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POEMS.
In clear November nights. And, later still,That mountain glen was filled with drifted snowsFrom side to side, that one might walk across,While, many a fathom deep, below, the brookSang to itself, and leaped and trotted onUnfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale. Alice.—A mountain's side, you said; the Alps, perhaps,Or our own Alleghanies. Uncle John.—Not so fast,My young geographer, for then the Alps,With their broad pastures, haply were untrodOf herdsman's foot, and never human voiceHad sounded in the woods that overhangOur Alleghany's streams. I think it wasUpon the slopes of the great Caucasus,Or where the rivulets of AraratSeek the Armenian vales. That mountain roseSo high, that, on its top, the winter snowWas never melted, and the cottagers
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