THE HUNTER AND TRAPPER a Poem
THE HUNTER AND TRAPPER
IN the dusk and hush of the woods,
Far away from the haunts of men,
Now o'er the steep mountain-slopes,
Now deep in some darkling glen,
I rove, and I pitch my camp,
Alone in the wilderness,
Where ne'er human voices may curse,
Or human lips may bless.
My home is a wide, humble place
Without fa9ade or column or dome,
No sumptuous hall to invite,
No marble palatial home;
No gilded and groin'd lofty roof,
No walls resplendent with art;
No sculptures, no paintings renown'd,
So dear to the proud human heart.
My home is at base of a rock,
With the wild vines and mosses o'ergrown,
O'er which an imperial oak
Its shelter majestic hath thrown.
A pure, merry brook runneth by,
It prattles and talks to me long;
It gives me cool nectar to taste,
And it charms with perpetual song.
Sweet twigs of the cedar my couch,
My roof is of willow and reed,
And the bark of the birch-tree my wall,
And no better protection I need.
I am free as the breezes of air,
I roam o'er the mountains at will,
In the depths of the forest I plunge
And scale the bald cliffs of the hill.
I follow the tracks of the deer,
The panther I seek in his lair,
And I dare in his cavernous haunt
The tusks and the claws of the bear.
My iron-tooth'd snap-traps I set
For the beaver, the otter, and mink,
By the shore of the forest-fring'd lake,
Or fast by the rivulet's brink.
1 know not a sorrow or care,
Remorse or regret or despair;
I rejoice in the vigor of health,
And pine not for honors or wealth.
McLellan, Isaac. Poems of the Rod and Gun. New York: Henry Thorpe, 1886.
|Are you aware that Google is offering +1 to Everyone? Share your +1 with Every One of Your Friends by looking for the +1 on websites everywhere!" |
If you liked this site, click
Order Online 24 Hours a Day, 7 Days a Week, 365 Days a Year