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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.

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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,
And the woods are sparkling with dewy light;
The winds, as they wind through the hollows, bear
The breath of the blossoms that wake by night.
Wide o'er the bending meadows roll

The mists, like a lightly moving sea;
The sun is not risen-and over the whole

There hovers a silent mystery.

The pure blue sky is in calm repose;
The pillowy clouds are sleeping there;
So stilly the brook in its covert flows,
You would think its murmur a breath of air.
The water that floats in the glassy pool,
Half hid by the willows that line its brink,
In its deep recess has a look so cool,

One would worship its nymph, as he bent to drink.

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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—
I saw our starry banners fly,

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 ;
And loved it like the conqu'ring flight
Of angels floating wide and bright
Above the stars, above the fight

Where nations warred for liberty;

AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL.

And thought I heard the battle cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sailed upon the dark-blue deep:

And shouted to the eaglet soaring;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And oh, my very soul would leap

To hear the gallant waters roaring
For every sound and shape of strife
To me, was but the breath of life.

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
And shadowy hair and half-shut eyes.

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.

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AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL.

T'is the year's eventide.

The wind,-like one that sighs in pain,
O'er joys that ne'er will bloom again,
Mourns on the far hill-side.

And yet my pensive eye
Rests on the faint blue mountain long,
And for the fairy-land of song,
That lies beyond, I sigh."

The moon unveils her brow;
In the mid-sky her urn glows bright,
And in her pale and mellow light
The valley sleeps below.

I stand deep musing here,
Beneath the dark and motionless beech,

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
And round her withered tree.

The hoar and mantled oak,
With moss and twisted ivy brown,
Bends in its lifeless beauty down

Where weeds the fountain choke.

Leaves, that the night-wind bears
To earth's cold bosom with a sigh,

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