When the night storm gathers dim and dark,
With a shrill and boding scream,

Thou rushest by the foundering bark,
Quick as a passing dream.

Lord of the boundless realm of air,

In thy imperial name,

The hearts of the bold and ardent dare
The dangerous path of fame.

Beneath the shade of thy golden wings,
The Roman legions bore,

From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs,
Their pride, to the polar shore.

For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid;
To thee the clarions raised their swell,
And the dying warrior prayed.

Thou wert, through an age of death and fears,
The image of pride and power,

Till the gathered rage of a thousand years
Burst forth in one awful hour.

And then a deluge of wrath it came,

And the nations shook with dread;

And it swept the earth till its fields were flame,
And piled with the mingled dead.
Kings were rolled in the wasteful ficod,
With the low and crouching slave;
And together lay, in a shroud of blood,
The coward and the brave.

And where was then thy fearless flight?
"O'er the dark, mysterious sea,

To the lands that caught the setting light,
The cradle of Liberty.

There, on the silent and lonely shore,

For ages, I watched alone,

And the world, in its darkness, asked no more
Where the glorious bird had flown.

But then came a bold and hardy few,
And they breasted the unknown wave;

I caught afar the wandering crew;
And I knew they were high and brave.

I wheeled around the welcome bark,
As it sought the desolate shore,
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,
y quivering pinions bore.

And now that bold and hardy few
Are a nation wide and strong;

And danger and doubt I have led them through,
And they worship me in song;

And over their bright and glancing arms,
On field, and lake, and sea,

With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms,
I guide them to victory."

Salmon River.*-BRAINARD.

'Tis a sweet stream; and so, 'tis true, are all That, undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall,

Pursue their way

By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood,
By rock, that, since the deluge, fixed has stood,
Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood
By night and day.

But yet there's something in its humble rank,
Something in its pure wave and sloping bank,
Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank
With unscared look;

There's much in its wild history, that teems
With all that's superstitious, and that seems
To match our fancy and eke out our dreams,
In that small brook.

Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain,

And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain; And many a quiver,

Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill,

*This river enters into the Connecticut at East Haddam.

Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still,
And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill
From Salmon river.

Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made
Their spells by moonlight; or beneath the shade
That shrouds sequestered rock, or dark'ning glade,
Or tangled dell.

Here Philip came, and Miantonimo,

And asked about their fortunes long ago,
As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show
Old Samuel.

And here the black fox roved, that howled and shook
His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook
For earthly fox;

Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear,

And his soft peltry, stripped and dressed, to wear,
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair

Transfer him to a box.

Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme
About a little and unnoticed stream,

That few have heard of; but it is a theme
I chance to love:

And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed,
And whistle to the note of many a deed
Done on this river, which, if there be need,
I'll try to prove.

To the Evening Wind.-BRYANT.*

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,

*The Talisman has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication; but this, we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, either English or American, has there ever appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of Bryant's style-his chaste elegance, both in thought and expression,-ornament enough, but not in profusion or display,-imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarly soothing, select and melodious language,-harmony in the flow of the stanza, gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy.-ED.

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,

And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

That is the life of nature, shall restore,

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy inurmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

The Grave of the Indian Chief.—PERCIVAL.

THEY laid the corse of the wild and brave

On the sweet, fresh earth of the new day grave, On the gentle hill, where wild weeds waved, And flowers and grass were flourishing

They laid within the peaceful bed,

Close by the Indian chieftain's head, His bow and arrows; and they said,

That he had found new hunting grounds,

Where bounteous Nature only tills

The willing soil; and o'er whose hills, And down beside the shady rills,

The hero roams eternally.

And these fair isles to the westward lie,
Beneath a golden sun-set sky,
Where youth and beauty never die,

And song and dance move endlessly.

They told of the feats of his dog and gun,

They told of the deeds his arm had done,
They sung of battles lost and won,
And so they paid his eulogy.

And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones,
They raised a simple pile of stones;
Which, hallowed by their tears and moans,
Was all the Indian's monument.

And since the chieftain here has slept,
Full many a winter's winds have swept,
And many an age has softly crept
Over his humble sepulchre.

Escape from Winter.--PERCIVAL.

O, HAD I the wings of a swallow, I'd fly Where the roses are blossoming all the year long;