Like summer's beam, and summer's strearr.,

Float on, in joy, to meet
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease-
A purer sky, where all is peace.

TO THE DEAD.

How many now are dead to me

That live to others yet! How many are alive to me

Who crumble in their graves, nor see That sickening, sinking look, which we

Till dead can ne'er forget.

Beyond the blue seas, far away,

Most wretchedly alone,
One died in prison, far away,
Where stone on stone shut out the day,
And never hope or comfort's ray

In his lone dungeon shone.
Dead to the world, alive to me,

Though months and years have pass’d;
In a lone hour, his sigh to me
Comes like the hum of some wild bee,
And then his form and face I see,

As when I saw him last.

And one with a bright lip, and cheek,

And eye, is dead to me.
How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek!
His lip was cold-it would not speak:
His heart was dead, for it did not break:

And his eye, for it did not see.
Then for the living be the tomb,

And for the dead the smile ;
Engrave oblivion on the tomb
Of pulseless life and deadly bloom-
Dim is such glare : but bright the gloom

Around the funeral pile.

THE INDIAN SUMMER,

WHAT is there saddening in the autumn leaves ? Have they that " green and yellow melancholy” That the sweet poet spake of ?-Had he seen Our variegated woods when first the frost Turns into beauty all October's charmsWhen the dread fever quits us—when the storms Of the wild equinox, with all its wet, Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, With a bright bow of many colours hung Upon the forest tops-he had not sighed.

The moon stays longest for the hunter now: The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store : While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along The bright, blue sky above him, and that bends Magnificently all the forest's pride, Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, “ What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?"

STANZAS

THE dead leaves strew the forest's walk,

And wither'd are the pale wild flowers; The frost hangs blackening 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 learn'd a clear and wild-toned note,

That rose and swell'd from yonder treeA gay bird, with too sweet a throat,

There perch’d, 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 trees stand stripp'd and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead,

No mountain top, with sleety hair, Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.

Go there, with all the birds, and seek

A happier clime, with livelier flight, Kiss, with the sun, the evening's check,

And leave me lonely with the night.

I'll gaze upon the cold north light, And mark where all its glories shone

See—that it all is fair and bright, Feel-that it all is cold and gone.

S. G. GOODRICH.

BORN in Ridgefield, Connecticut, in 1795. He is best known as the author of the large number of juvenile works, written under the signature of Peter Parley. His poems were published in 1836.

LAKE SUPERIOR.

“FATHER OF LAKES !” thy waters bend

Beyond the eagle's utmost view,
When, throned in heaven, he sees thee send

Back to the sky its world of blue.

Boundless and deep, the forests weave

Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave

Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves,

With listening ear, in sadness broods; Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves,

Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. Nor can the light canoes, that glide

Across thy breast, like things of air,

Chase from thy lone and level tide

The spell of stillness reigning there.
Yet round this waste of wood and wave,

Unheard, unseen, a spirit lives,
That, breathing o'er each rock and cave,

To all a wild, strange aspect gives.

The thunder riven oak that flings

Its grisly arms athwart the sky, A sudden, startling image brings

To the lone traveller's kindled eye. The gnarled and braided boughs, that show

Their dim forms in the forest shade, Like wrestling serpents seem, and throw

Fantastic horrors through the glade. The very echoes round this shore,

Have caught a strange and gibbering tone; For they have told the war-whoop o'er,

Till the wild chorus is their own.

Wave of the wilderness, adieu !

Adieu, ye rocks, ye wilds and woods! Roll on, thou element of blue,

And fill these awful solitudes !

Thou hast no tale to tell of man

God is thy theme. Ye sounding cavesWhisper of Him, whose mighty plan

Deems as a bubble all your waves !