From the Cincinnati Mirror. SONG OF THE WHIPPOORWILL.
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BY I'll. GREGG. The sun hath sunk beneath the west, And dark the shadows fall; I'll seek again my forest home, And make my evening call: The zephyr in the grove IS hushed, And every leaf is still So, here, within this wild retreat, I'll chant my--Whip-poor-will. Dim Night, with sable mantle spread, Envelopes field and flood, And stars, with pale and mellow light, Shine out o'er mead and wood; My mate. too, has begun her strain, Upon yon distant hill- And I, within my leafy bower,

 Will tune my-Whip-poor-will. The watchdog has retired to rest Mans daily toll is done No sound is heard in these deep shades, Save my shrill voice alone Or in yon wild and lonely glen, The tinkling of the rill--- So-in these peaceful soltudes, I'll chant my--Whip-poor-will.