Our rapid bark, ere twice the day
Had shone upon its downward way,
Turn'd its light prow, in upward course,
To stem the Michi-sipi's force--

Where her broad wave rolls on amain,
Sever'd by thousand isles' in twain,
And giant cliffs, with theatening frown,
Conduct her prison'd current down.
Full many a stream, on either side,
Through the cleft walls sends forth its tide,
Descending far from distant plains,
Where in its gloom the Prairie reigns,
Seated in grandeur on its throne
Amid a desert world alone.

Oft up the steeps, by rugged path
Sloped by the winter torrent's wrath,
We toil'd, where high the sumach hung,
And tendral vines around it clung,
Checking our way with woven bowers,
Or twining over head their flowers;
While higher still, in dizzier break,
The trembling aspen tree would shake-
And oft the wand'ring eye would meet
With sparkling crystals 'neath the feet,
Rudely enchased on some dark stone
Shining with lustre not its own
Hard the ascent, but fair the sight
That spread beneath the lofty height,
Where river, isles, and meadows drew
Their varied pictures to the view,-
Or would the downward eye forbear
To dwell on scene so soft and fair,
'T was but to raise a level glance
And all was rude and bold at once,
Where the dark Bluffs, half bare, half crown'd,
Arose in gloomy sternness 'round.

For many a day the stream we stemm'd,
Through isles that still its bosom gemm'd,
While oft, where back the cliffs retired,
The waving plain, in green attired,
Smiled in the dark and deep recess,
Like guarded spot in wilderness;
(Where Hamadryades might sport,
Or fairies hold their dewy court.)
At last our bark, 'mid eddies toss'd
And foam that all the wave emboss'd,

Was warn'd-ere yet the torrent's roar
Was heard-to turn its keel ashore.
Now clambering up the steep ascent,
Our course along the brink was bent,
Where the descending, broken flood,
On rocks that firm its force withstood,
Show'd signs of mightier conflict near
Whose rumblings now rose on the ear.
Why checks my guide on yonder rise,
And bends to earth in mute surprise,
As the Great Spirit of the air
Had burst upon his vision there?
'T was the vast Cataract that threw
Its broad effulgence o'er his view,
Like sheet of silver hung on high
And glittering 'neath the northern sky.
Nor think that Pilgrim eyes could dwell
On the bright torrent as it fell,
With soul unawed. We look'd above
And saw the waveless channel move,
Fill'd from the fountains of the north
And sent through varied regions forth,
Till, deep and broad and placid grown,
It comes in quiet beauty down
Unconscious of the dizzy steep

O'er which its current soon must sweep.
The eye hung shuddering on the brink,
As it had powerless wish to shrink,
Then instant sunk, where 'mid the spray
All the bright sheet in ruin lay.
The tumult swells, and on again
The eddying waters roll amain,
Still foaming down in angry pride,
Till mingling rivers smooth its tide.
Nor did the isle, whose promont wedge
Hangs on the torrent's dizzy edge,
Escape the view; nor sister twin
That smiles amid the nether din-
Closed in the raging flood's embrace,
And free from human footstep's trace;
Where the proud eagle builds his throne
And rules in majesty alone.
Approaching still and more entranced
As still the ling'ring step advanced,
We stood at last in pleased delay
O'erlooking all the bright display,

While the gay tints of western flame
That down the day's obliqueness came,
On hanging sheet and level stream
Darted a soft and slanting beam.

GEORGE W. PATTEN,

A NATIVE of Newport, Rhode Island, was graduated at Brown University, in 1825. He is now a cadet in the United States' Military Academy at West Point.

THE ISLE OF LOVE.

THERE's a bright sunny spot where the cinnamon trees
Shed their richest perfumes to the soft wooing breeze;
Where the rose is as sweet and as bright is the sky,
As the balm of thy breath and the glance of thine eye.
And clouds pass as soon o'er that beautiful Isle,
As the tear on thy cheek disappears at thy smile.
Come! haste thee, fair Irene, oh! haste thee with me,
To that far distant land in the Ægean sea.

Light breezes are swelling the gossamer sail,
Of my love-freighted bark for the evergreen vale;
And loudly the night bird is chanting her lay,
To rouse thee from slumber-away and away-
We'll land at the groves and the wild flowers there,
I'll twine in a wreath for thy soft flaxen hair;
And we'll roam like the antelope, reckless and free,
O'er that bright sunny Isle in the Ægean sea.

Soft music is there-for the mermaiden's shell,
Is often heard winding through mountain and dell;
And the song of the sea spirits steals from the shore,
With the low sullen sound of the waves' distant roar.
And the tones of thy voice-oh! how sweetly they'll blend,
With the strains which the harps of the Ocean Nymphs send;