To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watched through sickness by thy bed,

Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,

O, lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven!

KINDRED HEARTS.

O, ASK not, hope thou not, too much
Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch

Bids the sweet fountains flow: Few-and by still conflicting powers Forbidden here to meetSuch ties would make this life of ours Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye

Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky
Where the rich sunset burns;
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring, —
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times, -
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night; The wind that, with so many a tone, Some chord within can thrill, —

MARIA BROOKS.

[U. S. A., 1795-1845.]

MARRIAGE.

THE bard has sung, God never formed a soul

Without its own peculiar mate, to meet Its wandering half, when ripe to crown the whole

Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete!

But thousand evil things there are that hate

To look on happiness; these hurt, im

pede,

JAMES G. PERCIVAL

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

spairing

Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

[U. S. A., 1795 1856.]

MAY.

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;

The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,

Tell of serener hours,

Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air,
And where his whispering voice in music
falls,

Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes.

And bright reflects the polar star.

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The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north-wind, heave their
foam,

And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet or silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest

snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

O, I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er!

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

[U. S. A., 1796-1828.]

THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,

dering side?

Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him

Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far

Above its loftiest mountains?-a light

wave,

That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

bright,

On which our friendship and our love to write;

That these may never from the soul depart, We trust them to the memory of the heart. There is no dimming, no effacement there; Each new pulsation keeps the record clear; Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill, Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

[U. S. A., 1795-1820.]

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

WHEN Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there;
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle-bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.

Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on,
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn,
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,

And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas, on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,

And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep,

She dispensing her silvery light,
And he his notes as silvery quite,

157

That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing);

And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,

And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "Passing away! passing away!"

O, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow;

And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,

Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours

Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,

That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung

This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and of womanly

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade

Of thought or care stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,

Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.

The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush

oar,

To catch the music that comes from the

shore?

Hark! the notes on my ear that play Are set to words; as they float, they say,

"Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a fairy's shell,

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,

That marched so calmly round above

her, Was a little dimmed, steals

Upon Noon's hot face. n't but love her,

as when Evening

Yet one could

clear;

Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,

Striking the hour, that filled my ear, As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling

hung,

And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung

(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring

babe lay

Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say,

"Passing away! passing away!"

While yet I looked, what a change there came!

Her eye was quenched, and her cheek

was wan;