western farms, with our prolific fields and rich dairies. Till then I must be submissive to the necessity of subscribing myself with my pen, instead of protesting with my lips, that I am your most faithful and affectionate sister. With grateful love to my new parents, theirs and yours till death,

ELLEN CALDWELL.

BOW BROOK.

FAR in a wild and tangled glen,
Where purple Arethusas weep-
A bower scarce trod by mortal men—
A haunt where timid dryads sleep-
A little dancing, prattling thing,

Sweet Bow-Brook, tutor of my Muse !
I've seen thy silver currents spring
From fountains of Castalian dews.

A wilder, or more sylvan spot,

Ne'er wooed a poet's feet to roam;
Not e'en Calypso's classic grot
Would be so fit a fairy's home.

The birchen boughs, so interlaced,

That scarce the vault of heaven is seen, With pendant vines are wildly gracedAn arbor of transcendent green.

And rustic bridge, a frail support
For Cinderella's tiny foot,
And waves where naiades might sport
Beneath some sweet aquatic root;

And farther down, a mimic lake,

Where dark green woods o'erlook the tide, And fragrant shrubs and feathery brake, Spring up along its grassy side.

Oh how my heart doth wildly thrill
At every thought of that lone spot,
Whose fragrant solitude, sweet rill,
Thy beauty into being brought!

And murmur not, that thou art made
An humble poet's favorite theme;
For thou, sweet lyrist of the glade,
Thyself art but an humble stream.

And beautiful as e'er thou art,

They make thee labor at the wheel,
To ply the shaft, and swell the mart
With products of the loom and reel.
But much enraged at such constraint,
Away thou'rt gliding, big with grief,
To breathe thy piteous complaint
To every sympathizing leaf.

Upon thy tall, o'erhanging elms,

Gay birds, with blue and golden breasts, Returned in troops from austral realms, Found colonies of grassy nests. They are protected-guileless birds! For tender guardians dwell around; And oft with keen, reproving words, They drive the huntsman from the ground.

In olden days the Indian maid,

With braided tresses sought thy bowers, And rifled every sunlit glade

To wreathe her locks with scarlet flowers. Some chieftain of the forest wove

The blushing card'nals o'er her brow, While by the waves he breathed his love In many a deep and fervent vow.

How oft along thy verdant shore,

I seek to find some lingering trace
Of those who made, in days of yore,
Thy banks their favorite hunting place-
Yet vain the search-no trace is found,
To tell that ever dusky maid,

Or warrior chief hath trod the ground,

Where now, perchance, their bones are laid.

Upon thy bonny banks, sweet stream,
My home succeeds the Indian brave's ;
My infant eye first caught its beam,
Reflected from thy clouded waves.
And oft I tread the grassy slope,

Which leads me to thy rose-bound shore, With ardent and increasing hope,

To catch some fragment of thy lore.

When comes the holy hour to die,

How sweet to rest beside thy wave! How sweet beneath thy banks to lie, With violets waving o'er my grave And yet I would not cast a shade

Upon a spot so bright and glad; A tomb would mar so fair a glade,

!

And friends would find thy borders sad.

Glide on forever, warbling brook!

Earth has no voice more dear than thineAnd often in some flowery nook,

I'll swell the lay with tones of mine. Beneath the arch of some green bough, Where mellow sunbeams softly glance, I'll cast the shadows from my brow, And read to thee some gay romance.

A few short years, or days may be,
And thou wilt miss me from thy shore;
Yet earth will still be fair to thee,
As e'er it was in days of yore.
And I shall sit upon the bank

Of that pure river of my God,
Where sin, nor grief has ever drank,
And no polluting foot hath trod !