THE PATHFINDER.

ALL night above their rocky bed
They saw the stars march slow;
The wild Sierra overhead,

The desert's death below.

The Indian from his lodge of bark,
The gray bear from his den,
Beyond their camp-fire's wall of dark,
Glared on the mountain men.

Still upward turned, with anxious strain,
Their leader's sleepless eye,

Where splinters of the mountain chain
Stood blank against the sky.

The night waned slow: at last a glow,
A gleam of sudden fire,

Shot up behind the walls of snow,

And tipped each icy spire.

"Up, men!" he cried; "yon rocky comb To-day, please God, we'll pass,

And look from Winter's frozen home
On Summer's flowers and grass!"

They set their faces to the blast,
They trod th' eternal snow;

And faint, worn, bleeding, hailed at last
The promised land below.

Behind, they saw the snow cloud tossed
By many an icy horn;

Before, warm valleys, wood embossed,
And green with vines and corn.

They left the Winter at their backs,
To flap his baffled wing,

And downward, with the cataracts,
Leaped to the lap of Spring.

Strong leader of that mountain band!
Another task remains,

To break from Slavery's desert land
A path to Freedom's plains.

The winds are wild, the way is drear,
Yet, flashing through the night,

Lo! icy ridge and rocky spear
Blaze out in morning light!

Rise up, Fremont! and go before;
The Hour must have its Man;

Put on the hunting shirt once more,

And lead in Freedom's van!

John G. Whittier.

THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES.

AY, this is freedom!- these pure skies
Were never stained with village smoke;
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from waste by plough unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,

And her who left the world for me,
I plant me where the red deer feed
In the green desert-and am free.

For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,

The bison is my noble game;

The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.

Mine are the river-fowl that scream

From the long stripe of waving sedge;
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam
Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
The brinded catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing dies.

With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way Gray, old, and cumbered with a train

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades.

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sear
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here -

With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, And smoke-streams gushing up the sky.

I meet the flames with flames again,
And at my door they cower and die.

Here, from dim woods, the agéd Past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless Future in the vast

And lonely river seaward rolled.

Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines whose blue
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass!

Broad are these streams

my steed obeys,

Plunges, and bears me through the tide : Wide are these woods- I thread the maze Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day's last glimmer dies O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.

William Cullen Bryant.

REMINISCENCES.

I'm sitting alone to-night, Mary,
Weaving sweet dreams of thee,
And letting fancy rove unchecked,
Through the flowers of Memory.

Just twenty years have passed, Mary,
With all their hopes and fears,

Since we as schoolmates pledged the love
That gilds each coming year.