With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my wayGray, 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 sere
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 aged 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.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE HUNTER'S SONG.

RISE! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn.
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten
hound,

Under the steaming, steaming ground,
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.-So, ho!
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.
Hark, hark!-Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble
corn?

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

The horn, the horn!

The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn.