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.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

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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,
A sheet of 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,

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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

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

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.