08 THE FORESTERS. 



There the lone sentry walked his round ; or stood, 

 To view the sea-fowl coursing o'er the flood ; 

 'Midst night's deep gloom shrunk at the panther's hovi 

 And heard a foe in every whooping owl. 

 Blest times for soldiers ! times, alas, not near, 

 When foes like these are all they have to fear; 

 When man to man will mutual justice yield, 

 And wolves and panthers only stain the field. 



Those straggling huts that on the left appear. 

 Where boats and ships their crowded masts uprear, 

 Where fence, or field, or cultured garden green, 

 Or the blessed plough, or spade were never seen, 

 Is old Oswego; once renowned in trade, 

 Where numerous tribes their annual visits paid, 

 From distant wilds, the beaver's rich retreat, 

 For one whole moon they trudged with weary feet ; 

 Piled their rich furs within the crowded store, 

 Replaced their packs, and plodded back for more. 

 Rut time and war have banished all their trains, 

 And nought but potash, salt, and rum remains. 

 The boisterous boatman, drunk but twice a day, 

 Regs of the landlord ; but forgets to pay ; 

 Pledges his salt a cask for every quart, 

 Pleased thus for poison, with his pay to part. 

 From morn to knight here noise and riot reign ; 

 From night to morn 'tis noise and roar again. 



Around us now Ontario's ocean lay, 

 Rough rose its billows, crown'd with foaming spray, 

 The grim north-east in roaring fury blew, 



