12 THE FORESTERS. 



And pause, its furnace curious to explore, 

 Where flames and bellows lately wont to roar, 

 Now waste and roofless : as its walls we pass 

 The massive shells lie rusting in the grass. 

 There let them rust, fell messengers of death ! 

 Till injured liberty be roused to wrath, 

 In whose right hand may they, though hosts oppose, 

 Be blasting thunderbolts to all her foes. 



The setting sun was sinking in the west, 

 And brightly burnishing the mountain's breast, 

 When from afar, as down the steep we hie, 

 The glittering roofs of Easton caught the eye : 

 Low in the shelter' d vale, while rude around 

 Hills piled on hills the dreary prospect bound. 

 Around the mountain's base, in winding pride, 

 The rapid Lehigh rolls his amber tide, 

 To meet old Delaware who moves serene, 

 While Easten rises on the plains between. 

 Tired with the day's long toil we gladly greet 

 The snug stone buildings and the pavement neat ; 

 The busy townsmen, jabbering Dutch aloud, 

 The court-house, ferry, hanging signs and crowd ; 

 At length one waving sign enchained our view, 

 'Twas Pat's split-crow, a filthy raven too. 

 Thither for rest and shelter we repair, 

 And home's hind decencies, that ne'er were there. 

 Here might the Muse with justice due record 

 The wretched fare its scurvy walls afford ; 

 The black wet bread, with rancid butter spread, 

 The beastly drunkards who beside us fed ; 



