From the New York Mirror.l

 THE RIVER
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Thou art the poet of the woods, fair river,

 A lover of the beautiful. and still

 Dn wand'rest, whilst the night-stars quiver,

 The only noise that haunts the desert hill; Thou art the poet of the woods, whose lay Charms the dim forest on thy sylvan way. Thou art the poet of the vale, bright river, Painting the glowing hues of earth and sky,

 On thy own pure and placid breast for ever;

 Two worlds of beauty on thy waters lie! Thou'rt natures ablest painter, bold and free, And human genius ne'er surpasseth thee. Thou art tn minstrel of th til fields, sweet river

 Whose music fingers like an angels tongue, A voice that sings the glory of the glver!

 Creations first, suhlimest, birth of song! i. Still let ny voice thy liquid music hear, fD. sweet musician. voice for ever dear