A POT OF PRESERVES FROM MOUNT PARNASSUS. 95
No one can deny that its general adoption would mark a new era
in the history of our literature.

SONG.

’T 1s sweet to roam when morning’s light
Resounds across the deep ;

And the erystal song of the woodbine bright
Hushes the rocks to sleep.

When the midnight sky has a sanguine dye,
Of a pale and inky hue ;

And the wolf rings out, with a glittering shout,
To-whit! to-whit! to-whoo!

When the pearly wing of the wintry trees
Dashes along the glen ;

And the laughing tint of the moss-grown cliff
Haunts the ethereal fen.

When, at burning noon, the bloodshot moon
Is bathed in crumbling dew;

And the wolf rings out, with a glittering shout,
To-whit! to-whit! to-whoo!