Full to the brim our rivers flowed;
The melody of waters filled
The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dashed, and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

--Bryant: _An Indian at the Burial Place of his Fathers_.

2. At that moment the woods were filled with another burst of cries, and
at the signal four savages sprang from the cover of the driftwood. Heyward
felt a burning desire to rush forward to meet them, so intense was the
delirious anxiety of the moment; but he was restrained by the deliberate
examples of the scout and Uncas. When their foes, who leaped over the
black rocks that divided them, with long bounds, uttering the wildest
yells, were within a few rods, the rifle of Hawkeye slowly rose among the
shrubs and poured out its fatal contents. The foremost Indian bounded like
a stricken deer and fell headlong among the clefts of the island.

--Cooper: _Last of the Mohicans_.

3. The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to
the evening skies, one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide through
the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof
and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the courtyard. The
vanquished of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the
neighboring wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with
wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks
and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was for
a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing her arms
abroad with wild exaltation as if she reigned empress of the conflagration
which she had raised. At length, with a terrific crash, the whole turret
gave way and she perished in the flames which had consumed her tyrant.

--Scott: _Ivanhoe_.

4. Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

--Longfellow: _The Village Blacksmith_.

5. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door;
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this, and nothing more."

--Edgar