and skimming, in gay frolics leap. Now run your shapely shallops to the edge Where meet the shore- waves and the yellow sedge; Spring to your seats, ply hard the bending oar Till the flat keel recedeth from the shore, While the skill d helmsman with long sweep doth steer Straight on the fish school, with exulting cheer. Now the twin boats approach the unwary school ; Pull well together, men, be cautious, cool; Let each boat take its seine-end, to surround With circling sweep the school, in hush profound; Then, when the drifting corks united meet, And myriad flashing tails the surface beat, Draw well together, till collected shine In one live mass the treasures of the brine. Then with your hand-seines fill each ample boat Till with the sumptuous spoil it scarce may float; 208 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUtf. Then to the shore with manful oar- strokes toil Till all the sandy beach is spread with spoil, Till all the level beach with glistening prey Twinkles and flashes in the blaze of day, Till well the fisher s hard and manly trade With opulent reward is rich repaid. THE BROOKSIDE AND THE HILLSIDE. TT was a leafy haunt where oft I came To track the wilful twistings of a brook That ran thro grove and mead; now creeping slow And sluggish, half asleep amid its shores, Now slipping with an endless prattle down Its sloping floor of pebbles and white sands. The stream beneath a bridge had made a pool Of dusky water, friug d with sedge and reeds, Where water-lilies their white vases oped Each with a gem of gold within its heart. On the slant bank the wild rosebushes grew, All their pink petals to the view disclos d, Their images reflected in the wave. Here flew the bright kingfishers, blue and gold, Following in flight the windings of the stream; And here a bird with snow-white, downy breast, The water-ouzel, dipping its black bill, Perch d on a mossy stone, or skimm d the wave. It was a fairy scene to charm the eye ! Down the swift stream, amid the shadows dusk, The gnat-swarms hover d, and the minnows bright Twinkled and glisten d in the sweeping tide, And leap d the trout where insects sought the wave. The sweetest song-birds from each bending twig And coppice pour d their souls in liquid strains; The heavens above were sunshine, and the earth Rejoic d in full fruition of the day; Delicious were the bird-hymns, and most sweet The trickling murmur of the running brook. THE COLUMBIA RIVER. 209 We left the brookside, pass d the bowering lanes, Aud on the brow of hillock saw beneath The open plains with rural farms overspread, And dotted thick with roofs of cottages. And here were seen the yellow sands, the cove, Tin- rounded rocks with clinging sea-weeds drap d, The white capp d waves, the brown sails on the bay, The drying nets o er white sea-sands outspread. There was a drowsy hum of bees in air, Flitting from bank to bank, from bush to bush, To sip the honey d nectar of the llowers; Now darting thro the honeysuckle shoots, Now o er the meadows, white with clover-blooms; While on their purple plumes the humming-birds Like winged flowerets darted down the air; Aud all was blissful calm and slumberous peace, And trills of bird and murmur of the brook. Where the white sunshine thro green branches peeps, And the blue sky thro tufted tree-tops shows, And leaves that curtain the path-openings Of forest sanctuaries arc astir, Then pleasant tis beneath that verdant arch To enter and explore the depth of woods. HIE COLUMBIA RIVER. r\ GRAND Columbia, River of the West; O noble stream, for ages flowing on Thro shores unknown to civili/ed man! Thy rough head-waters rise mid rocky mounts, Where torrents of the melting snow down pour From crag and cliff and rugged mountain peak, Winding thro desert plains and savage wastes; \Vherc- springs no rustling grass or leafy shrub, And yet anon it runs its joyous way, Thro pleasant valleys and soft, llowery plains, Mill bending groves and prairies measureless. Far o er those plains the Indian horseman rides, Lashing his steed in desperate pursuit 14 210 POEMS OF THE HOD AND GUN. Of the wild buffalo and bounding deer, Or the fleet antelope that scours the plain. Free is the hunter of the plains and mounts, A gallant rider, tall, athletic, brave; His only food the great game of the wilds; Ready for feast or battle; prompt to meet A hostile tribe with war-club and with spear. But the poor dwellers at Columbia s mouth The seashore Chinooks are a peaceful race, Idling inert their sluggish lives away, Their food the salmon-shoals or herbs and roots. There at the river s mouth spread shallow bays, With rocky shores all fring d with marshy isles, Where droop the willow groves and poplar woods. Ofttimes those rocky cliffs give place to plains Where wave majestic groves of pluming pines. Far up the great Columbian valley spreads, Twixt ridges parallel of soaring mounts, And thro its heart a bounteous river flows, Slow wandering, from regions unexplor d. Far up Columbia s upper stream sweet airs, Soft, temperate breezes, blow with gentle sweep; While vigorous winters, sultry summer heats, Across the eastern ridge of rocky mounts Prevail, where snows eternal crown the peaks. Yet o er the western valleys and the plains Serener clime is found, and nightly dews And humid fogs make verdant all the realm. THE BOYS AND THE BERG ALLS. TJNSCRUPULOUS fishes are they! How they nibble purloining the bait, Secure it ere blackfish may bite, So eager and quick for the prey ! It is the boy-anglers delight To lean o er the wharf or the pier, While they broil in the blaze of the sun, Dropping lines while the salt tides run clear. THE BOYS AND Tin: BBBOA] 211 They envy no anglers cquipt With the costliest tackle and reel, With the fine jointed rod, silver-tipt, With landing-net, lly-hook, and creel The anglers abounding in wealth, Who may travel for sport far and wide, And cast on the Labrador coast For salmon that swarm in the tide. Oft where the clear rivulet pours Through meadow or rocky ravine, The anglers may seek for the trout That lurk in the waters serene ; And yet these poor children receive Purer bliss than those anglers enjoy ; No regret and no envy disturbs The simple pastimes of the boy. And, mcthinks, the pleasures supreme, "When their hearts with success are elate, Are more true, more ecstatic, than joys Of the wealthy, the proud, and the great. When the holiday season arrives, And the school-bells may summon no more, See them issue from alley and street And haste to the banks of the shore ! Their victims are poor, it is true The sea-perch, the puny bergall, All rough with the scales and the spines, Yet how great is the glory of all! Mid the green, slimy spiles of the pier, Where the shells and the barnacles cling, Now, hopeful, the plummet they drop ; Now, eager, the fish-line they fling. How welcome each dusky brown prize! What treasures they draw from the tide! How triumphant their march to their homes, Each bearing his burden with pride! 212 POEMS OF THE ROB AND GUN. SCHOODIC LAKES, MAINE. [The Schoodics are the home of the land-locked salmon. If it is that this peculiar species of delicious and gamy fish exists in other waters, it is, nevertheless, identified always with the charming Schoodic Lakes and the St. Croix River. CHARLES HALLOCK S Fishing Tourist. } A H, let us blissful float on this pellucid stream, Idling the hours of summer-time away ! Let us forget the fashions of the world Its cares, its fretful griefs, anxieties, Ambition, pride, and selfish, low desires; The greedy struggles of the rich for wealth, The slavish toil of poverty for bread, The arrogance of power, the hard fate Of men in smoky crib and cabins rude, And all the sordid passions of mankind. On, in our birch canoe, we listless float, Now in the sunshine, now in shadows lost, Where great Spruce Mountain casts its inky shade, And the dim depths seem fathomless. There is depressing sadness in this gloom That overspreads these waters, and we ply The oar, to float in heaven s own light again. Plying the paddle, soon the light canoe Speeds like an arrow, like a flitting bird, With scarce a murmuring ripple at the stern. Pausing awhile, entranc d, we downward gaze Deep in the wave; we see the floating cloud And the pure, blue, ethereal skies above Reflected, picturing a new heaven below. From a cliff-summit an o erhanging tree Leans o er, its great inverted form to see, To see its branching tops sink prone beneath. A red squirrel, running down a pendent bough, Doth seem to rise from bottom of the lake, And as the gazer on the mir.ror looks He sees exact his image reproduc d. REMINISCENCES. 213 The flapping crows, the circling hawks that pass, See with aina/.c their figures in the wave. Aloft, majestic on a dead tree-top, An eagle sits as wondering at the scene; A soaring fish- hawk skims athwart the wave, Then dips his dropping wing to seize his prey. A wild-duck, startled from the cove, sweeps by; Zigzag a kingfisher flies, shrill-screaming, pa-t, From up the lake come hoarse cries of a crane, And melancholy wail of lonely loon. All these Hie boatman notes with dreamy sense, And then anon he takes his tapering rod And casts his feather d lures with skilful hand; He takes the lordly salmon and the trout That in the watery abysses float, The fleeting day is all too brief for him, So fill d with pleasing sights and pleasant sound; So, when the evening shades steal gradual round He turns reluctant to his bowery camp. REMINISCENCES. EARLY FISHING SCENES UNDER THE OLD "ROPE-WALK," AT FOOT OF BOSTON COMMON , NM\V OCCUPIED BY THE PUBLIC GARDEN AND BY BLOCKS OF ELEGANT MANSIONS. ~\7"ES, tis the haunt of early years, The joyous holiday-resort, Where, in the happy afternoon, We came for childish sport; The scenes, the joys of vanish d time On memory s tablet glow, The ecstasies of youthful life, The bliss of long ago ! Twas here the ancient structure stretclfd, The brown old timbers stood, The weather-beaten platform too, That spann d the rising flood; And here our rosy little band, 214 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. When tides did ebb or flow, Would cluster like a swarm of bees Ilang d in a crowded row. Our slender, homely fish-rods then Would line the friendly pier, And oh, what gleeful shouts arose, What gay, light-hearted cheer, As each one jerk d the shiny prize, The ribb d, the struggling prey, That filled our wicker creels with wealth, Our hearts with joy that day! I gaze around but all so strange ! Sure some enchanter s wand Hath chang d the scenes where waters flowed, And now are solid land ! There where the little angler lean d, The swimmer stemm d the tide, The " Public Garden" I behold, And mansions far and wide. Yet yonder, as in days of yore, The " Common" spreads its space, There waved the " Great Elm" o er the pond So oft our try sting-place ; And still the green and grassy slopes Their billowy hillocks spread, Where oft we chas d the bounding ball Or " coasted " with the sled. I see the " State House" lift its dome, The " Park Street s*" soaring spire, And little children run the race As if they ne er would tire. But these are not the groups I knew In glimmering years of old; Their names are writ on tablets, Their forms rest in the mould. THE GOLD-FISH AND TITE SILVER-FISH. 215 THE GOLD-FISH AND TIIK SILVER-FISH. T3Y a little crystal brook Winding thro a woody nook, Where the rippled current dashes Neath the elm-trees and the ashes, Oft I ramble to explore The green borders of the shore. There a beach of gleamy sand Fringes the rare fairy-land, Sand as white as virgin snow, \Vith the color d shells aglow ; There the drooping branches meet In that Eden-like retreat, There the climbing grape-vine weaves Garlands with its emerald leaves. There the water lilies float, Drifting each a crystal boat, Murmuring honey-bees glance by, And the gorgeous butterfly. All the scenes beyond compare, All the sweetest sounds of air, Glorify this blissful spot, With enchantments fill the grot. In the shadowy in the gleam Of the pure transparent stream, See, the yellow gold-fish glide, Sporting with the amber tide, Skimming near the riv let s face, Wheeling, darting in the race, Now like nuggets of red ore Sparkling o er the sandy floor ; Lovely ever as the dyes Mingled in the opal skies. See, too, silver-fishes skim As with Hutu-ring tins they swim. Pearly-white as quivering light Of the moonbeams of the night. 216 POEMS OF THE ROD AtfD GUN". In a parlor s gilded room, Rich with roses and perfume, Where the porcelain vases shine Ruby-red, as fill d with wine; Where the sculptur d marbles stand Statuesque on every hand; Where the velvet couches show, Where the silken curtains flow; Where the works of masters old Fascinate in frames of gold; See in prismy globes of glass Now the circling fishes pass, Tis that gold and silver school Captives from the fairy pool, Kidnapp d from the forest dell, Prison d in the glassy cell. THE HILLSIDE RIVULET. A N Eden haunt, a charming fairy grot, The angler s home in Nature s fairest spot! Where peace, like some wing-wearied bird, drops down, Folds her white pinions o er her breast of brown. The evening sky is fleck d with gold, As slow the setting sun declines; The western cloud s transparent fold With a surpassing radiance shines. And as the deepening shadows sweep Athwart the glimmering landscape s breast, And o er the purpled mountains creep, The soft air, drowsy, sinks to rest. How clear this brooklet in whose depths The gold and silvery fishes glide ! So clear, I count the pink-hued shells That pave the cool, transparent tide. TIM: OLD MI i, i. MY Tin: RIVER. 217 How gay the broidering flowers that fringe Its edge with lines of varied tinge, As if some Fairy s hand had sown The place with jewels from her /one! There shines a crystal shell to dip The gelid waters to the lip; Would that the Genius of the place Might beam on me her radiant face! A mimic waterfall pours out Its clear libation in the cool Granitic basin it hath made A sparkling tribute to the pool. A willow droops its leaves o eikead, Wild gorse and heather clothe its side, Where ivies and brown lichens cling, And fern and foxglove line the tide, And -rape-vines their light garlands Ming. The rivulet stops to kiss each llower, Lily and moss, and bending grass, Touching each one with soft caress, Ere forth forever it shall pass. Tis here the musing angler comes To choose his flies and cast his line, ing where dark the shadows rest, ring win-re rippling eddies shine. Till: <>LD MILL BY THE RIVER. TTERE in the years when life was bright With dewy mornings and sunset light, In the pleasant season of leafy June, In each idle, holiday afternoon I lov d to wander with willow wand I lov d on the river border to stand And take the trout or the yellow bream That leap d, that glanc d athwart the stream. With broken window, with hingeless door, Thro which the slanting sunbeams pour; 218 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN". With leaning gable, and settling wall, O er which the draperied ivies fall; With rafter moldy, worm-eaten beam, O er which the silken cobwebs stream, Fast by the river-banks serene The old forsaken mill is seen. Its roof shows many a chasm and rent, Its creaking vane is crack d and bent, In and out the swallows fiV, Under the eaves their dwellings lie. The leather-wing d bats, when day is dim, Thro vacant rooms and granaries skim; Its shingles thai ages ago were new, Splendid with painters lavish hue, Are faded now and swing in the gale, Scarce held by the loosen d rusty nail; The clapboards rattle and clank amain In gusts of the snow-fall and the rain, For the dust of many a lapsing year Hath writ its wasteful chronicle here. The dam o er which the waters pour Is settling and crumbling by the shore; The slippery logs and mossy stone Yield to the current one by one : And swift thro many a rent abyss The spouting rivulets foam and hiss, And soon must the crazy fabric decay, And the torrent sweep uncheck d away. The water-wheel so black and vast, With beam like a battle -vessel s mast That once would churn with mighty sweep The boiling waters so dark and deep, Lies now a wreck in humbled pride, Trembling with each assault of the tide. Under the crumbling, blacken d wheel The crystal bubbles circle and reel; Over and under the eddies boil Round molder d timber and rotting post; In many a circling ripple they coil In sudden plunge, in wild turmoil, Now seen an instant, then quickly lost. MY OLD FISHING-BOAT. 219 MY 01,1) FIS1IIN<; IJOAT. A/f Y old boat rests on the shore, By the river s sedgy brink, Where the meadow grass bends o er, And the cattle come to drink; Tis a rusty, batter d boat, IJi.at without mast or sail, And it never again may iloat. In dead calm or in gale; Fur its timbers and ribs are rent, Shivrr d and crack d and bent, And the paint has faded away, From its sides this many si-day; Sides gaping in every seam, Wide open to the stream. And yet a brave boat wast thou! When I launch d you long ago, When thy shapely, sharpen d prow, Cleaved the waters like a plow; Gay then each painted side, With umber and green and white, My triumph and my pride, My glory, my heart s delight ! Was ever a joy in the past, Like mine when first arose, The flag at the head of the mast, A pennon of purple and rose; When first thy snowy sail, I gave to the riotous breeze, And steer d from this river- vale, Straight out to the open seas! Ah, many the splendid school Of fish, in these river-deeps, That haunt each darksome pool, Or Hash where the current sweeps; 220 POEMS OF THE EOD AtfD GUN". Have I follow d where e er they float, And gather d into this boat; And along the salty tides Of the sea, I have track d their way, Till their glittering, scaly sides, In my little shallop lay. FISHING FOR ALBICORE IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC. whale-ship speeds upon her foamy way, And all around the measureless ocean spreads Its vast expanse of the white-crested waves. No whales in sight, no spouting jets to call Our listless crew to man the idle boat; So all collect on spar and bulwark-side To view a scene that animates the deep. In air above the giant albatross Swings in great wings; the blue cape-pigeons skim The azure plain; the circling frigate-bird Plies its long pinions, hungry for the prey; The little pilot-fish leap at the prow, And vast shoals of the flying-fish arise, And flit in air pursued by foes below And greedy birds that hover in the air. The glittering dolphin, its remorseless foe, Follows the frighten d shoal till they emerge In air, with vibratory fin and wavering flight; Then swift the dolphin, like a streak of flame, Darts thro the brine, and snaps them as they fall. Their deadliest foe, the savage albicore, That fierce sea-tiger, preys upon their shoals. The slaughter of the albicore, when herded thick Around the ship, by sword-fish foes pursued, Yields to the seaman most enchanting sport. When blows the breeze the sailor takes his perch Upon the swinging mizzen-boom astern, His tackle a three-stranded line, his lure A clumsy hook, on whose long shank revolves A pearl-shell plate, with wings of fluttering cloth, Tin: WHALE. 221 That well may simulate a flying-fish. He casts his line far o er the seething brine, He skips the shining lure from wave to wave, And with oar-harden cl grasp awaits the rise. The glittering albicore are thick around, Till one more hungry, with a splendid spring, A dash, a splash, a leap, secures the bait. Ah, what a rise is this! The rushing ship Cuts thro the deep with " bone of foam" in teeth, The angler swaying on the unsteady spar; The fish, with thrice the strength of salmon, leaps, Struggles, and glances through the salt abyss, And tlien, exhausted, yields his bleeding life, And lies on deck a blue and silvery mass. Such the grand sport of ocean, that doth shame The puny pastimes of the lake and stream. THE WHALE. (Cetaeea.) CATLING across the lonely seas, Sailing across the Okotsb Sound, The tempest-beaten ship roll d on, On distant voyagiugs bound. For months the ship had swept the deep; Long since had faded the lamps of home, Long since the headlands had grown dim, The lighthouse vanish d o er the foam; For seasons neath the Southern Cross, Through seas Antarctic they d been borne, Far down Magellan s stormy Strait, And stony barriers of Cape Horn. And now the Northern tides they sought, Where glaciers lin d the barren shore, Where icebergs lift their crystal peaks, And frosty tides chafe evermore. They sail d, sail d on, day after day, And yet no " spout" arous d the crews; The "lookout" in the "crow s-nest" gave No warning cry no joyful news. 222 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. For months no flash of mighty " flukes," No lashing of the forked tail, Were seen across the watery space, No joyful gambols of the whale. The captain restless paced the deck, The crew in forecastle would sleep ; The furnace fires were all unlit, And life was dreary o er the deep; Only the porpoise school would rise, The great shark flash across the main, The dolphin whirl athwart the bow, The sword-fish-cleave the billowy plain. But sudden, from the black mast-head, A welcome salutation rose: " Sharp on the starboard beam she spouts," "Broad on the larboard bow she blows!" And instant on that idle deck Was shout of men and tramp of feet; Harpoon and lance from rack were torn, And eyes would flash and hearts would beat. " Down with the boats!" the captain spoke; " Down boats! and tumble in, my men!" And quick the sturdy oars were out, The oarsmen straining to the stroke; With steady pull they manful swept, Harpooner poising at the prow, The helmsman cheering at the stern, The sharp stem cleaving like a plow. Right soon beside that dusky bulk, The huge leviathan of the deep, That little weather-beaten boat In swift, heroic charge did sweep. Then harpoon, with gigantic strength, Prone on that living wall was cast ; " Stern all!" the cry; " Back oars, my men!" And backing oars made frantic haste. THE DOLPHIN. 223 Thru with a plunge (while spots of blood Redden d the wave) sank down tin- whale, ( leaving the billows with his head. Lashing the foam with tlourish d tail. Then swift across the whale boat s prow Whistled the smoking, (lying line; While thousand fathoms deep the prey Dropt in abysses of the brine, But quick the monstrous bulk arose, Like balloon springing up in air; And quick the deadly lance was thrust, And the great pri/e roll d helpless there. Till-: DOLPHIN. (Cnryi Jama Ifijipnri*.) y WIFTEST and most rapacious of the tribes That swim the seas, art thou, marauder fierce; Thou and the porpoise and the grampus huge, Cruel and swift as sharks pursue their prey, The pilchard, herring, and the bunker-shoals Forever and forever in the tides. When smooth are seas, with scarce a crest of foam, Your schools in vast collected herds are seen Leaping the waters, all in mad pursuit Of mackerel and salmon o er the deep. Like packs of hungry hounds that hunt the hare They gather round and swim from bay to bay, Encircling with their fatal ring the prey. There their vast numbers darken all the wave, Ki-ing ofttimes to breathe the upper air, But when a tempest roughens the blue deep, They roll and tumble in their antic sport, For then no fish may tempt, for in the depths Their frighten d prey seek refuges unseen. In ancient years the poets sang in verse, Their fabled legends of the dolphin tribe, Reciting their true love for humankind. They sang that in all terrors of the main, When the poor seamen were in shipwreck toss d, The loving dolphins to their rescue came, 224 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And bore the drowning victims safe to shore ; And came to rescue when a hapless crew Were cast by ruthless pirates in the deep ; And ever when a youthful swimmer sank In the death gasp, the dolphin gave him help, Bearing him up and bringing safe to shore. Those painters and great sculptors of old time Drew his lithe form in carv d fantastic shape, Bent like a bow, o erleaping the salt wave. Those poets fabled that in dying throes The dolphin utters a sad, piteous moan Like that of human being as he dies. But in these later years, the mariners Dread the dark omen that their presence gives, For when they see their sports, their gambollings, They quick interpret them as signs of storm. Warnings of shipwreck and impending death! CARP AND TENCH ON THE TABLE. (Cyprinus carpo.) A H, those were jolly days of old, When feudal earl and baron bold, And princely guest of high degree, Vassal and serf and henchman free, Assembled at the chieftain s call To banquet in baronial hall! The tocsin-sound from battlement O er hill and dale and wood was sent; The banner d turret call d to arms, The castle bell rang out alarms, That all should gather at the board Ere they should brandish spear and sword. The liveried servitors would place The boar-head slaughter d in the chase, Set venison-haunch on silver plate, Bring great sirloin in pomp of state, Bear flagons of the frothy ale, Bring creamy mead-bowls to regale, CARP ANE TENCH ON THE TABLE. 225 Bring blood-red juices of the vine, The ripe, the old, the rosy wine; But chief of all, on mighty dish, Was phic d the carp, the prince of fish. Right well did dainty churchmen know To rear fat beeves, rare fruits to grow, To breed in convent moat and trench The bulky carp, the luscious tench; To fill their ponds with pike and dace, And all the wealth of finny race. At matin hour, at vesper chime, And at the mid-day feasting time, How pleasant at the festive board, Where capons smok d and wine was pour d, The brown-bak -d dish of carp to share, The epicure s delicious fare; Good trenchermen, I ween, were they, Ready to gormandize or pray, To patter prayer or tell the bead, Or riot in luxurious feed. A stalwart race, those monks of old, Of wondrous bulk, of mighty mould. When sumptuous board was duly spread, The portly abbot at its head, Boasting for guest the mitred priest, Or learned prelate at the feast, Would grandly bid, in accents sharp, The serving-men bring in the carp. Ah, hooded monk and cowled friar, Carousing by the blazing fire, And feeding on all viands rare, A delicate, delicious fare; Draining the cup of brimming ale, Your thirsty palates to regale, How grand your .slate in priest 1) stall, In peasant s hut, or noble s hall! Ah, little of such joys remain For you, in England s modern reign! 15 226 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. THE LITTLE SUNFISH OF THE BROOK. T REMEMBER those gay dawnings when life was fresh and new, The rising mist above the vale, the skies of heavenly blue, The old embowering groves kiss d by the new-born day, The dew-wet twinkling grass, the wayside wild-flowers gay. I remember the footpath that to the brooklet led, The hazel-copse that o er the lane a leafy arbor spread ; The meadows rolling far their billowy waves of green, The upland pasture-lands, the valleys so serene, And dearest spot, the little brook that runs so wild a race, Its pebbles white, its yellow sand, its merry, dimpled face. And here my little hazel rod was swinging above the brook, The line was cast in rippling whirl or in the shaded nook ; For here the spangled sun-fish were tenants of the pool, Now darting singly in their play, now swarming in a school. It may be that the angler, equipped with tackle fine, With silver reel and bamboo rod, and woven-silkeu line, Who takes the springing trout and sea bass by the score ; Or brings to gaff the salmon, along the ocean shore, Hath joy ineffable, and vast success to boast, At Adirondack lakes, or Labrador s pale coast. But never may his victories, at brook or salty tide, Yield joy like that of boyhood, such glory and such pride, Such transports as enchant him, beside the woodland stream, His spoil the little sunfish, his pride the yellow bream. Ah, never was such glory, such ecstacy of bliss, Or such delirious rapture, such triumphant spoil as this ! When all the grass was spangled, with finny leaping gems, Gems strung like precious rubies, on supple willow stems. They say, my little friend, that the ripple of the stream, With thy vermillion beauty, may no longer gleam. That the golden yellow sides, that shine like sunset glow, Or the colors intermingled in the showery rainbow, May never more be seen where the crystal waters glide, The clear, pellucid waters that o er the shallows slide. They say thou art a pirate, a brigand that doth slay The eggs and young of choicer fish that in the waters play; I know not if such charges for outlawry be true, But none the less my sympathies shall ever be with you. THE HERRING AND PILCHARD. 227 THE HERRING AND PILCHARD. (Clupea Pilcfamlus.) COUNTLESS your squadrons, nuinbcrlcss as the stars, That sow with light the spaces of the skies, Countless as sands that pave the ocean beach, Vc migratory wanderers of the seas! Your native homes lie in the Arctic North, Where icy currents chafe the rocky coasts lu waters inaccessible, so fring d with ice. And here secure from man and tinny foes, The lin-llsli and the chacalot, ye roam, And here mid pastures of the insect food, Ye feed till your great legions fill the seas, And then like swarming bees ye thence migrate. Then your vast colonies from Northern realms, Depart to seek the southern billows of the main, Ah! then what fate awaits ye, what fierce foes! Fin-fish and grampus, porpoise and the shark Make ye their easy prey; while hungry flocks Of sea-fowl hover o er your devious track. As on your great shoals pass, insatiate foes, Tigers of ocean tides surround your schools, Until they separate like frightened sheep; Some passing thick by European coasts, Some crossing the Atlantic till they swarm Around thy continent, America, To seek in Chesapeake their last retreat; So thirk they move the ocean seems alive, And black with their exhaustless multitudes; Yet here the porpoise and the shark pursue, Reddening the currents, while the fowl devour. Soon by the Shetland Isles in April time, They come, but not till June their swarming hosts Collect, still ravag d by the gull and hawk. They pass in files distinct, long leagues in length, Now lost in deep abysses of the sea, Now rising to the surface, to reflect Their twinkling, splendid colorings, POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Like fields bespangled with the flowers of gold, They spread along the stormy Norway shores, By German coasts, and northern reefs of France. And thence with shoals depleted they return, To seek their native haunts in Arctic seas. THE DIVIDED STREAM. (^)N this green, grassy valley-slope The river stream divides ; It is the first departing point Where the pellucid tides, So long commingled in one stream, Flow in two channels swift and deep, Each destined, in its shade or gleam, In different route to sweep. And distant far shall be each course Until they reach the sea; One passing thro green valleys, In shades of forest tree; Mid garden blooms and orchards, Cornfield, and sylvan home, A placid stream, where finny tribes Sparkle, and leap, and roam. The other stream seeks barren lands, And sterile pastures grim, Pours in white torrents over rocks, Plunges in caverns dim; No life along its border stirs, No angler s step is there, For spotted trout and leaping pike Are absent everywhere. So, "friend beloved, we separate, No more on earth to meet, One guided by a happy fate, Where life is calm and sweet ; The other in rough tempests hurl d, Mid madding tumults of the world. SK.\-\V.\TI:K VERSUS n;i>ii w ATI:K HHIIN<,. IlIVAL PLEASURES OF SEA-WATER AND FRESH WATER FISHING. (~)H, how pleasant to stand at the water-side When the soft south wind blows o er the tide! At bend of river where willows droop Their trailing branches, a lovely group! With belt of trees on either bank, Where sedge and osiers grow green and rank; Broad meadows sloping to each brink W lii-re browsing cattle stoop to drink, The air all musical with the bi The song of birds, the hum of bees, With the lulling sound the ripples make As over the shallow reef they break, The muffled voice of the waterfall Where it pours o er the mill-dam s stony wall; Ah, these are sights and sounds that till The angler s bosom with a thrill; As he casts his line, what perfect bliss! Earth hath no paradise like this. Then, too, to him what rare delight To follow the trout-brook in its tlight, Now rippling, eddying on its way, Gleaming, rejoicing in light of day, Where it runs thro the pasture s open space Gliding at will in gleeful race; Now stealing into the densest shade By the o erleaning alders made, Now wheeling around some sunken root, With arrowy speed and sudden shoot, And here is the angler s joy supreme, Enriched with the treasures of the stream! And yet the fisher s steps explore With equal joy the salt sea shore, Skims in his yacht the breezy bay, Where schools of the leaping blucfish play; 230 POEMS OF THE ROD A^D GOT. Stemming the boiling tides with prow That cleaves the billows like the plow; And here he casts the humming line To snatch the weakfish from the brine. Off where the tumbling billows roar, Afar from ledge or bar of shore, He drops his anchor, casts his bait, The snap, the nibble to await; And soon the flapping spoil is won, The sea bass blue, the blackfish dun, And thinks no joys may rival these The angling pastimes of the seas. Yes, bliss ecstatic will fill the heart Of angler in all his varied art, Whether he tracks the woodland brooks With silken tackle and featker d hooks, Seeking in depths of pond or lake The tenants of those haunts to take, Or dropping in the sea his line To lure the fish-schools of the brine ; Finding forever joy in woods, Forever joy in ocean floods. THE CREVALLE FISH OF FLORIDA. [Illustrated in The Fishes of the East Atlantic Coast.} "VTtTHERE thy streams, Florida, wander in their wilful route, Rippled with eddies, and with riffles bright The angler follows the erratic way, Taking supreme delight. All nature with enchantments thrills his mind, Woods, waters, meads and wildernesses green, All rarest flowers their garlands intertwine In that Elysian scene. IIII- < IM VALLE FISH OF FLORIDA. 231 Anglers of north thro ice cold waters wade. Struggling their way thn> brier, swamp and weed, Thick bushes vexing with entangling grasp, His pleasures to impede, While ropes of vines and overhanging boughs Arrest his rod and snap his line in twain, While gusty bree/.es, with their Arctic breath, Benumb the heart and brain. Here in thy sunny realm. O Florida, The open streams allure the angler s tread, Open save where the orange opes its bloom, Or water oaks droop overhead. And sweet magnolias spread; by the grassy brink of river shore, Or by the sandy beach that hems the sea, Inhaling draughts of purest atmosphere He wanders glad and free. Here off the shores the tarpums love to bask. Or skim the surges in their wilful sweep. Grouper and jew-lish, pompano, spot and drum, Rare tenants of the deep. And where gay flowers enamel all the shore The swift crevalle swim in flashing school, Fast by Mosquito Inlet, Indian Stream, Where flow the currents cool. The mullet and menhaden they pursue, Strewing the sands with wealth of captive prey. Where the brown pelicans may fill their pouch And sea-birds join the fray. Swift speed crevalle o er that watery plain. Swift over Indian Hiver s broad expanse, Swift where the ripples boil with fumy hosts, Bright glittering they glance; And where the angler s spoon is o er them cast How fierce, how vigorous the fight for life! Now in the deeps they plunge, now leap in air, Till ends th unequal strife. 232 POEMS OF THE ROD A^D GOT. THE LAST CAST. A PILE of gold a precious hoard Gleams on the green cloth of the board; A wealth that might buy house and land, Gain every luxury at command. A gambler with delirious haste His final, fateful card doth cast, And wins the treasure at the last. A boat across the ocean blue Is drifting with a shipwreck d crew. O erloaded, it must meet its fate, Unless reliev d of human weight. So dice are thrown for blank or prize, And he that casts the least throw, dies. The loser his last chance hath thrown, And is cast overboard to drown. A hunter over Afric s space Meets a grim lion, face to face: With frantic haste he speeds the ball Aim true, or death must sure befall ; The aim is true the monster dies, The latest bullet wins the prize. An angler by a mountain brook Ties on his final feathered hook. A big trout, rich with spotted sides, The dimpled rivulet divides, The open season ends to-day, This his last chance for finny prey; Breathless he makes his anxious cast, Secures his rich prize and his last. A fisher on Superior s Lake With but one bait the spoil to take; A noble bass of wondrous size Dashes to seize the luring prize. That creature of the rainbow fins Is captive, and the last cast wins. The waves run cold, the seas frown bleak, The fish-tribes sunnier pastures seek; Till: i:l.A< K 1 1 II I M. The seiners gather ;it tlio main To run the long extended seine; One only glittering school is there To tempt the meshes of the snare; With toil of arm and tug of oar, The hist cast heaps with wealth the shore. THE 1JLACK DRUM. (Pot/on ian cJiromb.) "The drum is the largest fish caught with hook and line that visits the Eastern COtft. Ifeta <>f(h, /, ,/>/ Atlantic (\m*t. T^ARdown in the South, where big cotton And fragrant magnolias nod their green crests, And with scents aromatic perfume the air, In fair Florida, where in wood colonnades The song-birds their melodies, flute-like, unite, Is an Eden of light, eternal in bloom, There hasten, dear angler, their transports to taste! Tis a realm of enchantment, luxuriant with life, So fair with its woods, the rivers, the meads, Whore birds, given as leaves and scarlet as flowers, Enameled like gems, fly swift overhead; Where the groat crowns of cocoa-nuts tower in air And bananas display Ihoir low-drooping Hags, Where each orchid and leaf and frill of the fern Bright glitter, and fire flies bla/e thro the shades. And the frondage, snow-white, of arooa palm-trees, Like fountains gleam out in the light of the moon. And there in the salty lagoons and the bays, Or where the sea-surges break white on the shore, The angler for bronze-tinted drum casts the line And triumphs at will by strength, tackle and skill; He is happy his fingerlings, troutings to leave, And gather in South a mightier pri/.e. At the influx of tide, drums drift in from sea In search of Crustacea, the mollusks of sand. From Florida borders to far up the coast, At inlets of Jersey, at Ciittyhunk rocks; 234 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And in Chesapeake Bay their numbers prevail, Where anglers and spearmen are earnest to take The black-drum, the red-drum, wherever they roam. Their murmurs, their drumming, are heard in the deeps, Like the dull, muffled roll of the bandsman s reveille. Is it then a drum- warning to worlds of the sea, Or a musical welcome to haste to the feast? Ah, firm be your arm when a forty-pound drum Has snapt at your bait in the flow of the tide; He is full of the rush and the vigor of life, With muscles inured to the combat with seas; O angler, take heed lest he rush to the roots Of the mangroves below, where his castle he holds. FLORIDA SCENES AND SPORTS. "Nowhere in our broad country can the angler find greater variety of game, or more or better sport than on the coasts of Florida." S. C. CLARKE, in "The Fishes of the East Atlantic Coast. 1 TTERE in my Northern home I love to muse, Fair Florida, on all thy sumptuous scenes; In fancy tread savannas that engird, With flowery circles, thy embowering woods; Walk neath a vaulted roof of smilax wreaths, Thro dense lianas that entangle feet, To pluck th hydrangea s rosy-tinted tufts, The dahlias, asters, and the starry flox. The fairest plants that in our garden grow, Spontaneous here from Nature s urn they pour, Water d by dews, by tropic sunbeams warm d. Here is the sportsman s paradise, the realm Of fowler s triumphs and the angler s joy, Where screaming wild-fowl o er the marshes speed, Or swarm by sea-beach or the salt lagoon, Where in the currents by the mangrove-isles Swim gamey fishes, dear to angler s heart. Here wolf and wild-cat and the prowling bear The thick fastnesses of the waste invade, FLOKIDA BOBKBfl AN D SPORTS, 235 In coppice dense the stately turkey stalks The russet quail o er open stubbles flies, And by the sandy beach or lonely marsh The curlews whistle, golden plover call, And every salt lagoon and bend of stream Re-echoes quack of duck, or honk of goose, ( )r hoarse, discordant clamor of the swan, While by the shores the red flamingoes move, Or silent stand like sentinels on guard. Ah! gentle angler, how profuse the spoil That fills the river deeps, the channel tk Haste with thy tackle and the pliant rod, To cast thy luring fly, thy mullet bait. Thick by the mangrove-isles the black drum bask, Thick by the grassy shore cavalle swim, Thick neath the glossy leaves of water-oak The channel-bass, the tarpum and the spot Flash thro the tides, or sportive leap in air. The naturalist here walks in thoughtful mood, His heart responsive throbbing with the joy; The angler with ineffable delight Beholds each form and hue of nature s gifts, Insect and bird, and floral offerings. He stops to hear the insects murmurous hum, Or watch some basking reptile as he clings To the tree-bark, a li/ard many-hued; He notes wing d creatures hovering o er the flower, Quivering and balauc d, winnowing their wings, Like color d flowerets blossomed on the stalk, While flowers themselves like living insects seem. He sees the gay-hued snakes like ribbons twine, Coil d in green nooks, and serpents beautiful, That glittering slide and vanish from the sight; Brown squirrels frisk and peep among the boughs, While cooing doves and distant parrot cries Fill with soft sounds the spaces of the air. Such the fair scenes the sportsman-tourist views, That thrill with glad surprise the angler s heart. 23G POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUX. THE MANGROVE SNAPPER. A FAR o er Florida s fair, flowery lands Wanders the angler; now by verdurous brink Of river by the drooping forests fring d, All sown with lovely isles of emerald green. He tracks the stream to its far fountain-heads, Where, but a slender brook, o er purple stones It tumbles, rippling on its jocund way; Then with a fuller tide, thro tangled swamps It foams with spray, like breakers on a bar. Anon he journeys over rolling plains, Enamell d thick with bright convolvuli, Lilies and plants of most surpassing bloom, A sumptuous garden sown by Nature s hand. Anon he roams by Halifax s banks, Where foam and toss thro woods the rushing stream A fair stream border d with savannas vast, Where the free breezes blow thro russet grass, Stirring the long, white plumes of Spanish moss, And scarlet tufts of the wild calabash, Until those zephyrs sleep in drowsy calm. In Indian River, or by Spruce Creek shore, Anchor d in boat he casts his tackle fine To take the snapper in its secret haunts. F;ir be his cast beyond his rocking boat, Far o er deep channels near the hidden snags, To lure this shyest, craftiest of fish; Strong be the tackle, for the saw-like teeth Will cut your silk-worm gut like razor edge, And firm the hand the snapper to beguile From submerg d roots, else hook and fish are lost, For swift it rushes for its secret hole, And fights and struggles hard while life remains. Tis a fair fish, with colors amber-brown, Ilhim d with brilliant tints of golden hue, Arm d with sharp spines upon the dorsal fin, And wide mouth garnish d with destructive teeth, Tin: i;r.h BBOUPEB OP FLORIDA. 231 Eyes large and bright, with iris golden- lined, Kyes keen for nightly feed ;ind darksome days. It is no hermit fish, to swim alone, The solitary tenant of the stream, But in vast numbers they collect their ranks, And throng the deep recesses of the stream; And there the fishers come with meshing seine; And with the cast-net capture all the school. THE RED GROUPER OF FLORIDA. (k pinepMus morio}. "The rod tMirr loses half the number of groupers that he hooks. I think I have never been able to kill on a rod a grouper over five pounds in weight. I have hooked many larger ones, but they always got the belter of me." S. C. CLARKE, in The Irishes of the Kant Atlantic C oast. L \\IK, smiling Florida, though gun of mine Hath ne er resounded in your drooping woods, Though rod of mine hath ne er made hopeful cast To take thy grouper or thy channel bass, Yet still I love to muse and dream of thee, And picture in my mind thy lovely scenes, In fancy walk beneath primeval shades, Low island groves that seem to lloat the waves, White Cedar trees with buttresses grotesque, Whose tops aerial hold the eagle nests, Neath grand magnolias with their flowery crowns, And silvery columns of the papaw fig. Here the wax myrtles shake their glossy leaves, The kalmias and azaleas, interlaced With purple passion flowers, in gay festoons, And lithe clitonas in dim alcoves group d; There in deep vales spread coppices of pine, Dim woodland paths, blue with the violet blooms, And moist brook borders, glossy with the fern ; Where skies are soft above in tint and tone, From clearest amber-flush to heavenly blue. In salt lagoon, in reaches of the stream Mosquito Inlet, Indian River tides. 238 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. The angler casts his line or drops his spoon For shy cavalle or the channel bass, For giant tarpum or the noble drum, Or by the mangrove islands, in whose creeks And deep abysses lurk the grouper schools. "Pis a big fish with spines on dorsal fin, Mottled like tortoise-shell, with blended hues, A fish voracious, that doth make its haunt Amid the sunken roots of mangrove trees, And thither when the hook is fix d in jaw He runs for shelter to his castle-hold. Firm be the hand to check his downward plunge, For tis a trial between man and fish, Twixt braided tackle and resisting strength, And oft the grouper wins the desperate fight! THE TARPUM OF FLORIDA. (Megalops thrissoides.) Q SILVER-SIDED fish the king Of all that swim the southern sea, The skilful angler s vaunted art Too oft is triumph d o er by thee, For naught avails his deadliest hook, His trolling spoon, his braided line, His manly strength, his Conroy rod, To drag thee vanquish d from the brine ! Off rocky reef and sandy cape, Of Florida s low-lying coast, These silver kings the surges haunt, A brilliant, dashing, leaping host. To take the salmon is an ode, An idyl brook trout to beguile, But tragic poem tis to kill The tarpum of the southern isle. At Homosassa s river head, At Indian River, by the main, The spearmen in their shallops lie, To stab thee with the barbed grain. i ii i: r.oNiTO. 239 III shallow reaches of the stream Where thick subnn -ses grow They iiather, but the hostile boat Drives them where deeper currents flow; Then with impetuous rush they speed, They skim the waves, they leap in air, Their silvery sides are swift and bright As the chain-lightning glare. By the calm shores, where orange fruits And brown bananas shade the tide, And flowers embroider with their bloom The grassy meads at water side, These gorgeous fish, with ivory scales, Matchless in strength, supreme in speed, In salt lagoon or curving bay, Rapacious, on their victims feed. O, brother anglers, who have won Your trophies on the northern coast, Kill d salmon of the Labrador, Or striped bass, your noblest boast, Haste hither to Floridian tides, Haste with your choicest rod and reel To match the tarpum with your skill, A champion worthy of your steel. Till; BONITO. (//</ r.-l.tmys.) | X all the warmer waters of the world, The skip-jacks swarming shoals are seen, Where the Sardinian Islands rest In Mediterranean tides serene, And where the tumbling billows pour, Along America s southern shore ; While dense by rocky northern coast, Wanders the countless host. 240 POEMS OF THE EOD AND GUN. Their form symmetric, their sharp fins, Proclaim their wondrous, matchless speed; While their white row of vicious teeth, Are terrors wheresoe er they feed. Like birds of passage, they pursue O er thousand leagues of sea their way, Revisiting each well-known shore Where their great schools were wont to play What power directs them thro the seas, Impels their myriad hosts to roam, Prompts to forsake for years a shore, Then leads them to their ancient home? We ask the question all in vain, For skill d philosophy may not explain. In August season, where the seas Are brightened by the finny host, When the menhaden shoals abound And weakfish haunt the coast, Then come the leaping bluefish schools, The Spanish mackerel, keen for food, The porpoise, the bouito swift, Relentless robbers of the flood. The ocean angler in his yacht, Hovers about like bird of prey, Guides the true helm and trims the sail, And thro them ploughs a foamy way; Then casts his glittering trolling bait, And lures bonito to his fate. Up thy vast stretch, Long Island Sound, Bonitos flash in sportive play; They cluster in the sunken reef, They gather in the salty bay, They seize menhaden as they fly, They persecute all lesser fry, And in their turn fall helpless prize, To the black shark a sacrifice. THE FLYING-FISH. 241 THE FLYING FISH. (Keoeastus rolitans.) TN Indian Ocean, or in seas That dash their billows upon tropic isles, AY he re the perennial, soft summer time Around the shelly beaches smiles, The myriad tenants of the surges sweep, Haunting the salty deep. There the fierce cachalot and shark, And fiercer yet dorado of the seas, Gorgeous, enamell d rich with silver scales, Unite in ocean voyages. Dorado, ruthless pirate of the wave, Wages its war with all the finny race, Now fleeing from its more gigantic foes, Now seeking weaker victims in its chase. And chief the little flying fish its prey Swimming in glittering schools across the main; Then swift in race, pursuers and pursued Cut the blue surface of the watery plain. Dorado, swift as Indian shaft, pursues, The flying fish with equal swiftness flee, Till wearied out by their relentless foe They leap the waves and flutter o er the sea, Skimming the wave, like birds, they speed their way, Then drop, wing-weary, helpless in the spray; Dorado still pursues again, again they rise, Only to sink at last, a helpless prey. Still other foes these winged victims meet When skimming the blue wave in panic fright ; The albatross and tropic-bird pursue, And with strong talons seize them in their flight. For them no refuge in the sea remains, No sure escape when fluttering in the air, The cruel fish below, the savage bird above, Prey on their shoals and find delicious fare. The hunted hare may oft escape its foes, But the poor fly ing- fish no refuge knows. 16 242 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. THE POMPANO OF FLORIDA. (Tracliynotus carolinus.) " The pompano is to a gourmand worth a journey to the Gulf Coast." 8. C. CLARKE in Fishes of the Atlantic Coast. O WEET Southern airs and flowery blooms Of the magnolia s rare perfumes, The breath of rose, the violet s scent, In one commingled sweetness blent, Delight me as I muse of thee, Fair Florida, far down the sea. Musing, I seem to tread thy glades, The vistas of thy wood-arcades, Where golden globes of oranges Enrich perennial-flowering trees; And the pineapple s ruddy cone Gleams in the thorny thicket s zone. I seem to track the rivulet s course Far up its tangled journey s source, To follow it o er grassy meads, Amid the jungles and the reeds, To meet it where it joins its tide To spreading bay or river wide, And take the grouper, trout or bass From ripples crystal-clear as glass. But chief the triumph of my line To take pompano from the brine, The richest prize the angler knows Where ocean rolls or river flows. A fish with frosted silver deck d, With blue, resplendent colors fleck d, Flavor d more richly than all schools That haunt the shallows and the pools. A bottom-fish, its sumptuous fare Crustacea and the mollusk rare, Rich food that makes the sheepshead fish To epicure a matchless dish! Salmon of sea and trout of brook, Fair captive of the angler s hook, No daintier delicacies boast Than the pompano ofjfte coast. ANGLING. 243 ANGLING. rosy morning blushes in the skies, Illuminating with its beam the glooms, It bids the angler from his couch arise And taste the dewy landscape s soft perfumes. The sun peeps gayly o er the eastern hill, His level shafts shoot brightly down the air; They glance athwart the ripples of the rill, They gleam across the uplands bleak and bare. They glisten o er the foliage and the grass, They touch the dews, and diamond sparks are shown O er all the scene, gems clear as crystal glass Shine out like jewels in a princess zone. Let the dull sluggard rest in slothful dream; For him the dawning hath no charm to please, Nor song of bird, nor murmur of the stream, Or gentle rustle of o erleaning trees. But the blithe angler hastens down the way, His heart tumultuous with a throbbing joy, For hhn all Nature hath a music gay A soft enchantment free from all alloy. He seeks the merry brook or brimming lake, Rejoic d along their grassy banks to roam, He sees with rapture where the brook trout break Or whirl where rise the bubbles of the foam. Beneath some mossy log that spans the brook He knows some greedy monster lurking hides; He swings the slender rod, he casts the hook, And quick the gasping victim shows its sides. Or haply where the salt tides of the bay Tumultuous thro the rocky inlet pours, He takes the squeteague or his bluefish prey, Or bulky sheepshead by the shelly shores. 244 POEMS OF THE KOD AND GUST. Or in his little skiff, far off the land, Anchor d o er sunken rock or sandy shoal, He takes the sea bass with his pliant wand, Or the blue mackerel where the billows roll. Ah! who may tell the pleasant thoughts that fill His mind, entranced by Nature s happiest mood, When all of earth and air are peaceful still; No jarring sound to break the solitude? Come forth, pale student, from thy wasting toil, Come forth from warehouse and from heated street, Come forth to joys where frothing billows boil, Or where the woodland shades o er rivers meet. THE BLUEFISH. (Pomatomus Saltatrix.) TT is a brave, a royal sport, Trolling for bluefish o er the seas; Fair skies and soaring gulls above, A steady blowing breeze ; A shapely yacht whose foaming prow The billowy plain divides, That like a gallant courser speeds Far, free o er ocean tides. First from West India seas they came, Haunting the Cuban coast, Cruel as Spanish buccaneers, A fierce, rapacious host. But now by Northern seaboard shores Their murderous way they take, From Mexic Gulf to Labrador, Wherever billows break. The weaker tenants of the main Flee from their rage in vain, The vast menhaden multitudes They massacre o er the flood ; With lashing tail, with snapping teeth They stain the tides with blood. THE HADDOCK FISHERS. 245 Rakish arc they, like pirate craft, All matchless to assail, With graceful, shapely, rounded sides And the sharp, forked tail; And when the angler s hook is fixed They light, they struggling bleed, Now leaping high, now plunging deep, Darting with lightning speed. And yet these sea marauders, These tyrants of the main, By fiercer, mightier ruffians Are hunted, conquered, slain; The tumbling porpoise hunts them, Dorado fierce pursues, And when the shark assaileth, Blood-stains the waves suffuse. THE HADDOCK FISHERS. (Morrliua JZglifinus.) The haddock is a more tasty fish than the codfish and is usually smoked before being brought to market. VAN DORNE in Fislies of the East Atlantic Coast. (~}FF the grand bank of Newfoundland Amid the drifting fogs and rain, Now weltering in the drowsy calm, Now tossing in mad hurricane. Amid the sleety snows and hail, Wrestling with billow and with gale, The humble fishing schooner rides, The sport, the plaything of the tides. Hold fast, good anchor, fathoms down, Cable and hawser steadfast hold, Or helpless else the drifting wreck Beneath the surges shall be roll d. Never again the gallant crew To home, to native land may sail, Where weeping wife and wailing child For years the absent shall bewail. 246 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Off Cape Cod s level, sandy shore The fisher s ply their toilful work, The cod and halibut their prey, The haddocks in the deeps that lurk. Chief in the winter stormy time They sweep the seas, they drop the kedge, Then cast their little dories out, To anchor over bar and ledge ; And oft, too oft, these frailest boats Mid shifting fogs and mists are lost ; Whelm d neath some ocean steamer s prow, Or gainst a floating iceberg tost. The great ship hurries on its way, It hears no agonizing cry ; The grinding floes, the wallowing bergs O er whelm them as they thunder by. Ah ! mariners, sailing the salt seas, In hurricane, in typhoon-gale, While raves the wild, remorseless breeze Thro straining shroud and close-reef d sail, How oft will ye that day recall, That calm, sweet day, so pure, so bright, That saw your vessel seaward turn, Departing for its ocean flight; Recall the old gray roof of home, The simple church with steeple crown d, The fields, the orchards and the grove, The bowery village that surround ; And chief that dear, beloved group Assembled on the grassy shore, Waving a last and long farewell To those who may return no more. THE STRIPED BASS. 247 THE STRIPED BASS. (Roccus Lineatus.) The taking of the striped bass is what the salt-water fisherman claims the right of terming the high- water mark of all angling. VAN DORNE in The Fishes of the East Atlantic Coast. TN all the world no stretch of coast So teems with fish-life as our own; From tepid tides of Florida To where the northern shores are strown With boulder grim and jagged rock, A rampart to the billows shock, Where icy currents sweep the Banks Or wash the shores of Labrador, These finny myriads swarm the seas And feed by every shore, And noblest, bravest of the race The striped bass holds foremost place. Tis perfect in its valorous strength In the Sound s swiftly pouring tides, In Hell Gate mill-race, or mid reefs That hem Long Island s ocean side; Off gray Montauk, Block Island bluffs, By Martha s Vineyard s rocky shore, Or where at Cuttyhunk, Pasque Isle, The tumbling torrents roar. There in great deeps of ocean floods Where narrow, rock-strewn channels sweep, The strip d bass hold their paradise, Unrivall d roamers of the deep. There the surf-fisher casts the bait, There the scaled warrior meets his fate, Where matchless skill and tackle fine Conquer those heroes of the brine. Strong be the line and firm the hand To drag such champion to the strand. Pois d on the rock s extremest verge The angler like a sentry shows, Swings the lithe rod and whirls the bait Seaward where frothy billow flows; 248 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. Then comes the strike the splendid fish, Full of the rush and dash of waves, His muscles trained by many a shock And battle in deep ocean-caves, Makes fiercer fight while life remain Than bravest ranger of the main. SPANISH MACKEREL. J^OVELIEST of all the tribes that swim The ocean s salty tides, The Spanish mackerel sweeps the seas, And like a meteor glides; It speeds far off the harbor-bar, Where tides are cool and deep, Shunning the shoals that skirt the shore, Where the swift bluefish leap. The tenants of the brook and lake In glories ne er compare With these gay rovers of the main, Painted with colorings rare. Pompano bright with yellow gold, Strip d bass of snowy sheen, The drumfish blazing with its red, Bonito splash d with blue and green, No rivals have in inland stream, No peers with such bright gleam. Symmetric with its rounded form. Model of speed and grace, No fairer seafish skims the wave Or swifter darts in race. Its sides are azure as the skies, Beneath melt tender blues, While golden spots of virgin gold The shapely forms suffuse. SPANISH MACKETIKI,. 249 It is a nomad of the deep, A pilgrim, migratory host, In Mediterranean tides first seen, Now known on every coast. Off Carolina s reefs they sweep, Off Burnegat s sand bar; In Sound and Gulf of Northern shore, They gather fast and fur ; And yachtsmen o er the billows blue Their plunging multitudes pursue. When sounds the gong of grand hotel, And spread is sumptuous board Rich with the spoils of sea and land, Where wit and wine profuse are pour d, Where smokes the lordly, crisp sirloin, Brown haunch of venison too, The canvasback of Chesapeake, Salmon from surges blue, The gourmand finds no daintier dish Than this delicious mackerel fish. MISCELLANEOUS. We insert in conclusion a few pieces, selected from a large number of miscellaneous poems sufficient to fill another volume of equal size to this work. LONGFELLOW. T")EAR Longfellow, true sorrow fills my heart That thou, my life-long friend, hast pass d away, That in this mortal life thou hast no part, All dumb the poet s song, the lyrist s lay! And, lingering still I conjure up each scene When we were young, and all of life was new, When in the shades of Brunswick woodlands green Or college- walks, I wander d long with you. Twas in those haunts that first the flaming dart Of poesy divine sank deep into thy heart. Then first was swept thy sweet, immortal lyre, And the young minstrel s hand first struck the wire. That summer day serene I call to mind, When we our tributes to the dead Past paid, Numbering those gone, those who remain d behind, While at our feet thy happy children play d. Poet of nature! who so lov d to paint, Earth s fairest scenes the wind-swept hill, the plain, Heroic virtue and angelic saint, Arcadian haunts and Indian s wild domain. The flowing river, the majestic woods, The purpling skies : the lake s cerulean space, The tossing seas, the pouring forest-floods Ah! who may seek thy absence to replace! WILD HORSE OF THE PRAIRIES. 251 With reverential step we place thy dust In Nature s fairest scene, where trees may weave Their garlands o er thee, and sweet songs may burst From choiring birds at day-dawn and at eve. Far, wide for thee, there shall be sad lament In humble hut and in palatial dome; Thro Old World, and thro New, there shall be sent A sorrowful wail from every earthly home. NOTE. Our friendship with Longfellow commenced in our early college life and continued uninterrupted until the sad day of his death. His class in Bowdoiu College preceded that of our own by one year, and was famous in including Longfellow, Hawthorne, Cheever, and other distinguished scholars in its number. We have often met in friendly intercourse with him since our college days, and exchanged letters with him frequent ly; our latest letter from him being dated some three weeks be fore his death. In passing a week or two with us in Boston, he read to us the MS. sheets of his just -published work, viz., "Outre-Mer," and we assisted in finding a publisher for the volume. WILD HORSE OF THE PRAIRIES. other scenes their lights expand, Out in the savage western land, Where wildernesses lone and grand, Their awful glooms extend; Far where the Rocky Mounts upthrow Their pinnacles of rock and snow, White cones, whereon the sunset s glow, Its roseate hues doth blend. Around them, woods primeval press, Around them, pastures measureless, Waved by the idle wind s caress, Reach th horizon s edge. In dark ravine and gulch the bear And tiger-cat have made their lair, The bison range the meadows there, To browse the bending sedge. 252 POEMS OF THE ROD ANT) GUN. O er open plain, in leafy dell, In hollow vale, on upland swell, The wild steeds of the prairies dwell, Free as the mountain wind ; No iron bit or curb have they, No galling spur, no trappings gay, No rider to control their way, Their untam d limbs to bind. Free as the eagle cleaves through space, They curvet or they join in race, Fleeter than wild beasts of the chase, A vast unnumbered throng; They crop the dewy grass at will, In ice cold waters drink their fill, Scour the wild plain or sweep the hill, Unscarr d by whip or thong. Yet comes at times a yelling crew, The savage with his wild halloo, The painted Blackfoot or Sioux, All greedy for the spoil; It were a thrilling sight to see Those lawless riders fierce and free, Each swinging with a madden d glee, The lariat s twisting coil. On, on the frantic horsemen sweep, On, on the snorting wild steeds leap, Down flowery slope, o er wooded steep, Pursuers and pursued; Then far th unerring noose is thrown, The stately bay or lusty roan Fall captive, panting, with a groan, All vanquish d and subdued. II IK OCEAN YACHT RACE. 253 THE OCEAN YACHT RACE. A NOBLE sight is this, I ween, Fair panorama of the sea, The ocean white with crested foam To windward and to lee; Bright shines the day on Staten Isle, On woods of emerald green, On stately dome and villa roof, With field and lawn between. Long Island stretches east away, Engirdled with the brine; On sandy bar and weedy rock The glorious sunbeams shine. Full many a score of stately yachts Wide o er the sea are spread, Careening like white-pltimag d birds, On rushing pinions sped. Vast steamers bound for foreign laud, Their smoky banners raise; The flag of every nation Its blazon d field displays. The sounds of martial music From many a deck arise, Loud shouts of acclamation Swell grandly to the skies; From fortress wall and green parade Ring out the cannonade. Off Sandy Hook two stately yachts The broad arena sweep, While meteor flag and flag of stars To each tall masthead leap ; Each emulous to win the prize For speed in ocean race; To claim the palm of victory O er ocean s rolling space. 254 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. See how they matchless ride the seas, Like rush of desert steed, Graceful as swan on limpid lake, Swift as the eagle s speed. A cloud of canvas each displays From deck to topmast head, Jib, mainsail, spinnaker, In ample folds outspread. Onward, right onward see them fly, Cleaving the tumbling surge; A score of miles away the goal To which the champions urge. The mark is reach d, and homeward now On free wind turns each dashing prow. So ends the race, the first great race, Where Puritan holds foremost place ; But nobly in the watery way Genesta bore her flag that day ! Once more these yachts the challenge fling, Again on rushing wings they swing; From Scotland Lightship swift they bear, Each yacht a pyramid of snow, The white sails blossoming high in air, Balloon jibs all aglow! Yielding to pressure of the breeze, Thro the salt ocean sleet they dash, Plunging thro maelstrom of green waves, Through whirling foam they flash, Tis battle of the flight and chase, Pursuer and pursued ; The centreboard, the cutter race, Fought out o er ocean flood. Ah, Puritan hath won the prize! And cheers exultant rend the skies. ENGLISH RACES AND AMERICAN TRIUMPHS. 255 ENGLISH RACES AND AMERICAN TRIUMPHS. "OEJOICE for triumphs on the turf, For victories o er the ocean surf Far as the waves are tost ! Our shapely yachts have spread the sail, Have dared the tumults of the gale, The peltings of the snow and hail To anchor by the British coast. Our Sappho, Dauntless, and the brave, Swift Fleetwing, on the stormy wave, By Albion s cliffs and headlands bold, Have shown their matchless speed, while far Aloft, upon the topmast spar, Stream d out the starry fold ! Along those shores, one summer day, I low bright the white-wing d fleet s display, When England s yachtsmen dar d the world To meet them with the sails unfurl d In national sea race. Ah! then, America, how grand Thy triumphs in that foreign land! Taking the victor s place. Now, a more brilliant crown we claim, Won in historic fields of fame; Won on the English turf renown d; Won where French steeds by kings were crown d; At Epsom and Newmarket won From the best steeds that ever run ; Won where the Queen s cup was the prize; Blue Ribbon, dear to English eyes; Dear o er all English ground! For years untold the British steed, Of choicest blood, of rarest breed, Nurtur d by prince and peer, At Ascot, Derby s famous field, Had caus d all foreign rivals yield Yield in the race-career. 256 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And now from realms beyond the sea; From thy vast plains, America! From prairies broad, from pastures green, The steeds of Lorillard and Keene Meet on the British field. The English nobles as they lead Forth from the stall the prancing steed, Fear never prize to yield. Ah ! little dream they that at last Their miracles, so matchless fast, Shall yield the palm when Iroquois Shall lead the van in racing war, And glorious Foxall and Parole Shall foremost reach the victor s goal, And win the prize and wear the crown Of grand, illustrious renown. Look to your laurels! ye that sweep With stately yacht the ocean deep, Lest a new Madge shall bear away The Conqueror s Cup we hold to-day. THE RACES AT THE FASHION COURSE. T^ORTH in the broad arena s space, All harness d for the Champion race With eye of fire, with arching neck, Impatient of the rider s check; Beating with iron hoofs the ground; With swelling chest, and sinewy limb, Shapely as greyhound s and as slim Frantic and fired with shout and cheer, The brave horse chafes for the career! He is of royal stock and strain Of race illustrious on the plain; For centuries, his sires renown d, In many a laurell d field were crown d When in the tourney s guarded space Kings strove in combat or in race THE RACES AT THE FASHION COURSE. 257 When Saxon earl and Norman king, With levell d lance and broad-sword swing, Arm d to the teeth, strove in the ring. For ages o er Arabian wild, Nurtur d like warrior s petted child, He shar d the Arab s tent and bed, The Bedouin s goat-milk and the bread- Bearing the swarthy Sheik afar, In robber forays, or in war; Foremost to bleed where brandish d lance And scimetars in conflict glance. In many a long and weary day, When o er the desert s waste of gray, By palm groves or Saharas wan, As toil d the motley caravan; When all the tribes of Palestine And Egypt, march d in lengthen d line, Bound for fam d Mecca s holy shrine Then, far beyond the camel s train, Or dromedaries of the plain, Thy blooded sires the way would lead, Pre-eminent in strength and speed; And when the deadly simoon came, With choking blast and breath of flame, Overwhelming with the blinding sand The death-doom d loiterer of the band, Then swifter than sirocco s breath Swifter than A/rael s wings of death Thy tleet-limb d fathers safely bore Their riders the broad deserts o er! The signal sounds! Each glorious steed Launch d with the dazzling lightning speed, Starts forth to win the conqueror s meed. Patchen and Flora matchless pair- Contend, while plaudits rend the air. E en like the Indian arrow s flight From bended bow of peerless might, When feather d shaft is sped by hand Of stateliest warrior of the band, 17 258 POEMS OF THE ROD AND GTTNT. Swifter than shaft or bolt they glide In hot contention side by side A miracle of speed, that well Might task the wide world to excel. The race is o er. Tis hard to yield The palm to either in the field, For each a marvellous race has run, And each the victor s prize has won. Not yet may either champion reign Supreme upon the racer s plain. THE ARCTIC TRAGEDY. Captain DeLong and his heroic comrades died like Christian heroes, and their sufferings and heroism will ever cast a ray of glory over the dark and desolate pages of the Arctic exploration. little shipwrecked band, long tempest-tost, Stood shivering, hopeless, on the inclement coast, The frozen sea was white with drifted floes, The Arctic winter round them whirled its snows, A glittering plain of adamantine ice, I Crowned here and there with iceberg precipice ; O erhead a sky where angry tempests haste, And all around the illimitable waste! Such the drear spot in far Siberian land A lifeless, lone, inhospitable strand No bending woods to cheer the desert space, No friendly, sheltering roof the eye might trace, No voice of human life or human toil, No jocund carols where men till the soil; But all is desolate and dark and drear, A hopeless solitude, a place of fear. And here assembl d on that savage shore These shipwrecked men their wretched fate deplore; Perished with cold, and ghastly, grim and pale, They shrink and feebly shiver in the gale. Alas! poor, lost Jeannette! so fair to see, Built to defy the rage of stormiest sea. THE ARCTIC TRAGEDY. 259 Ah! little dreamed they that this northern blast Alight rend the solid sides and rive the mast. Ah then, with icy gyves and fetters bound, And mighty ice floes clasped the vessel round, It groaned, it trembled, as with throes of pain, Then sank from sight forever in the main! Were ne er in village church of native land, Were ne er in famed cathedral, dim and grand, Such heartfelt offerings s these rough men pay, To their Creator on that fatal day. Ah! there was little hope of happy life, Of glad return to kindred, home and wife; Ah! little hope for such delights as these To cheer these victims of relentless seas. All human help, all mortal aid seemed vain To warm the life-blood in each frozen vein. Famished with want, they still will conjure up The precious food, the generous flowing cup, And seemed to taste in fancy s dream once more The sumptuous feastings they had known of yore. Ala-! for them no more the fond caress, All the sweet joys of human tenderness, The fireside bliss, the dear, domestic group, The lamp-lit room, the festal, youthful troop, The village square, the city s crowded street, The cordial greetings from the friends you meet. Here on the shores of Lena s frozen flood, DeLong s sad crew with hearts despairing stood; Then rose the chief, and with a drooping head And swimming eyes the Sacred Service read; Then hands were clasp d, the farewell words they speak, For two must go for helpful aid to seek. They went, and rescue came, alas! too late, The little starving band had met their fate! 260 POEMS OF THE EOD AND GUN. GAYETIES OF NIGHT IN THE CITY. TT is eight "o clock of night, and the pallid frosty light Of the winter moon streams down on each thoroughfare and square, And the mantle of the snow, on roof and portico, Is gleaming, far and wide, in the gaslight s steady glare. The streets are all ablaze, in the avenue s thronging ways, And Broadway, with its lights, is dazzling to behold, So the people stay their tread, to behold the wonders spread In the windows, with their treasures of silks and gems and gold. See how the human tide pours through the portals wide, Where theatre and music-hall, with tempting shows invite; See how they endless pour thro the hospitable door Of grand saloon and great hotel, one flood of blazing light. The city clock strikes ten, and now the tides of men Are ebbing, ebbing fast, with fainter, fainter flow, But up a noble Square, there is flash and dazzling glare, Where grind of wheel and hoof of steel disturb the winter snow. A stately mansion, broad and high, illumes the dusky sky With spouting jets and blazing lamps and windows all aflame, For the grand ancestral hall is brilliant with the ball, With the glitter of gay dresses of damsel and of dame. The corridors and parlors are bright as in the day, With chandelier and lustre, and wax-lights red and white, Like grotto of the fairy-land when some enchanter s wand Fills all the crystal caverns with illumination bright. Around the gilded walls the streaming radiance falls On statues and on paintings, all miracles of art, The banquet hall is gay with bewildering display, And the rosy bloom of flowers pervades its every part. CHRISTMAS TIME. 261 What loveliness, what grace, what charms of form and face Entrance the sense, as o er the floor the whirling dancers flyl A sweet blonde here with golden hair and brow as lily fair, And there a gay brunette with eyes like stars of sky. Rare music with its chime, its melodies sublime Enchants the air, delights the ear, and speeds the dancers feet; The swift waltz swifter grows, and the polka faster flows And the mazes of the Lancers are evermore more fleet. So the rosy moments haste where youth and beauty taste The intoxicating draughts in pleasure s cup that swim, Until the streak of dawn, until the flush of morn Steal in to quench the lights and make the pageant dim. CHRISTMAS TIME. * rpHE year is well-nigh ended, the leaf is sere and brown ; The elm casts down its coronal, the oak its faded crown; Bleak thro the leafless copse-wood, bleak o er naked hill, The sharp December breezes blow desolate and shrill. Like birds of varied plumage those leaves fly round and round, Now whiiTd in dancing eddies, now settling to the ground; The road is hard like iron, the frozen stream like steel, And scarce doth show the impress of the gliding skater s heel. It is the time of Christmas, the merry Christmas time! Hark! how the bells are pealing the jocund Christmas chime; The church-walls wave with the branches of the hemlock and the pine, The Christmas-tree is burdeu d with gifts that on it shine. Merry it is in city, merry in village street, Merry where lonely farm-house sleeps in its calm retreat, For now is merry Christmas, and Christmas fires are lit, And close around the fireside the Christmas revellers sit. Long in the costly mansion, where wealth luxurious dwells The singer s tuneful music, delighteth with its swells; And many a blazing lustre and lamp of fretted gold, Shines o er the velvet couches, and drapery s damask fold; While swift the dancer s footstep the graceful measure treads, And pleasure crowns with garlands fair forms and lovely heads. POEMS OF THE KOD AND GUN. TO THE COMET OF 1882. TT^HITHER, O wanderer of the upper space, Dost tbou, thro regions of the empty air Still urge perpetual thy trackless race, Dost ever and forever onward fare? We see thy flaming meteor at night, When darkness first is touch d with daylight glow, When constellations pale their fading light, And morn s first beams the firmament o erflow. Thro all the lonely watches of night s gloom, Unseen, perhaps, by mortal eye, the way Thro million leagues of space thy sparks illume, Thy fiery banners their great folds display. The moon shines out when twilight hues grow dim. She fills her golden horn with light, and then Fadeth away, and is obscured again, Thro all her curved rim. But thou dost never pale thy flame, But steadily throughout the lapse of time Dost keep unswerving thy grand march sublime, Forever still the same. The planets in their orbits disappear, The twinkling stars haste on their cloudy path, The round red sun an endless journey hath, But mid them all thou travellest, year by year. But soon will telescopic science fail Thy fleeting, fading presence to discern ; To catch in midnight glooms, or daybreak pale, The place where all thy glimmering vapors burn. Yet ages hence, when all these living men Have pass d from memory in oblivion s dust, Thy flaming torch will reappear again, Thy bright effulgence on the world will burst. " SPRITE HALL." 263 "SPRITE HALL." AN ENGLISH SCENE. f)N mouldering battlement and wall The sparkles of the moonlight full; On leaning tower, and crumbling arch Assail d and storm d by ages march, On shatter d belfry, through whose bars Twinkle and wink the heavenly stars, On drawbridge sinking in the stream, Portcullis with its chain and beam, On castle ditch and fosse and moat, The solemn lights of evening float. It is a weird, forsaken place The relic of some vanish d race, On whom disaster, grief and death Have sigh d with desolating breath, Humbled the lofty head in woe, Genius and beauty levell d low, And laid the last heir in the gloom Of the decay d ancestral tomb. So as the dusty years have tied, And o er the proud oblivion spread, While the old masters of this spot Have vanish d in the dust, forgot, So have the years with wasting power Swept here o er princely dome and tower, Tumbling each turret to the ground A shapeless, grass-o ermantled mound ; On groined roof and cornice gay Hung out a weedy banner gray, And with the color d mosses strown The hearthstone and the threshold -stone. Pale moonlight through the ruin shines, Through ivies and the gadding vines, And through each broken casement pours Its checker d light across the floors. 264 POEMS OF THE KOD AND GUN. Its solemn broken gleam doth fall Within the vast baronial hall, Where long ago its noble lord In grandeur feasted at the board ; Its panels of the polish d oak, Its mighty rafters dark with smoke, Are mildew d now with canker d mould, Wreath d with the creeper s twisting fold ; And in each crypt and crevice there Wave weed and grass and wild-flowers fair. In the old time, from roof and beam The great war-banners proud would stream, Flags rent in many a battle-toil, Or trophies of the vanquish d spoil, Flags by those stout old barons borne, Their silken folds all glorious torn, Have moldered; on those rafters brave But wild-briers and the nettles wave! The Hall-gate with its iron rail O ercrowned with urns of marble pale, On broken hinge doth idly swing In every breeze that stirs its wing, And may no more wide open stand To welcome in the coming band. The garden, once so trim and fair, With flowery border, gay parterre, Neglected hath no bloom to show Where once the crimson rose would blow, But year by year doth cast the seed Of noxious thistle, tangled weed. Decay and solitude have made Their home in this forsaken shade! ALL S WELL. 265 ALL S WELL. TN their forest cump at night, Aweary with their toil, the hunters slept, And winds that thro the piny branches crept Seemed to whisper in their sweep: Sleep, drowsy dreamers, sleep; Your watch-fires fright away the beasts of chase, All harmless round your midnight camp they pace; The breezes whisper and the running streams, All, all is well; then peaceful be your dreams." lu the soldiers cump at night The outlying pickets make their watchful round; The sentry s ritle glitters in starlight; Intent he listens for each warning sound, Intent he paces by the shadowy wood, Intent he gazes o er the misty plain, Where sleeps the army with its warlike train, But hears no sound the silence to dispel, Then give the cheerful countersign " All s well! " In sick room of the fever d maid, at night The nurse keeps vigil by the sleeper s bed ; All dark the place, save for the flickering light By feeble, swinging watch-lamp shed; The anxious watcher sees a rosy glow Flush the sick maiden s check of snow; Angel of sleep hath cast its healthful spell, And so she grateful whispers " All is well! " In storm-tost sea at night, The sea-boy climbs the mast , And his gaze, from that dizzy, reeling height, O er the plunging sea is cast; He sees no perilous reef or bar, He sees the lighthouse friendly star, He hails the deck, glad news to tell, No danger all is well! " In the City Square at night The watchman paces on his lonely beat, He sees no conflagration-flame, No robber on the street; POEMS OF THE ROD AND GUN. And as the great Cathedral bell Tolls out the midnight s solemn time He mingles with its measur d chime The cry that " All is well! " By the angler s camp at night, Sleep sheds its drowsy influence down; There is no murmur in the foliage light In the oak-trees leafy crown; Yet a faint whisper o er the sleepers stirs Is it an angel s spell? Cast through the branches of the firs, Assuring "All is well." BURNING OF THE OLD (CONDEMNED) LINE -OF -BAT- TLE SHIP OHIO, AT GREENPORT, May 19th, 64. ~^D spar, no mast, no rigging left! Of all her panoply bereft, A helpless wreck this ship of fame, Lies here, a holocaust of flame! Dismantled ship and mournful wreck! No bristling cannon line thy deck; All thy grand armament of war, That erewhile thunder d loud and far, Have vanish d from each vacant port Once menacing like guarded fort; But ah ! these murky smokes that rise, These lurid flames that scorch the skies, Are not war s powder-smokes and flame, But rise from thy consuming frame! They curl above thee like a cloud, Enwrap thee as with sable shroud ; Soon will thy oaken ribs consume, The fabric perish in its doom. Thy peopled decks are empty now, No seamen cluster on thy prow, No sentries, statue-like, keep stand, With loaded musket grasp d in hand, BURNING OF THE LINE-OF-BATTLE SHIP OHIO. 267 No swarming crews the masts ascend, To furl, or reef, or sails to bend, No midshipmen, a mirthful race, Nor proud lieutenants there to pace, Moving in epauletted pride, With burnish d sabre at the side; No admiral in trappings gay ; Hull and his chiefs have pass d away! Old ship! methinks thro fog and haze Forth on the cloudy seas I gaze, And view in panorama grand Thy first proud parting from the land. Sailing, I see thy prow explore A foreign coast, an alien shore, Far as the surfs of ocean roar, Far as the breeze may blow ; In fancy s glass, all dusk and dim, A floating world, I see thee swim, I catch thy seaward prow I seem to view where groves of palm Perfume with aromatic balm And spicy breath, the drowsy gales That fan thy snowy, rounded sails! That vision fades! now I discern Wide o er thy mighty prow and stern The blood-red banner of the fire Careering high, careering higher; See fiery billows, cloudy smoke, Triumphing o er thy heart of oak! I hear thy timbers rend and crash, As if devoured by lightning-flash; I hear thy solid timbers groan, By that red deluge overthrown; Harsh sounds, sad tolling like a knell! Farewell, old ship of war, farewell! NOTE. This grand old vessel was once the flagship of brave old Commodore Isaac Hull, famous in the war of 1812 for his victory in the renowned Constitution, "Old Ironsides," over the British frigate Guerri(Ve. He was the nephew of our grand- sire Gen. Wm. Hull, the cousin of our mother, and the friend of our childhood. 268 POEMS OF THE KOD AND GUST. FRANK FORESTER MEMORIAL ODE. [Extract from an ode written by request for the proposed ceremonies in laying the corner-stone of a monument to be erected at Greenwood Lake in honor of Frank Forester.] matter that thy mortal dust Be not in graud cathedral laid, Entomb d with all the wise and just, In ceremonial parade? It is the memory of the dead That claims the solemn rites we pay Not the poor ashes moldering Where er on earth they lay. We raise the monumental shaft, We build the great memorial shrine, To show the depths profound of love For lives that thro all ages shine; And on the spotless tablet s face Grave lines that Time may ne er efface, And though poor Herbert sleeps not here, This votive cenotaph shall bear The tribute of affection s tear, The record of his genius rare, Though Shakespeare s, Milton s mortal dust May rest in England s stateliest dome, They still have shrines in many a land, In every human heart a home. Here in this lovely spot we stand, Brethren, to honor Herbert s name, To decorate with wreaths the shaft That bears the tribute to his fame. We gaze abroad it is the same, The selfsame scene he lov d to view, The broad, extending woods of green, The same soft skies of heavenly blue. FRANK FORESTER MEMORIAL ODE. 269 He lov d to breath this spicy air When diamond dews begemm d the grass, Airs blowing thro umbrageous groves, Fill d with fresh odors as they pass. CircumtpictI Gaze around! Where er on earth may Nature spread A more enchanting, smiling scene Green vales beneath bright skies o erhead? No marvel he enamor d found Peace in this fair enchanted ground. Pass o er the Bellvale Mountain edge, Pause on Point Peter s smooth plateau, Surmounted by the jutting ledge, Then view the landscape xtretch d below; Gaze down the vale of Sugarloaf, Gaze over Warwick woodlands wide, Waving with all their tufted groves, Like rolling billows of the tide. Broad-spreading valleys charm the eye, Vales dropped like emeralds of green. Iledg d round with great engirdling woods A grand, perennial screen! Lo! here and there are lakelets fair Like diamonds dropped by fairy spell, And winding rivulets twinkling bright, And bosky hedge and bushy dell. Gaze forth where Herbert lov d to gaze, Far to the horizon s purple edge, Here swimming in a gauzy haze, There bright with splinter d cliff and ledge, It is a vision beautiful, A dream of wonder and delight, Where ridge on ridge of mountain peaks Gleam out, then fade away from sight. 270 POEMS OF THE KOD AND GUN. Beneath sleeps Greenwood s placid lake, Woods, meadows, pasture, stream and plain, White villages like sea-bird wings, Broad corn-fields and expanse of grain ; Fair scenes so dear to poet s heart, Dear to the painter s glorious art ! Gaze and admire! Far-off to right Swell highland Hudson s azure hills ; Fam d Anthony uplifts his bluff, Channel d and seamed with dashing rills. Across yon rocky-cradled vale Soars Shawangunk s mountainous ridge; High, high in air those summits sail, The Kaatskill s forest bridge ! " And ne er in life," wrote Herbert s pen, " Have I such lovely landscape view d; " The pure lake cradled in the glen, Reflecting the o erhanging wood. THE END OF THE YEAR. A S a life-weary pilgrim sinks to his last repose, The old year, pale and pulseless, swoons o er the drifting snows; He s gone to join the ages, in the past years laid away, To sleep in time s mausoleum, until the judgment day. When he wav d his fairy spring wand, the airs grew balmy sweet, There op d the blue-ey d violets, in every dusk retreat, Then snow-white bloom of orchards, and floral offerings rare, Illumin d all the landscape, and perf um d all the air. His magic wand touch d tree and shrub, touch d arbor, sprig and spray, And quick, suffusing smiles of green would o er the tendrils play, They blush d with joy, as all their buds their folded lips un- clos d, And their virgin pearly leaves, and petals red disclos d. THE END OF THE YEAR. 271 Then all the painted butterflies enjoy d their little hour, They flew like winged blossoms, from floweret to flower, In honeysuckles dipt the bees, to sip from hidden wells The sweet, ambrosial nectar, and bear it to their colls. We saw thee in thy summer prime, in all thy bravery drest, Thy woods in wealth of foliage, by gentle airs caress d, Thy limped lakes reflecting the colors of the skies, And all the dales and mountains made gay with flowery dyes. Ah, pleasant the wide landscape, in your bright summer prime, The clear, swift, shaded brooks, with their unceasing chime, Where droop d the birch and alder, the willow s tresses green, And oakes and elms on upland slopes, a pastoral, fair scene. Thy luminous day-skies, the moonlit shades of night, When sweetest sounds of nature are a blessing and delight; When chants and hymns of bird life, of blackbird and of thrush Entrance with soothing melodies the universal hush. We welcom d thee in autumn, o er all the harvest plain, Thy forehead thick en wreath d with chaplets of the grain, When the orchards drop the fruit, and purple grapes hang sweet, And the sportsman s shots are ringing in field and wood retreat. And in this winter season, when icicles like gems, Adorn each twig and bush with twinkling diadems, We welcome the New Year, for o er the falling snow, The sounds of merry laughter and jocund carols flow. To all who love the transports of forest and the stream, To hunt the deer, to take the fish that in the waters gleam, To seek the duck and partridge, the woodcock and the quail, We send a New Year s greeting, we say to them " All hail I " May the New Year rejoice you, with all delights of life, Prosperities, endearments, of home and child and wife, May the lights of love and friendship, burn ever pure and clear, No household glooms, no shades of death, to darken o er the year.