Thou art the same, eternal sea!

The earth hath many shapes and forms,
Of hill and valley, flower and tree;
Fields that the fervid noontide warms,
Or winter's rugged grasp deforms,

Or bright with autumn's golden store;
Thou coverest up thy face with storms,
Or smilest serene,-but still thy roar

And dashing foam go up to vex the sea-beat shore.

I see thy heaving waters roll,
I hear thy stern, uplifted voice,
And trumpet-like upon my soul
Falls the deep music of that noise
Wherewith thou dost thyself rejoice;
The ships, that on thy bosom play,
Thou dashest them about like toys,
And stranded navies are thy prey,
Strown on thy rock-bound coast, torn by the
whirling spray.

As summer twilight, soft and calm,
Or when in stormy grandeur drest,
Peals up to heaven the eternal psalm,
That swells within thy boundless breast;
Thy curling waters have no rest;
But day and night the ceaseless throng
Of waves that wait thy high behest,
Speak out in utterance deep and strong,

And loud the craggy beach howls back their

savage song.

Terrible art thou in thy wrath,-
Terrible in thine hour of glee,

When the strong winds, upon their path,
Bound o'er thy breast tumultuously,
And shout their chorus loud and free
To the sad sea-bird's mournful wail,
As, heaving with the heaving sea,
The broken mast and shatter'd sail
Tell of thy cruel strength the lamentable tale.

Ay, 'tis indeed a glorious sight
To gaze upon thine ample face;
An awful joy,-a deep delight!

I see thy laughing waves embrace
Each other in their frolic race;
I sit above the flashing spray,
That foams around this rocky base,

And, as the bright blue waters play, [as they. Feel that my thoughts, my life, perchance, are vain

This is thy lesson, mighty sea!
Man calls the dimpled earth his own,
The flowery vale, the golden lea;
And on the wild, gray mountain-stone
Claims nature's temple for his throne!

Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom; Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their perfume: Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray, Native land, native land-home far away!

"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" Dim grew the forest-path: onward they trod; Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting in GoD! Gray men and blooming maids, high rose their song; Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along:

"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!" Not theirs the glory-wreath, torn by the blast; Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward they past! Green be their mossy graves! ours be their fame, While their song peals along, ever the same: Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; Where the free dare to be-this is our home!"

66

THE LYRE AND SWORD.

THE freeman's glittering sword be blest,-
Forever blest the freeman's lyre,-
That rings upon the tyrant's crest;

This stirs the heart like living fire:
Well can he wield the shining brand,
Who battles for his native land;

But when his fingers sweep the chords,
That summon heroes to the fray,
They gather at the feast of swords,

Like mountain-eagles to their prey!
And mid the vales and swelling hills,
That sweetly bloom in Freedom's land,
A living spirit breathes and fills

The freeman's heart and nerves his hand; For the bright soil that gave him birth, The home of all he loves on earth,

For this, when Freedom's trumpet calls, He waves on high his sword of fire,For this, amidst his country's halls Forever strikes the freeman's lyre! His burning heart he may not lend To serve a doting despot's sway,A suppliant knee he will not bend, Before these things of "brass and clay :" When wrong and ruin call to war, He knows the summons from afar; On high his glittering sword he waves, And myriads feel the freeman's fire, While he, around their fathers' graves, Strikes to old strains the freeman's lyre!

JOHN HOWARD BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, on the twenty-second day of July, 1807. His youth was passed principally in rural occupations, and in attending the district and other schools, until he was nineteen years of age, when he began to study the Latin language, with a view of entering one of the colleges. In 1826, he wrote the first poem of which he retained any copy. This was entitled "My Native Village," and first appeared in the "United States Review and Literary Gazette," a periodical published simultaneously at New York and Boston, of which his brother, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, was one of the editors. It is included in the present collection.

After this he gave up the idea of a university education, and placed himself for a while at the Rensselaer School at Troy, under the superintendance of Professor EATON. He subsequently applied himself to the study of the mathematical and natural sciences, under different instructors, and in his intervals of leisure produced several poems, which were published in the gazettes.

In April, 1831, he went to Jacksonville, in Illinois; and in September of the next year went to Princeton, in the same state, where he sat himself down as a squatter, or inhabitant of the public lands not yet ordered to be sold by the govern ment. When the lands came into the market, he purchased a farm, bordering on one of the fine groves of that country. He was married in 1833. He accepted soon afterward two or three public offices, one of which was that of Recorder of Bureau county; but afterward resigned them, and devoted himself to agricultural pursuits. Of his poems, part were written in Massachusetts, and part in Illinois. They have the same general characteristics as those of his brother. He is a lover of nature, and describes minutely and effectively. To him the wind and the streams are ever musical, and the forests and the prairies clothed in beauty. His versification is easy and correct, and his writings show him to be a man of refined taste and kindly feelings, and to have a mind stored with the best learning.

THE NEW ENGLAND PILGRIM'S FUNERAL.

Ir was a wintry scene,

The hills were whiten'd o'er,

And the chill north winds were blowing keen
Along the rocky shore.

Gone was the wood-bird's lay,
That the summer forest fills,

And the voice of the stream has pass'd away
From its path among the hills.

And the low sun coldly smiled
Through the boughs of the ancient wood,
Where a hundred souls, sire, wife, and child,
Around a coffin stood.

They raised it gently up,
And, through the untrodden snow,
They bore it away, with a solemn step,
To a woody vale below.

And grief was in each eye,
As they moved towards the spot.
And brief, low speech, and tear and sigh
Told that a friend was not.

When they laid his cold corpse low
In its dark and narrow cell,
Heavy the mingled earth and snow
Upon his coflin fell.

Weeping, they pass'd away,
And left him there alone,

With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, But the mossy forest-stone.

When the winter storms were gone
And the strange birds sung around,
Green grass and violets sprung upon
That spot of holy ground.

And o'er him giant trees
Their proud arms toss'd on high,
And rustled music in the breeze
That wander'd through the sky.

When these were overspread
With the hues that Autumn gave,
They bow'd them in the wind, and shed
Their leaves upon his grave.

These woods are perish'd now,
And that humble grave forgot,
And the yeoman sings, as he drives his plough
O'er that once sacred spot.

Two centuries are flown

Since they laid his cold corpse low,

And his bones are moulder'd to dust, and strown
To the breezes long ago.

And they who laid him there,
That sad and suffering train,
Now sleep in dust,-to tell us where
No letter'd stones remain.

Their memory remains,

And ever shall remain,

More lasting than the aged fanes
Of Egypt's storied plain.

A RECOLLECTION.

HERE tread aside, where the descending brook Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream, And all the summer long, on silver feet, Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out A mellow murmur on the quiet air. Just up this narrow glen, in yonder glade Set, like a nest amid embowering trees, Where the green grass, fresh as in early spring, Spreads a bright carpet o'er the hidden soil, Lived, in my early days, an humble pair, A mother and her daughter. She, the dame, Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten. Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame, And bow'd with time and toil; the lines of care Were deep upon her brow. At shut of day I've met her by the skirt of this old wood, Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself, Haply, the history of her better days.

I knew that history once, from youth to age:-
It was a sad one; he who wedded her

Had wrong'd her love, and thick the darts of death
Had fallen among her children and her friends.
One solace for her age remained,—a fair
And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes,
And cheeks like summer roses.
Her sweet songs
Rang like the thrasher's warble in these woods,
And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve,
Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts
Of the deep forest. Oft she gather'd flowers
In lone and desolate places, where the foot
Of other wanderers but seldom trod.
Once, in my boyhood, when my truant steps
Had led me forth among the pleasant hills,
I met her in a shaded path, that winds [low,
Far through the spreading groves. The sun was
The shadow of the hills stretch'd o'er the vale,
And the still waters of the river lay
Black in the early twilight. As we met,
She stoop'd and press'd her friendly lips to mine,
And, though I then was but a simple child,
Who ne'er had dream'd of love, nor knew its power,
I wonder'd at her beauty. Soon a sound
Of thunder, muttering low, along the west,
Foretold a coming storm; my homeward path
Lay through the woods, tangled with undergrowth.
A timid urchin then, I fear'd to go,
Which she observing, kindly led the way,
And left me when my dwelling was in sight.
I hasten'd on; but, ere I reach'd the gate,
The rain fell fast, and the drench'd fields around
Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash.
But where was now ELIZA? When the morn
Blush'd on the summer hills, they found her dead,
Beneath an oak, rent by the thunderbolt.
Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft
Had pierced hersnow-white brow. And here she lies,
Where the green hill slopes toward the southern sky.
'Tis thirty summers since they laid her here;
The cottage where she dwelt is razed and gone;
Her kindred all are perish'd from the earth,
And this rude stone, that simply bears her name,
Is mouldering fast; and soon this quiet spot,
Held sacred now, will be like common ground.

Fit place is this for so much loveliness To find its rest. It is a hallow'd shrine, Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave; The green boughs o'er her, in the summer-time, Sigh to the winds; the robin takes his perch Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate; The brier-rose blossoms to the sky of June, And hangs above her in the winter days Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near; The noisy schoolboy keeps aloof, and he Who hunts the fox, when all the hills are white, Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found, Around the head-stone carefully entwined, Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom. For two years past I've miss'd them; doubtless one Who held this dust most precious, placed them there, And, sorrowing in secret many a year,

At last hath left the earth to be with her.

MY NATIVE VILLAGE.

THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale,

With sloping hills and waving woods around, Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale

Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground; And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, And a bright verdure, born of gentler showers.

"Twas there my young existence was begun,

My earliest sports were on its flowery green, And often, when my schoolboy task was done,

I climb'd its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height, the sweetest of the day.

There, when that hour of mellow light was come, And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain, I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home,

In the lone path that winds across the plain, To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play, And tell him o'er the labours of the day

And when the woods put on their autunın glow, And the bright sun came in among the trees, And leaves were gathering in the glen below,

Swept softly from the mountains by the breeze, I wander'd till the starlight on the stream At length awoke me from my fairy dream.

Ah! happy days, too happy to return,

Fled on the wings of youth's departed years, A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,

The truth of life, its labours, pains, and fears; Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay, A twilight of the brightness pass'd away.

My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still,
Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise;
The play-place, and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure, and autumnal dyes;
The present brings its storms; but, while they last
I shelter me in the delightful past.

And he saw the city's walls,

And kings' and prophets' tomb, And mighty arches, and vaulted halls, And the temple's lofty dome.

He look'd on the river's flood,

And the flash of mountain rills, And the gentle wave of the palms that stood Upon Judea's hills.

He saw on heights and plains

Creatures of every race:

But a mighty thrill ran through his veins
When he met the human face;

And his virgin sight beheld

The ruddy glow of even,

And the thousand shining orbs that fill'd
The azure depths of heaven.

And woman's voice before

Had cheer'd his gloomy night, But to see the angel form she wore Made deeper the delight.

And his heart, at daylight's close,

For the bright world where he trod, And when the yellow morning rose, Gave speechless thanks to GoD.

SONNET.

THERE is a magic in the moon's mild ray,What time she softly climbs the evening sky, And sitteth with the silent stars on high,That charms the pang of earth-born grief away I raise my eye to the blue depths above,

And worship Him whose power, pervading space, Holds those bright orbs at pea in his embrace, Yet comprehends earth's lowliest hings in love. Oft, when that silent moon was sailing high,

I've left my youthful sports to gaze, and now, When time with graver lines has mark'd my Sweetly she shines upon my sober'd eye. [brow, O, may the light of truth, my steps to guide, Shine on my eve of life-shine soft, and long abide.

SONNET.

"TIs Autumn, and my steps have led me far
To a wild hill, that overlooks a land
Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star
Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand
The streamlet slides with mellow tones away;
The west is crimson with retiring day;
And the north gleams with its own native light.
Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie,
And through green banks the river wanders by,
And the wide woods with autumn hues are bright:
Bright-but of fading brightness!-soon is past

That dream-like glory of the painted wood;
And pitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast,

The pride of men, the beauteous, great, and good.

FEW persons in private life, who have died so young, have been mourned by so many warm friends as was JONATHAN LAWRENCE. Devoted to a profession which engaged nearly all his time, and regardless of literary distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them.

He was born in New York, in November, 1807, and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered Columbia College, at which he was graduated before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after became a student in the office of Mr. W. SLOSSON, an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, and the undeviating purity and honourableness of his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered into a partnership with Mr. SLOSSON, and daily added confirmation to the promise of his probational career, until he was suddenly called to a better life, in April, 1833.

The industry with which he attended to his professional duties did not prevent him from giving considerable attention to general literature; and in moments to use his own language

"Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes at my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude,"-

he produced many poems and prose sketches of considerable merit. These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence of which he was for several years an active member. After his death, in compliance with a request by this society, his brother made a collection of his writings, of which a very small edition was printed, for private circulation. Their character is essentially meditative. Many of them are devotional, and all are distinguished for the purity of thought which guided the life of the

man.

THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT.

MANY a sad, sweet thought have I,
Many a passing, sunny gleam,
Many a bright tear in mine eye,

Many a wild and wandering dream,
Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes by my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude.

Oft, when the south wind's dancing free
Over the earth and in the sky,
And the flowers peep softly out to see

The frolic Spring as she wantons by;
When the breeze and beam like thieves come in,
To steal me away, I deem it sin

To slight their voice, and away I'm straying
Over the hills and vales a-Maying.

Then can I hear the earth rejoice,
Happier than man may ever be;
Every fountain hath then a voice,

That sings of its glad festivity;
For it hath burst the chains that bound
Its currents dead in the frozen ground,
And, flashing away in the sun, has gone
Singing, and singing, and singing on.
Autumn hath sunset hours, and then
Many a musing mood I cherish;

Many a hue of fancy, when

The hues of earth are about to perish;
Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween,
Hath real sunset never seen,
Sad as the faces of friends that die,
And beautiful as their memory.

Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep,
Visions the mind may not control,
Waking, as fancy does in sleep,

The secret transports of the soul;
Faces and forms are strangely mingled,
Till one by one they 're slowly singled,
To the voice, and lip, and eye of her
I worship like an idolater.

Many a big, proud tear have I,

When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky,

And spring, and love, I hurry back;
Then what a dismal, dreary gloom
Settles upon my loathed room,
Darker to every thought and sense
Than if they had never travell'd thence.
Yet, I have other thoughts, that cheer
The toilsome day and lonely night,
And many a scene and hope appear,

And almost make me gay and bright.
Honour and fame that I would win,
Though every toil that yet hath been
Were doubly borne, and not an hour
Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.