He smites the rock-upheaved in pride,

See towers of strength and domes of taste. Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal, Fire bears his banner on the wave,

He bids the mortal poison heal,

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill;

He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
With thoughts that fill his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky,
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame
That quivers round the Throne on high.
In war renowned, in peace sublime,

He moves in greatness and in grace;
His power subduing space and time,

Links realm to realm, and race to race.

EPITHALAMIUM.

BY J. G. C. BRAINARD.

I SAW two clouds at morning,
Tinged with the rising sun;
And in the dawn they floated on,
And mingled into one :

I thought that morning cloud was blest,
It moved so sweetly to the west.

I saw two summer currents

Flow smoothly to their meeting,

And join their course,with silent force,

In peace each other greeting :

Calm was their course through banks of green, While dippling eddies played between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat;

Like summer's beam, and summer's stream,

Float on in joy, to meet

A calmer sea, where storms shall cease

A purer sky, where all is peace.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in his well.

TO A WATERFOWL.

BY W. C. BRYANT.

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seekst thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast

The desert and illimitable air

Lone wandering, but not lost.