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THE PIEDMONTESE

Ah, ay pipe ,

Why leave your cot, your woods, and thyht that wealth can bring?

He goes to wake o'er ht fancy hails!

Yet oft of ho,

And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales

Once more he turns to view his native scene--

Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,

He spies his cabin 'reen,

The well-knooods, clear brook, and pastures gay;

And thinks of friends and parents left behind,

Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;

And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;

And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!