Isaac McLellan Poems

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The Ocean

Morn on the Summer Sea- the breaking light
Is trembling on the mountain's misty height,
And upland lea- and on the distant glen-

Wild Horse Of The Prairies

For other scenes their lights expand,
Out in the savage western land,
Where wildernesses lone and grand,

The Ocean Yacht Race

A noble sight is this, I ween,
Fair panorama of the sea,
The ocean white with crested foam

New England's Dead

New England's dead! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife, made red
By bloody victory.

The Flying Fish

In Indian Ocean, or in seas
That dash their billows upon tropic isles,
Where the perennial, soft summer time

Tiger Hunting in India with Elephants

We cross'd a brawling mountain torrent, far
From our Indian camp. The red, angry glare
Of crimson sunset shimmer'd through the clouds
Of dust that fill'd the air with their dull, coppery hues,


Amid the wildernesses vast
That gird the Mississippi's shores,
'Mid woods whose shadows dense are cast

The Haunted Wood

I ofttimes come to this lonely place,
And forget the stir of my restless race;
Forget the woes of human life,
The bitter pang and the constant strife,

Long Island in Late October

October's flaming banners, of purple and of gold,
O'er all the bowery woodland, are flauntingly unroll'd;
From his o'er-brimming urn red Autumn pours his dyes
O'er all thy realm, Long Island, from clouds that sail the skies.

The Little Chickadee Warbler of the Winter Woods

The brown chickadee still chirps on the tree,
Though it yields scanty wealth of larvae and bee,
Though its branches are stripp'd of blossom and leaf,
And shrill blows the wind with a murmur of grief.

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