THE FORESTERS. 12 



The beds with flees and bugs profusely stored, 

 Where every seam its tens of thousands poured, 

 The host's grim sulkiness, his eager look, 

 When from our purse his glittering god we took; 

 But nobler themes invite, be these suppressed, 

 The eagle prays not on the carrion's breast. 



Long ere the mom had showed its opening sweets, 

 We clubbed our arms and passed the silent streets,) 

 Slow o'er the pavement limpingly we tread, 

 But soon recovering, every ailment fled. 

 Forward we march, o'er mountains rude and bare, 

 No decent farm, or e'en a cabin rare ; 

 Thick wastes of ground oak (7) o'er the country spread. 

 While haggard pines sigh dismal overhead. 

 ho ! the Blue Mountain now in front appears, 

 And high o'er all its lengthened ridge uprears ; 

 Th' inspiring sight redoubled vigor lends, 

 And soon its steeps each traveller ascends ; 

 Panting we wind aloft, begloomed in shade, 

 Mid rocks and mouldering logs tumultuous laid 

 In wild confusion ; till the startled eye 

 Through the cleft mountain meets the pale blue sky 

 And distant forests ; while sublimely wild, 

 Tow're each tall cliff to heaven's own portals piled* 

 Enormous gap ! if Indian tales be true, 

 I Here ancient Delaware once thundered through, 

 | And rolled for ages; till some earthquake dread* 

 Or huge convulsion shook him from his bed. (8) 



Her© under rocks, at distance from the road* 



A2 



