From war's vain trumpet, by thy thun- | But we've a page, more glowing and more dering 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 drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains?-a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. bright, On which our friendship and our love to write; That these may never from the soul depart, We trust them to the memory of the heart. There is no dimming, no effacement there; Each new pulsation keeps the record clear; Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill, Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. [U. s. A., 1795-1820.] THE AMERICAN FLAG. WHEN Freedom from her mountain height And set the stars of glory there; Then from his mansion in the sun Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas, on ocean wave JOHN PIERPONT. And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, 157 That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing); And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "Passing away! passing away!" O, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow; And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and of womanly pride, That told me she soon was to be a bride; Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, In the same sweet voice I heard her say, "Passing away! passing away!" While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade Of thought or care stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush While the boatman listens and ships his Had something lost of its brilliant blush; oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore? Hark! the notes on my ear that play Are set to words; as they float, they say, "Passing away! passing away!" But no; it was not a fairy's shell, Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, Striking the hour, that filled my ear, As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimmed, — as when Evening steals Upon Noon's hot face. Yet one could n't but love her, For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say, "Passing away! passing away!" While yet I looked, what a change there came! Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan; Stooping and staffed was her withered | Even now, the bow-string, at his beck, Goes round his mightiest subjects' neck; Yet will he, in his saddle, stoopI've seen him, in his palace-yardTo take petitions from a troop Of women, who, behind his guard, Come up, their several suits to press, To state their wrongs, and ask redress. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 159 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. [1798 - 1835.] JEANIE MORRISON. I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, The luve o' life's young day! The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years The blithe blinks o' langsyne. "T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! O mornin' life! O mornin' luve! O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, What our wee heads could think? O, mind ye how we hung our heads, - My head rins round and round about, As ane by ane the thochts rush back When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wandered east, I've wandered west, But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed |