O, wear the ring, and guard the flow- These may have language all thine own, To him a mystery still. Yet scorn thou not for this the true If there be one that o'er the dead And watched through sickness by thy bed, Call his a kindred heart! But for those bonds all perfect made, O, lay thy lovely dreams aside, KINDRED HEARTS. O, ASK not, hope thou not, too much 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 A rapture o'er thy soul can bring, — The tune that speaks of other times, - 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. 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 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. 155 The waves along thy pebbly shore, And curl around the dashing oar, How sweet, at set of sun, to view Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight 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 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; 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 Blown on the beach, so mellow and For she looked like a mother whose first 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; |