56 MICAH P. FLINT. [1820-30. editor should not have a heart. The "Camp Meeting," we are told, has found its way into the most extensively circulated journal in the United States, a religious paper edited with a great deal of talent, * * * — the Methodist Magazine, of New York. Whatever be the general dearth of poetical feeling, and however capricious the standard of poetical excellence, it cannot but be that some kin- dred eye will rest upon the poetry in this volume, and that a congenial string will be harped in some heart. In the structure of poetry, the public seems to demand nothing more than pretty words put into ingenious rhythm, with a due regard to euphony. In conformity to that taste, vve have inserted some poetry which we considered made up rather with reference to words than pictures and thoughts. But we have flattered ourselves that the greater amount has had something of the ancient simplicity and force to recommend it to those who had a taste for that, and has had an aim to call the mind " from sound to things, from fancy to the heart." We have an humble hope that if the author of these verses survives the chances of the distant and deadly climate in which his lot is cast, and is not, in the hackneying cares of life, deprived of the visitings of the muse, the time will come when no man that has any living and permanent name as a writer and a poet, will be forward to proclaim that he did not discover the powers of the wi'iter ; or, after investigation, viewed them with disapprobation. That hope of a fond father, so confidently expressed, is not without fulfillment, but the poet did not survive the chances of the deadly climate in which he had prepared himself for activity in a new sphere. He died in the year 1830. EXTRACTS FROM " THE HUNTER." THE MOUNTAIN STORM. The storm had passed, but not in wrath, For ruin had not marked its path, O'er that sweet vale, where now was seen A bluer sky, and brighter green. There was a milder azure spread Around the distant mountain's head ; And every hue of that fair bow, Whose beauteous arch had risen there, Now sunk beneath a brighter glow. And melted into ambient air. The tempest, which had just gone by, Still hung along the eastern sky. And threatened, as it rolled away. The birds from every dripping spray. Were pouring forth their joyous mirth. The torrent, with its waters brown. From rock to rock came rushing down ; While, from among the smoking hills, The voices of a thousand rills Were heard, exulting at its birth. Abreeze came whispering through the wood, And, from its thousand tresses, shook The big round drops, that trembling stood, Like pearls, in every leafy nook. THE SUGAE GAMP. It was a valley down whose slope A streamlet poured its full spring tide, With gentle swells on either side. Slow rising to their distant cope ; By Nature planted with that tree, Whose generous veins, when pierced for use, Pour forth their rich, nectareous juice. Like Patriot life-blood, rich, though free. Its new sprung, red, sharp-pointed leaves, Almost the first, that Flora weaves, Already twinkling in the blast. Proclaimed " the season " almost past ; When on that eve, that vale along. The joyous shout, the merry song, The laugh of age, and youthful glee, Rung out the forest jubilee. A hundred fires were blazing bright ; And by their wild, yet cheerful light, The magic scene was all displayed. A table stretched from shade to shade,
