124 TO THE MEMORY OF J. G. C. BRAINARD. With the green trees, and the quiet streams around thy place of birth? The wave that wanders seaward-the tall, gray hills, whereon Lingers, as if for sacrifice, the last light of the sun; The fair of form-the pure of soul-the eyes that shone, when thou Wast answering to their smile of love-art thou not with them now? Thou art sleeping calmly, Brainard-but the fame denied thee when Thy way was with the multitude-the living tide of men, Is burning o'er thy sepulchre-a holy light and strong, And gifted ones are kneeling there, to breathe thy words of song The beautiful and pure of soul-the lights of Earth's cold bowers Are twining on thy funeral-stone a coronal of flowers! Ay, freely hath the tear been given-and freely hath gone forth The sigh of grief, that one like thee should pass away from Earth Yet those who mourn thee, mourn thee not like those to whom is given MORNING TWILIGHT. 125 No soothing hope, no blissful thought of parted friends in Heaven They feel that thou wast summoned to the Christian's high reward, The everlasting joy of those whose trust is in the Lord. MORNING TWILIGHT. BY J. G. PERCIVAL. THE mountains are blue in the morning air, The mists, like a lightly moving sea; There hovers a silent mystery. The pure blue sky is in calm repose; One would worship its nymph, as he bent to drink. Pure and beautiful thoughts, at this early hour, Go off to the home of the bright and blessed; They steal on the heart with an unseen power, And its passionate throbbings are laid at rest : O! who would not catch, from the quiet sky And the mountains that soar in the hazy air, When his harbinger tells that the sun is nigh, The visions of bliss that are floating there. AMBITION. BY JOHN NEAL. I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry, And panted at the drum's deep roll ; And held my breath, when-flaming high— As challenging the haughty sky, They went like battle o'er my soul: For I was so ambitious then, I burned to be the slave-of men. I stood and saw the morning light, A standard swaying far and free ; Where nations warred for liberty; AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL. And thought I heard the battle cry I sailed upon the dark-blue deep: And shouted to the eaglet soaring; To hear the gallant waters roaring But, I am strangely altered now— I love no more the bugle's voiceThe rushing wave-the plunging prow-~ The mountain with his clouded browThe thunder when his blue skies bow, And all the sons of God rejoice I love to dream of tears and sighs AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. ROUND Autumn's mouldering urn, Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale, When nightfall shades the quiet vale, And stars in beauty burn. 127 128 AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL. T'is the year's eventide. The wind,-like one that sighs in pain, And yet my pensive eye The moon unveils her brow; I stand deep musing here, Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach My melancholy ear. The air breathes chill and free; A Spirit, in soft music, calls From Autumn's gray and moss-grown halls The hoar and mantled oak, Where weeds the fountain choke. Leaves, that the night-wind bears |