IN

HORICON.

N the midst of the mountains all bosky and wooded, Its bosom thick gemmed with the loveliest isles, Its borders with vistas of Paradise studded,

Looking up to the heaven sweet Horicon smiles. Thick set are its haunts with old legend and story, That, woven by genius, still cluster and blend;

But its beauty will cling, like a halo of glory,
When legend and record with ages shall end.

Far down in the waters the pebbles are gleaming, Far down in the clear waves that nothing can hide; So, beauty of youth, comes the name you are dream

ing,

Too pure for concealment, too gentle for pride;
So smiles on your faces the sunshine of heaven, -
The blessing distilled in the gardens of air,
A smile of contentment from Paradise given

That woman and lake have been fashioned so fair.

Pure Horicon! glassing the brows of the mountains, As handmaid might bend to a conqueror's will ! Although nurtured and swelled by the commonest foun

tains,

Yet pure, and transparent, and beautiful still ! No wonder the men of the cross and the missal Once named it "The Lake of the Sacrament" pure; Or that far leagues away, from some holiest vessel, Its drops on the forehead could comfort and cure.

On the fair silver lake drives the Indian no longer,
With the sweep of his paddle, the birchen canoe;
And the fortresses fall that made weakness the stronger,
And saved the white maid when the war-whistle blew.
But 't is well that the old and the savage are fated,
And that danger rolls back from the Edens of earth.
Our boats glide as well, with all loveliness freighted,
And the war-whoop we lose in the sallies of mirth.

Pure Horicon! lake of the cloud and the shadow!
Soft shimmer your moonlight and dimple your rain!
And the hearts far away - if by sea side or meadow
Still think of your blue with a lingering pain!
Among the far islands that glitter in heaven,
On the dim, undiscovered, and beautiful shore, -
Some glimpse of a lovelier sea may be given
To the eyes of the perfect, but never before!
Henry Morford.

A

LAKE GEORGE.

SUMMER shower had swept the woods;
But when, from all the scene,
Rolled off at length the thunder-floods,
And streamed the sunset sheen,
I came where my postilion raised
His horsewhip for a wand,
And said, "There's Horicon, good sir,
And here's the Bloody Pond!

"And don't you see yon low gray wall,
With grass and bushes grown?

Well, that's Fort George's palisade,
That many a storm has known:
But here's the Bloody Pond where lies
Full many a soldier tall;

The spring, they say, was never pure
Since that red burial."

'T was rare to see! That vale beneath; That lake so calm and cool!

But mournful was each lily-wreath,
Upon the turbid pool:
And-"On, postilion, let us haste
To greener banks," I cried,
"O, stay me not where man has stained
With brother's blood the tide!"

An hour, and though the Even-star
Was chasing down the sun,

My boat was on thine azure wave,
Sweet, holy Horicon!

And woman's voice cheered on our bark,
With soft bewildering song,
While fireflies, darting through the dark,
Went lighting us along.

Anon, that bark was on the beach,

And soon I stood alone

Upon thy mouldering walls, Fort George,

So old and ivy-grown.

At once, old tales of massacre

Were crowding on my soul,

And ghosts of ancient sentinels
Paced up the rocky knoll.

The shadowy hour was dark enow
For fancy's wild campaign,
And moments were impassioned hours
Of battle and of pain:

Each brake and thistle seemed alive
With fearful shapes of fight,
And up the feathered scalp-locks rose
Of many a tawny sprite.

The Mohawk war-whoop howled agen;
I heard St. Denys' charge,
And then the volleyed musketry

Of England and St. George.
The vale, the rocks, the cradling hills,
From echoing rank to rank,

Rung back the warlike rhetoric
Of Huron and of Frank.

"So, keep thy name, Lake George," said I, "And bear to latest day,

The memory of our primal age,

And England's early sway;
And when Columbia's flag shall here

Her starry glories toss,

Be witness how our fathers fought
Beneath St. George's cross."

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Arthur Cleveland Coxe.

IN

Gettysburg, Pa.

THE HIVE AT GETTYSBURG,

N the old Hebrew myth the lion's frame,
So terrible alive,

Bleached by the desert's sun and wind, became
The wandering wild bees' hive ;
And he who, lone and naked-handed, tore
Those jaws of death apart,

In after time drew forth their honeyed store
To strengthen his strong heart.

Dead seemed the legend: but it only slept
To wake beneath our sky;

Just on the spot whence ravening Treason crept
Back to its lair to die,

Bleeding and torn from Freedom's mountain bounds, A stained and shattered drum

Is now the hive where, on their flowery rounds,
The wild bees go and come.

Unchallenged by a ghostly sentinel,
They wander wide and far,

Along green hillsides, sown with shot and shell,
Through vales once choked with war.
The low reveille of their battle-drum

Disturbs no morning prayer;

With deeper peace in summer noons their hum Fills all the drowsy air.