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If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels
Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness; heaves in storms The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breastWhich gives each outward circumstance its hue, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anew, That so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart.
JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.
THE DEAD LEAVES STROW THE FOREST WALK.
And wither'd are the pale wild-flowers;
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.
And Autumn, with her yellow hours,
I learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swell’d from yonder tree
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,
There perch'd and raised her song for me.
The winter comes, and where is she?.
Where buds are fresh, and every tree
Too mild the breath of southern sky,
Too fresh the flower that blushes there,
Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;
No mountain-top with sleety hair
Go there with all the birds, -and seek
A happier clime, with livelier flight,
I'll gaze upon the cold north light,
See !_that it all is fair and bright,
THERE's beauty in the deep :-
There 's beauty in the deep.
There's music in the deep :-
There's music in the deep.
There 's quiet in the dcep :-
There's quiet in the deep.
ON THE LOSS OF PROFESSOR FISHER, OF YALE COLLEGE. THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string,
Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm; The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring,
Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form ; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,
Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.
So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear,
And radiant learning beckon'd thee away.
Beam of thy morning promised a bright day.
Where storms are hush'd, where tempests never rage; Where angry skies and blackening seas, no more
With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage. By thee its peaceful margant shall be trod
Thy home is Heaven, and thy friend is God.
THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It would seem As if God pour'd thee from his “hollow hand," And hung his bow upon thine awful front; And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake, "The sound of many waters;" and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His centries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung
FROM AN ADDRESS TO CONNECTICUT RIVER.
-"T is there the otter dives, the beaver feeds,
Dark as the frost-nipp'd leaves that strow'd the ground, The Indian hunter here his shelter found; Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true, Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe, Spear'd the quick salmon leaping up the fall, And slew the deer without the rifle ball.
Here his young squaw her cradling tree would choose,
-No more shall they thy welcome waters bless,
Stream of my sleeping fathers ! when the sound Of coming war echoed thy hills around, How did thy sons start forth from every glade, Snatching the musket where they left the spade. How did their mothers urge them to the fight, Their sisters tell them to defend the right, How bravely did they stand, how nobly fall, The earth their coffin and the turf their pallHow did the aged pastor light his eye, When, to his flock, he read the purpose high And stern resolve, whate'er the toil may be, To pledge life, name, famé, an--for Liberty. --Cold is the hand that penn'd that glorious page Still in the grave the body of that sage Whose lip of eloquence and heart of zeal, Made patriots act and listening statesmen feel Brought thy Green Mountains down upon their foes, And thy white summits melted of their snows, While every vale to which his voice could come, Rang with the fife and echoed to the drum.
Bold River! better suited are thy waves To nurse the laurels clustering round their graves, Than many a distant stream, that soaks the mud Where thy brave sons have shed their gallant blood, And felt, beyond all other mortal pain, They ne'er should see their happy home again.
Thou had'st a poet once-and he could tell,
-But we shall hear his classic lays no more!
Yet for his brow thy ivy leaf shall spread, Thy freshest myrtle lift its berried head, And our gnard Charter-oak put forth a bough, Whose leaves shall grace thy Trumbull's honor'd brow.