JAMES G. PERCIVAL· - JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and de- | And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 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 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 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. The waves along thy pebbly shore, 155 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 midnigh: hour, as shines the moon, 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, Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of While I look upward to thee. It would From war's vain trumpet, by thy thun- | But we've a page, more glowing and more 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 And set the stars of glory there; Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas, on ocean wave JOHN PIERPONT. And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, 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 pride, That told me she soon was to be a bride; Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, In the same sweet voice I heard her say, "Passing away! passing away!" 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 While the boatman listens and ships his Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimmed, steals as when Evening Upon Noon's hot face. Yet one could n't but love her, For she looked like a mother whose first 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 Stooping and staffed was her withered | Even now, the bow-string, at his beck, Goes round his mightiest subjects' neck; Yet will he, in his saddle, stoopI've seen him, in his palace-yard— To take petitions from a troop Of women, who, behind his guard, Come up, their several suits to press, To state their wrongs, and ask redress. |