THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce—for the night cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my father's, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so soft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.

Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn:
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

AMERICAN POETRY.

The five articles next in course, are from the pen of Mr. Bryant. Of living poets of our native country, it is unnecessary to give information—the public regards them with curiosity which is generally gratified, and when they deserve it, they are objects of favour that is freely expressed. The individual whose name is attached to Autumn Woods, to the Song of the Stars, and to Rizpah, enjoys a reputation never attached to mediocrity; and it becomes his countrymen, and his contemporaries, to furnish a pledge of the sure honours which late posterity will pay to his genius, by the manner in which they cherish and requite that genius.

AUTUMN WOODS.

Ere, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold

In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.

1 roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun that sends that gale to wander here,

Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made

The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright;
Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,
Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.

Beneath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon

Depart the hues that make thy forest glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! 'twere a lot too blest

For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amidst the kisses of the soft southwest
To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife

That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.

power,

The variable climate of the eastern states, affords grounds of complaint to sensitive people, but the beautiful Autumn of that region is congenial to every constitution and taste. The aspect of nature at that season in New-England, inspires the most tranquil and happy emotions; and the peace of its scenes disposes every heart to sympathize with the sentiments which the preceding verses express. The appearance of the American woods in autumn is peculiar to this country. Mr. Tudor, in his Letters on the Eastern States, gives this description of it:

"The rich and mellow tints of the forest at that season of the year, have often furnished subjects for the painter and the poet in Europe; but the woods of Europe never exhibit the appearBesides all the shades of brown and green, which

ance of ours.

the forests of Europe display in the decay of their foliage, the American woods in the same stage of vegetation put on the most glaring and brilliant colours—bright yellow, scarlet, orange and purple—not merely on single leaves, but masses of whole trees have their foliage thus tinged.'

"I do not know that it has ever been accounted for; but it may perhaps be owing to the frosts coming earlier here than in Europe, and falling on the leaves while the sap is yet copious, before they have begun to dry and fall off. However this may be, the colouring is wonderful;—the walnut is turned to the brightest yellow, the maple to scarlet, &c. Our trees put on this dress about the first of October." At this time of the year the effect of the atmosphere upon our scenery and upon the sensations of the beholder, induces sentiments of sober cheerfulness, and a pure enjoyment of this breathing life and this beautiful world, such as we never feel at other seasons.

Mr. Tudor observes that "the reader who has any relic of veneration for Pomona and the Hamadryads," (I hope my young readers are acquainted with Pomona and the Hamadryads,) will take an interest in the history of certain celebrated trees of NewEngland, and he proceeds to enumerate the more remarkable of these.

"In Salem, (Mass.) there is a pear tree still producing fruit, that was planted by Governor Endicott in his garden in 1630, and which is now owned by his descendants. At Sagadahoc, in Maine, when the French had a footing in 1689, there is an apple tree with some remains of life, amidst the ruins of their dwellings. The trunk is nearly the size of a hogshead, and entirely hollow. It was almost a century after before any apple trees were planted in the neighbouring country. In Hartford, (Connecticut,) the oak yet stands, in which the Connecticut charter was secreted, during the disastrous administration of Andross, when all the New-England charters were taken away. Governor Andross went to Hartford to obtain the charter of Connecticut; when the Council were assembled with Andross in the evening, while the destined victim was lying on the table, the lights were suddenly extinguished, Captain Wadsworth seized the Charter and hid, it in this tree, which even then, in 1692, was hollow with age.— This tree forms an appropriate counterpart to the "royal oak" of England. The most celebrated of all our trees, however, was the Liberty tree in Boston, which fell a sacrifice to party vengeance, and was cut down when the British troops got possession of the town. It was an elm of vast size, of which only the stump remains. Many transactions leading to the revolution

took place beneath it. Trees in various places in this country and Europe, were named after it in France at one time every municipality had one; but in that country they never flourished, and finally perished root and branch under Napoleon."

SONG OF THE STARS.

When the radiant morn of creation broke,
And the world in the smile of God awoke,

And the empty realms of darkness and death

Were moved through their depths by His mighty breath;
And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame,
From the void abyss by myriads came,
In the joy of youth, as they darted away,
Through the widening wastes of space to play,
Their silver voices in chorus rung,

And this was the song the bright ones sung:

Away, away, through the wide, wide sky,
The fair blue fields that before us lie:
Each sun with the worlds that round us roll,
Eacl planet poised on her turning pole,
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white,
And her waters that lie like fluid light.

For the Source of Glory uncovers his face,
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space;
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides;
Lo! yonder the living splendours play!
Away, on your joyous path away!

Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar,

In the infinite azure, star after star,

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass?
How the verdure runs over each rolling mass;

And the path of the gentle winds are seen,

When the small waves dance, and the young woods lean.

And see, where the brighter day-beams pour,
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower!
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews!
And, 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground,
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round.