O, wear the ring, and guard the flow- These may have language all thine own, er, To him a mystery still. Yet scorn thou not for this the true If there be one that o'er the dead 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: Such ties would make this life of ours 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; 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, And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate, Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and pant and bleed. And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, From where her native founts of An JAMES G. PERCIVAL JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and de- | And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 155 The waves along thy pebbly shore, And curl around the dashing oar, How sweet, at set of sun, to view 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 May; The tresses of the woods With the light dallying of the west-wind play; And the full-brimming floods, As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun. TO SENECA LAKE. ON thy fair bosom, silver lake, On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, seem 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 frighted waves rush wildly back Flag of the free heart's hope and home, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? JOHN PIERPONT. [U. s. A., 1785-1866.] PASSING AWAY. WAS it the chime of a tiny bell That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell That he winds, on the beech, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 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 ; 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 Blown on the beach, so mellow and For she looked like a mother whose first 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. |