THE FORESTERS. 35 



Here Nature bounteous to excess has been, 



Yet loitering hunters scarce a living glean ; 



Blest with a soil, that e'en in winter gay, 



Would all their toils a hundred fold repay, 



Few cultured fields of yellow grain appear ; 



Rich fenceless pastures, rot unheeded here. 



Huge from the vale the towering walnuts grow, 



And wave o'er wretched huts that lie below. 



No blossomed orchards scent their opening May ; 



No bleating flocks upon their pastures play ; 



The wolves, say they, would soon our flocks destroy ; 



And planting orchards is a poor employ. 



The hungry traveller, dining on this plain, 



May ask for fowls, and wish for eo-ors in vain : 



And while he dines upon a flitch of bear, 



To wolves and foxes leave more gentle fare. 



Now down through hoary woods we scour along, 

 Rousing the echoes with our jovial song, 

 Through paths where late the skulking Indian trod, 

 Smeared with the infant's and the mother's blood, 

 Their haunts no more ; far to the setting day 

 In western woods their prowling parties stray, 

 Where vast Superior laves his drifted shores, 

 Or loud Niagara's thundering torrent roars ; 

 Gaul's exiled royalists, a pensive train, 

 Here raise the hut and clear the rough domain ; 

 The way- worn pilgrim to their fires receive, 

 Supply his wants ; but at his tidings grieve ; 

 Afflicting news ! forever on the wing, 

 A ruined country and a murdered king ! 



