Daily American telegraph., 1852-06-09
AMERICAN TELEGRAPH.
From the N. Y. Evening Postl
SONG OF THE NORTH WIND.

ne JOHoWtUg HhieS are me lcOndeITHt rOductt0H 81
y0"ng lady Of Boston, only fifteen gears cfage.
come from the fields Of the frozen North,
Ger the waste of the trackess sea,
Where the winter sun looks YEARLY forth,
And yielded his strength to me;
As mount Der the hills and gather my might,
With the roar Of the Hurricane,
Loud sweeping in wrath, by day and night
Over the ice-bound main.
From the awful steppes of the Scythian wild
Where the Boreal lightnings play,
Der the frowning peaks of glaciers piled,
wend my stormy way;
Where the lghtest touch of my blasting breath
Plays over the withered branch
And the eagle screams from his eyry of death,
In the fearful avalanche
On the lofty heights of the Daurian chain,
sit on my regal throne
Where my snowy turrets look out DER the main,
On the waste of the Arctic zone;
Alone-alone-in my might dwell,
Where human foot ne er trod,
Where human voice meier broke the spoil
Lying bound DER the icy sod
breathe in my wrath DER the flaming forge
Where the laboring Cyclops dwelt,
Till the lava rolls DER the mountain gorge,
And forge and furnace melt
Till the fiery arm of Vulcan yields
To the might of my threatening roar
And the red flames flow Ger the blooming fields
And the light of the .sandod shore.
Away through the hollow caves | sweep,
Where the giant arm of Thor
Shakes his cleaning spear Ger the raging deep,
And marshals his stceds to war;
Then blow my horn as the thunder rolls
Through the depths of the lurid sky,
And the wild waves foam, and the sea bell tolls
To my voice as it passes by.
In the lonely halls where Odin dwes,
In his palace of kingly might,
am free from the chain of his Runc SPELLS
And revel by day and night;
1 sit at the board where heroes fell,
Where their blood flowed like the wave
And the white spears clashed with the wild war yell
Meath the snowy architrave
Then away bound from the Halls of Death
Where the beautiful Lena flows,
And wave the wand of my jagged breath,
Dor its banks of crested SHOWS;
And 10 the pillar tall and fair,
With many quaint device,
Springs up in tho grace of its beauty rare
column of fretted ice
Oh the earth is calm in its silent rest,
When the south wind, soft and free,
Floats up like a cloud from tho vineyards bcst
Of the glowing Araby;
From the land whore the myrtle and cypress wave
In the breath of the perfumed shore;
And the dallying breeze, where their waters lave,
Keeps time to the golden oar.
The earth is fair where the west wind blows,
When the wearied birds arc mute;
And it signs through the trees at evenings close
To the tone of minstrcl's lutte;
When the rays of the sun from his purple dome
Ger the sunny south arc shed,
And the peasant brings to his cottage home
The vintage ripe and red
But the earth is dark where my foot has trod,
twino no fowery wreath
In the track of my path lies blasted sod
And the waste of barren heath;
Der the yellow harvest of waving grain
In my giant strength l ride,
And blackened and sere it lies dead on the plain,
In the wealth Of its golden pride
Tho mariner sings, for his heart is light,
When the south wind fills his sail,
And the good ship flies ger the waters bright,
To the breath Of the favoring gale.
But his song shall be Of weltering surge
Of waves dashed mountain high,
When l chant er the ship its dcathly dirgc
To moonless sea and sky.
When the rafting hail DER tho icy shroud,
And the wreck Of drifting mast,
Is poured DER the deep from the angry cloud
In the torrents thick and fast;
When the airspirits Shrek thro the bowling storm
And the water fends below
Bear away to their homo the mariners form,
Through tho blackened waters flow.
Then, crowned with my shadowy laurels, / aco
To my home on the snow -ridged peak,
As the eagle returns to his rock DER the sea-
With the prey in his blood-crested bcak;
The requiem bell from the coast is rung,
As sweep Der the oceans bed,
And hear the low chant by the chorigters sung
For the rest Of the sainted dead
And come not again till my banners fade,
And my starry spears grow dim
Till the harvest is gone from the sunny glade,
Where Hoated the reaper's hymn
Till the winters sun looks YEARLY forth,
And yiedcth his strength to me
Then sweep again from tho frozen North,
Der the waste Of the traokless sea
Boston, November, 1851.
One Of the newest French plays produced al
81. James's Theatre, London, is called al
CoLLierde Peyles.". An American millionaire !.
The hero. He falls in love with French lady
he daughter Of a banker, to whom he gives
100 900 francs to relieve him from his difficulties
The lady jilts him for French count, and tn
American is laughed at for his pains The char
lcter Of the American is said to be superbl