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THE STORM OF WAR.

To dwell among the saints on high,
Companion of the blest.

The sun is set in folded clouds--
Its twilight rays are gone,
And gathered in the shades of night,
The storm is rolling on.

Alas! how ill that bursting storm

The fainting spirit braves,
When they, the lovely and the lost,
Are gone to early graves.

THE STORM OF WAR.

BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.

O! once was felt the storm of war!
It had an earthquake's roar,
It flashed upon the mountain height
And smoked along the shore.
It thundered in a dreaming ear
And up the Farmer sprang;
It muttered in a bold true heart
And a warrior's harness rang.

It rumbled by a widow's door,—
All but her hope did fail :
It trembled through a leafy grove,
And a maiden's cheek was pale

THE STORM OF WAR.

It steps upon the sleeping sea

And waves around it howl;
It strides from top to foaming top
Out-frowning ocean's scowl.

And yonder sailed the merchant ship-
There was peace upon her deck;
Her friendly flag from the mast was torn,
And the waters whelmed the wreck.
But the same blast that bore her down
Filled a gallant daring sail,

That loved the night of black'ning storm
And laughed in the roaring gale.

The stream that was a torrent once
Is rippled to a brook,

The sword is broken, and the spear
Is but a pruning hook.

The mother chides her truant boy,
And keeps him well from harm;
While in the grove the happy maid
Hangs on her lover's arm.

Another breeze is on the sea,
Another wave is there
And floats abroad triumphantly,
A banner bright and fair.

And peaceful hands and happy hearts,

And gallant spirits keep

Each star that decks it pure and bright

Above the rolling deep.

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And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb

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STANZAS

STANZAS.

BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.

THE dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And withered are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs black'ning on the stalk,
The dew drops fall in frozen showers.
Gone are the Spring's green sprouting bowers
Gone Summer's rich and mantling vines.
And Autumn with her yellow hours,
On hill and plain no longer shines.

I learned a clear and wild toned note,
That rose and swelled from yonder tree-
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,

There perched and raised her song for me.
The Winter comes, and where is she?
Away-where summer wings will rove,
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Is vocal with the notes of love.

Too mild the breath of southern sky,

Too fresh the flower that blushes there,

The northern breeze that rustles by

Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair; No forest tree stands stript and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead,

No mountain top with sleety hair

Bends o'er the snow its reverend head.