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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 Aies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me,
In the green desert—and am free.
No barriers in the bloomy grass ;
Or beam of heaven mav glance, I pass.
What-plantwewite this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery uprings Co-load thi Mlaq wird's restless urug!, Whew, from the orchard "ow, he point Bu fragrauatirough ouer open doors.
of world of blosterug for the bee, Plaourt fer for Kiek girtí delat zoon, Porthw gladinfant sprigs of bloom; Wigslaut with the apple-true"
. William Culle Bryant, Roslyn, L. 3. Sukur irsko 1870."
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.
From the long stripe of waving sedge ;
Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
The brinded catamount, that lies
Even in the act of springing, dies.
Fling their huge arms across my way,
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray !
Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Another of Mr. Bryant's most admired productions is his Forest Hymn, commencing :
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
“ 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 fowers 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 Aowers, 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 :
Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear ;
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 Aowers!