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The Hunter of the Prairies is another fine poem:

Ay, this is freedom!-these pure skies

Were never stained with village smoke:
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.

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"What plant we with this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pourt Ito fragrance through our open doors. A world of blossoms for the bee, Pilarvest for the sick girl's selent room, For the glad infant sprigs of blooms; We plant with the apple tree. William Cullen Bryant.

Roslyn, L. J. July 12th 1875

"

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!

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Another of Mr. Bryant's most admired productions is his Forest Hymn, commencing :

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The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,

And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back

The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,

Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart

Might not resist the sacred influences

Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,

And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore

Only among the crowd, and under roofs

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,

Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in His ear.

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“The name of Leigh Hunt," says Smiles, "is associated in our minds with all manner of kindness, love, beauty, and gentleness. He has given us a fresh insight into nature, made the flowers seem gayer, the earth greener, the skies more bright, and all things more full of happiness and blessing." He has given us some fine poems. Here is one about the Flowers, with a touch of the quaintness of the elder poets:

We are the sweet flowers, born of sunny showers,

(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith);
Utterance mute and bright, of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath :
All who see us, love us-we befit all places;
Unto sorrow we give smiles,—and to graces, graces.
Mark our ways, how noiseless all, and sweetly voiceless,
Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear;

Not a whisper tells where our small seed dwells,

Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear.
We thread the earth in silence, in silence build our bowers,-

And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers!

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