WAR CLOUDS.


Now lower the dreadful clouds of war;
Its threatening thunder rolls afar;
Near and more near the rude alarms
Of conflict and the clash of arms
Advance and grow, till all the air
Rings with the brazen trumpet blare.


Towards the close of a sultry day in July, in the year 1812, might
have been seen a young man riding along the beautiful west bank of
the Niagara River, about three miles above its mouth. His
appearance would anywhere have attracted attention. He was small
in person and singularly neat in his attire. By exposure to
summer's sun and winter's cold, his complexion was richly bronzed,
but, as he lifted his broad-leafed felt hat to cool his brow, it
could be seen that his forehead was smooth and white and of a
noble fulness, indicating superior intellectual abilities. His
hair was dark,

--his eye beneath
Flashed like falchion from its sheath.


His bright, quick glances, alternating with a full and steady
gaze, betokened a mind keenly sympathetic with emotions both of
sorrow and of joy. His dress and accoutrements were those of a