e extensive, and very fertile. These
are either natural prairies, or Indian clearings, (of which, however,
the present Indians have no tradition,) and lying, to an extent of
many thousand acres, between the villages of Genesee, Moscow, and
Mount Morris, which now crown the declivities of their surrounding
uplands; and, contrasting their smooth verdure with the shaggy hills
that bound the horizon, and their occasional clumps of spreading
trees, with the tall and naked relics of the forest, nothing can
be more agreeable to the eye, long accustomed to the uninterrupted
prospect of a level and wooded country.

* * * * *

SONG FROM THE ALBUM OF A POET.

_By G.R. Carter._

THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE.

Away o'er the dancing wave,
Like the wings of the white seamew;
How proudly the hearts of the youthful brave
Their dreams of bliss renew!

And as on the pathless deep,
The bark by the gale is driven,
How glorious it is with the stars to keep
A watch on the beautiful heaven.

The winds o'er the ocean bear
Rich fragrance from the flow'rs,
That bloom on the sward, and sparkle there
Like stars in their dark blue bow'rs.

The visions of those that sail
O'er the wave with its snow-white foam,
Are haunted with scenes of the beauteous vale
That encloses their peaceful home.

They have wander'd through groves of the west,
Illumed with the fire-flies' light;
But their native land kindles a charm in each breast,
Unwaken'd by regions more bright.

The haunts that were dear to the heart
As an exquisite dream of romance,
Strew thoughts, like sweet flow'rs, round its holiest part,
And their fancy-bound spirits entrance.

Then away with the fluttering sail!
And away with the bounding wave!
While the musical sounds of the ocean-gale
Are wafted around the brave!

* * * * *

Ray wittily observes that an obscure and prolix author may not
improperly be compared to a Cuttle-fish, since he may be said to hide
himself under his own ink.

* * * * *

LINES

FROM THE GERMAN OF KOeRNER.

_Written on the morning of the Battle of Daenneberg._

Doubt-beladen, dim and hoary,
O'er us breaks the mighty day,
And the sunbeam, cold and gory,
Lights us on our fearful way.
In the womb of coming hours,
Destinies of e