On, on, through the vale where the brave ones sleep,
Where the waving foliage is rich and deep;
I have stood on the mountain and roam'd thro' the glen
To the beautiful homes of the western men,
Yet nought in that realm of enchantment could see,
So fair, as the vale of Wyoming to me.
POETRY.
Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
Enchantment led the hour,
And mirth and music drank the dews
That freshen'd Beauty's flower,
Then from her bower of deep delight,
I heard a young girl sing,
"Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing."
The Sun in noon-day heat rose high,
And on with heaving breast,
I saw a weary pilgrim toil
Unpitied and unblest,
Yet still in trembling measures flow'd
Forth from a broken string,
"Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing."
'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
'Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
Home to a glorious sphere,
