She lean'd her pale cheek on my breast,

I press'd her to my heart,

And from that sacred place of rest,

No more shall she depart.

1826.

THE CROW-MINDER OF THE SOUTH.

ALONE, amid the far spread field he stands, Heaven's arch above, an amphitheatre

Of woods around. Wide his domain, and fair;
But no companionship hath he, for he

Must scare the very birds away, whose notes
Are meet for company.

The mocking-bird,

Herald or partner of his walk, must leave
Him here; nor shall he list again its cadence,
Till, warbling near his lowly hut, the bird
Pours forth orchestral tones ambitiously,
At midnight hour, upon his drowsy ear.
The lizard, creeping on the blighted tree,
The lazy worm, unearthing its slow volume,
The ant, which builds its sandy monument,
The butterfly, a passing traveller,

And e'en the snake, that shines in motlied hues,

Or frog, retreating from the burning sand,
Or shining beetle, will he welcome now.

Few are his cares, nor irksome his employ ;
Just far enough remov'd to watch his prey,
His bird-trap tempting lies-the oriole there,
The goldfinch, waxbird, and like forms of grace,
He snares, to gain a trifle for the prize.
The prison of the finny race, he weaves;
Or, on his basket's growing plaits he toils,
Counts o'er his gains, and whistles out his joy.
The forest trees, that stand like sentinels,
Send out a murmur pleasant to the ear.
The turtle dove, that seems to mourn, but whose
Low tone is whisper'd tenderness, is there.
From thence the venturous ground-pigeon comes,
And with a little band of feathered friends,
Steals cautious to the rice-field's tempting range,
When, faithful to his charge, the "minder" shouts,
With arms uprais'd, and frighted they retire.
There the blue jay, the "feather'd harlequin,"

Trims his rich crest, and pipes his mimic song; While, hidden mid damp brakes, the cuckoo's note

With harsh monotony assails the ear.

There the woodpecker, busy epicure,

Bores with his beak the insect's barky home,

Affrights them with his feign'd but startling cry,
Then coolly riots with his darting tongue,

And taps at intervals the hollow tree.

But the field-minder, idly busy, heeds.

Nor knows the sounds sweet to the poet's ear;
Tho', when the crow's coarse note is nearer heard,
And his dark form wheels o'er the sunny field,
Or varied pilferers, glide with stealthy wing,
In softer guise, to rob the planter's toil,
Then lifts he high again his warning voice,
And waves his tawny arms, and beats the air,
While the foil'd plunderers turn in circling flight,
And seek the forest's screening shades again.

What are his thoughts, that lone one, as the sun
O'ertops the pines, and wakes the woods to joy?
What are his thoughts, when thro' the long, long blaze
Of summer's noon, he sits in solitude?

Right glad is he, when the dark laborer comes,

With hoe upon his arm his task well done,

And gives a passing greeting to the boy.
Full glad to see the mastiff from the chase

Run with his whining welcome; and willingly,
With passing negro, or with truant dog,

Shares the plain food, cook'd near his blighted tree.
Think not the boy is vacant in his mood;

He muses on relationship, and friends;

He plans the evening game, the Sabbath prayer, He learns from nature's volumes lessons true,

Foretells the storm, the harvest too

and things That 'scape the world's philosophy, he knows. There, more than in the city's jostling throng, He feels a present Deity. The moon, Flooding his homeward track with gentle rays, Looks in his bosom on a sky-bound soul;

And the far stars, those light-houses of heaven, Tell him of hopes, beyond their glittering sheen.

1830.