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OH the lad from Tuckahoe
From the day that first I knew him,
He alighted at the door
My aunt her anger hiding,
* This poem and all the subsequent ones (the Cricket er cepted) have been copied from scraps of paper, since the death of Dr. Shaw.
J. B. DE MATOS. SONNET III.
NOW forty years have pass'd with flowing tide, Since I was cradled on this '
mountain's side, Half of my fated journey now is done, And to th' horizon now declines my sun.
Now frequent tremors lead the hand astray,
For soon the fountain shall no stream supply,
Hopes! fears! desires! and joys! perfidious crew!
WHITHER fairest, hast thou stray'd? What retreat conceals
love? Đost thou seek the poplar's shade,
In the bosom of the grove?
Tell me now what cooling air
O’er thy hearing bosom strays? Or disparts thy flowing hair,
And with the glossy ringlets plays.
Dost thou by the streamlet's side
Gently stealing slumbers provelFlow thou stream with silent tide, Do not!do not wake
Should she then in slumber deep
One kind thought on me bestow, Lest thy waves should break her sleep,
Let them almost cease to flow.
But if present to her eyes
Should my hated rival seem, Rise!_with hoarser murmur rise!
Rouse her from the guilty dream!
FROM clime to clime a ranger
My hours I've wasted longTo peace and home a stranger,
The desert woods among.
Yet oft when day is over,
Some whispering spirit cries, Return, return, thou rover,
To hail thy native skies.
How swift the hours have hasted,
Since thou began'st to roam, Before thy youth be wasted
Return thee to thy home.
There that lost peace shall find thee,
And gild each passing day, Which thou did'st leave behind thee,
And hasten'd far away.
THRO' the forest the sound of the axe has been
heard, And the elms wave no more their high tops to the
gale, The pines on the hill that so tow'ring appear'd,
And the poplars are fallen, that shaded the vale.
For the plough drives its course, and the harvest shall
wave O'er each breeze-courted hill and each interval dell, Where once the fierce Mohawk and Seneca grave
And the wily Oneida delighted to dwell.
To the fields, where his fathers establish'd their home, To the woods, where the chase they were wont to
pursue, To the streams, where himself was accustom'd to
roam, The wandering native has bidden adieu!
Forthe steps of the white men have printed the ground,
Where never before they had ventur’d to stray, Independence awaken'd his fears at the sound,
And bore him afar to new regions away.
Yet the sigh to an exile that ever is due,