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DEATH AND THE HUNTER.

Her beams all rosy the morning flings

O'er valley and hill, where music rings,—

But 'tis not the sky-bird's song so sweet,

Nor the wood-thrush that cheers the fawn's retreat;

It is not the nightingale's tuneful spell

That swells the wild depths of the forest along,For she to our isle hath bid farewell,

And sung to the groves her parting song—Shed their last blossoms the weeping shades,When through the forest's lone arcadesSighed the last echoes of her lay,As to fairer climes she winged her way,Where brighter moons and richer flowersIllume and deck her gorgeous bowers.And now,—no thrilling midnight songIs heard the desolate woods among,