To bear me where, or lost or won
Her battle, in its frown or smile,
Men live with those of Marathon,
Or die with those of Scio's isle;
And find in Valour's tent or tomb,
In life or death, a glorious home.
IV.

I could have left but yesterday
The scene of my boy-years behind,
And floated on my careless way
Wherever will'd the breathing wind.
I could have bade adieu to aught

I've sought, or met, or welcomed here,
Without an hour of shaded thought,
A sigh, a murmur, or a tear.
Such was I yesterday,-but then
I had not known thee, Magdalen.

V.

To-day there is a change within me,
There is a weight upon my brow,
And Fame, whose whispers once could win me
From all I loved, is powerless now.
There ever is a form, a face

Of maiden beauty in my dreams,
Speeding before me, like the race

To ocean of the mountain streamsWith dancing hair, and laughing eyes, That seem to mock me as it flies.

VI.

My sword-it slumbers in its sheath;

My hopes-their starry light is gone;

My heart, the fabled clock of death,
Beats with the same low, lingering tone;
And this, the land of Magdalen,

Seems now the only spot on earth
Where skies are blue and flowers are green;
And here I'd build my household hearth,
And breathe my song of joy, and twine
A lovely being's name with mine.

VII.

In vain! in vain! the sail is spread;
To sea to sea! my task is there;
But when among the unmourn'd dead
They lay me, and the ocean air
Brings tidings of my day of doom,

May'st thou be then, as now thou art,
The load-star of a happy home;

In smile and voice, in eye and heart,
The same as thou hast ever been,
The loved, the lovely Magdalen.

LOVE.

I.

WHEN the tree of Love is budding first,
Ere yet its leaves are green,

Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nurst
Its infant life has been;

The wild bee's slightest touch might wring
The buds from off the tree,

As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing
Breaks the bubbles on the sea.

II.

But when its open leaves have found
A home in the free air,

Pluck them, and there remains a wound
That ever rankles there.

The blight of hope and happiness
Is felt when fond ones part,
And the bitter tear that follows is

The life-blood of the heart.

III.

When the flame of love is kindled first,
'Tis the fire-fly's light at even,
'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst
In the blue of the summer heaven.
A breath can bid it burn no more,

Or if, at times, its beams

Come on the memory, they pass o'er,
Like shadows in our dreams.

IV.

But when that flame has blazed into

A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew

That fell in its first warm hour,

'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head, Whose task is to destroy;

'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead, Whose light but darkens joy!

V.

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,

The infant buds of Love,

And tread his glowing fire to earth,
Ere 'tis dark in clouds above;
Cherish no more a cypress tree
To shade thy future years,
Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be
Quench'd only with thy tears.

J. G. C. BRAINARD.

BORN in New London, Connecticut, in 1796, and died in the same city in 1828. He was educated for the bar, but devoted little attention to his profession. A collection of his poems, edited by J. G. Whittier, was published soon after his death.

THE FALL 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 centuries in the eternal rocks.

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime? O! what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side! Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar! And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ?-a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

EPITHALAMIUM.

I SAW two clouds at morning,
Tinged by the rising sun,
And in the dawn they floated on,

And mingled into one;

I thought that morning cloud was bless'd,
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 dimpling eddies play'd between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat;