With wraiths of mighty hunters and fair maidens,
Haunting thy forest glades forevermore.

A master's heart hath gilded all thy valley
With golden splendor from a loving breast;
And in thy little churchyard, 'neath the pine-trees,
A master's body sleeps in quiet rest.

O haunted lake, guard well thy sacred story,
Guard well the memory of that honored name!
Guard well the grave that gives thee all thy glory
And raises thee to long-enduring fame.

• Anonymous.

IN

Passaic, the River, N. J.

THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.

a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
Here the wild floweret blossomed, the elm proudly

waved,

And pure was the current the green bank that laved.

But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood, And deep in its gloom fixed his murky abode,

Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder and lightning and storm;

All flushed from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red men encountered the children of flame,
While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:

With a glance of disgust, he the landscape surveyed,
With its fragrant wild-flowers, its wide waving shade;
Where Passaic meanders through margins of green,
So transparent its waters, its surface serene.

He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurled down the chasm the thundering wave.

Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse

of time,

Cultivation has softened those features sublime;
The axe of the white man has lightened the shade,
And dispelled the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

But the stranger still gazes, with wondering eye,
On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high ;
Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,
Where the torrent leaps headlong, embosomed in foam.

Washington Irving.

H

Perkiomen, the River, Pa.

THE PERKIOMEN.

ERE, in times long gone, October bright
In sombre forests set her glory-light;
Where village street leads o'er the bridge's span,
Among brown hills and peaceful meadows ran
The Perkiomen singing all the day.

For well-tilled fields gave back an hundred fold,
And well-filled barns could scarce their treasure hold.
The orchards bending 'neath the weight they bore
Cast down their golden fruit upon the shore
Of Perkiomen singing all the day.

There came a change; the leaves upon the wood
Burned brighter with a color as of blood.
The waving Northern Lights, the camp-fire's glow
Seemed from the heights a tinge of blood to throw
On Perkiomen at the close of day.

At morn a host marched proudly to the fight,
And some returned their camp-fires to relight,
And some to hear awhile the waters flow,
Then ears grew dull in coming death, and low
The Perkiomen sang on that dread day.

And prayers in many distant homes were said
By hearts that ne'er again were comforted,
While here the soldier saw in dreams again

Home scenes made vivid by the sad refrain
Of Perkiomen singing all the day.

Yet mid the gloom and doubt the living learned
How still defeat to victory might be turned,
Until the cannon thundered from the hill
A conquest's tale, and glad below the mill
The Perkiomen sang on that great day.

But nature soon forgets: that camp is lost,
She hides the graves of all that arméd host;
On the same site now stands another mill,
Another miller leans on the white sill

To hear the Perkiomen sing to-day.

Let not our hearts forget. Lo! Time makes plain How from the sacrifice has grown our gain;

Here orchards bloom; each year its harvest brings,

And clearer still of peace and plenty sings

The Perkiomen all the autumn day.

*

*

*

Isaac R. Pennypacker.

IN

Philadelphia, Pa.

PHILADELPHIA.

N that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters,

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.

There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,

And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,

As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.

There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,

Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.

There old René Leblanc had died; and when he departed,

Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city,

Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger;

And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and

sisters.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.