GO FORTH INTO THE FIELDS. BY WILLIAM J. PABODIE. "The world is too much with us."-Wordsworth. Go forth into the fields, Ye denizens of the pent city's mart! Go forth and know the gladness nature yields Leave ye the feverish strife, The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng ;- Hark! from each fresh clad bough, Or blissful soaring in the golden air, Bright birds with joyous music bid you now The silvery gleaming rills Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea, Or gaily dancing down the sunny hills, Call loudly in their glee ! And the young wanton breeze, With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase In voice low whispering, 'mong th' embowering trees. Woos you to her embrace. Go-breathe the air of heaven, Where violets meekly smile upon your way; Seek ye the solemn wood, Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear, Stand by the tranquil lake, Sleeping 'mid willowy banks of emerald dye, And if within your breast, Hallowed to nature's touch one chord remain ; If aught save worldly honors find you blest, A strange delight shall thrill, A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove ; O, in the calm, still hours, The holy Sabbath hours when sleeps the air, And heaven, and earth decked with her beauteous flowers, Lie hushed in breathless prayer,— Pass ye the proud fane by, The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod, LIBERTY'S TREES. BY THE HON. JOSEPH L. TILLINGHAST. (Written early in 1812, in prospect of hostilities with France or England.) O LEAP from the mountain, thou firm rooted Oak, And shake off thy vesture so grand, Yield thy rugged old limbs to the architect's stroke Down, down from thy highland, thou winterless Pine, Thy head-with the streamers of war let it shine ; Trees hallowed and sacred! Full long have your brows In Heaven's golden lustre stood shining; While shaded, beneath, by your balm-breathing boughs, And oft in the tempests of vengeance and power, And oft on your heads, that still steadily tower, Now leave the old mountain all bare to the storm And let the free bolt round us roll ;-The tempest can only our bodies deform, But servitude killeth the soul ! See o'er the red wave, ever blushing with gore, Beyond, see old Albion her War-Cross display Ye Cedars, ye Firs, that the torrent floods lave, In the cloud of your canvas, far-shadowing the wave, Rush, rush, thou warm blood through the veins of our youth, And, while their swoln bosoms are beating, Let them strike, and strike firmly, for Freedom and Truth, One blow, that may need no repeating! Then hail to the years that in honor shall flourish When glory and safety combine; Once more, grassy hills, 'mid the bowers that ye nourish, Religion and Peace shall recline. PERRY, ON LAKE ERIE. BY THE HON. TRISTAM BURGES. COMMODORE PERRY arrived at Erie on the 26th of March, 1813. He carried with him from Newport, 149 men and three boys, all of whom were volunteers. The fleet of Eneas, so Maro sings, when riding at anchor in the Tyber, and, in his absence attacked by the Rutulians, and likely to be burned, was, by a miracle of poetic mythology, changed into a shoal of dolphins, and went off sporting down the stream; and if so, they may, for aught we know, be at this time playing about the mouth of that river; or showing their bright sides to the sun, in other parts of the Tyrean sea. Perry and his hardy Rhode-Island mariners, travelled up to the lake, for something not quite so poetic. They were required to change the oaks, and the green pines and hemlocks, then standing on those shores, into a fleet of ships and vessels, and fit them out to encounter, and overcome, in battle, on those waters, a fleet then armed, equipped and manned with British sailors; men, who had never, before |