REVIEWS CANADIAN POETUY. 27 



And hark, again ! It conies anew — 

 Piercing- the dark phie-forest through, 

 With its Ions too-hoo, too-hoo ! 



Shoreward again we glide — and go 

 Where the sumach shadows flow 

 Across the purple calm below. 



Tiiere the far-winding creeks among. 

 The frogs keep up, the summer long, 

 The murmurs of their soft njght-song. 



A song most soft and musical — 



Like the lulled voice of distant fall, 



Or winds that through the pine- tops call. 



And where the dusky swamp lies dreaming, 

 Shines the fire-flies' fitful gleaming — 

 Through the cedars — dancing, streaming ! 



Who is it hideth up in a tree 



Where all but the bats asleep should be. 



And with the whistling mocketh. me ? 



Such quaint, quick pipings — two-and-two ; 



Half a whistle, half a coo — 



Ah, Mister Tree-Frog ! gare-a-votis ! 



The owls on noisless wing gloom by. 

 Beware, lest one a glimpse espy 

 Of your grey coat and jewelled eye. 



Now tills is a genuine Canadian scene, such as no fire-side traveller 

 or fancy-visioned poet of old world wanderings or library book-dust, 

 could possibly call into being. The dark recesses of the pine-woods 

 and the shadows of the lake-fringing sumach, the monotonous call of 

 the Whip-poor-will, the soft and musical night-song of the frogs, the 

 fitful gleaming of the fire-fly dancing in the cedar-swamp, the prowling 

 night owl noiselessly listening to the mocking note — half a whistle and 

 half a coo, — of the tree-frog : each one of these shows the touch of 

 a Canadian pencil, such as the most labored study of the home poet 

 would in vain attempt. In this direction alone lies the path in which 

 poetic success is worth welcoming among us ; unless indeed it be 

 fancied that we can look for some great Canadian-born Miltonic epic, 

 not local or exclusive, but for other ages and generations than our own, 

 — of which consummation it can only be said there appears at present 

 no very discernible prospect. D. W. 



