MARIA GOWEN BROOKS.

Born at Medford, Mass: 1795-died 1845.

SONG.

DAY, in melting purple dying!
Blossoms, all around me sighing!
Fragrance, from the lilies straying!
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing!
Ye but waken my distress,-
I am sick of loneliness.

Thou, to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken!
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee !
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent!
Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling! spare thy treasure!
All I ask is friendship's pleasure.
Let the shining ore lie darkling!
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling!

Gifts and gold are naught to me:
I would only look on thee.

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;

Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation,-

Yet but torture, if comprest
In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!
Let these eyes again caress thee!
Once in caution I could fly thee;
Now I nothing could deny thee.
In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!

JOHN GARDNER CALKINS BRAINARD.

Born at New London, Conn: 1796-died 1828.

THE TREE TOAD.

I AM a jolly tree toad, upon a chestnut tree;

I chirp, because I know that the night was made for me;
The young bat flies above me, the glow-worm shines below;
And the owlet sits to hear me, and half forgets his woe.

I'm lighted by the fire-fly, in circles wheeling round;
The caty-did is silent, and listens to the sound;
The jack-o'-lantern leads the way-worn traveller astray,
To hear the tree toad's melody until the break of day.
The harvest moon hangs over me, and smiles upon the
streams;

The lights dance upward from the north, and cheer me with their beams;

The dew of heaven, it comes to me as sweet as beauty's

tear;

The stars themselves shoot down to see what music we have here.

The winds around me whisper to every flower that blows, To droop their heads, call in their sweets, and every leaf to close;

The whip-poor-will sings to his mate the mellow melody: But, “Hark, and hear the notes that flow from yonder chestnut tree!"

Ye caty-dids and whip-poor-wills! come listen to me now : I am a jolly tree toad upon a chestnut bough;

I chirp because I know that the night was made for me,And I close my proposition with a Q. E. D.

THE NOSEGAY.

I'LL pull a bunch of buds and flowers,
And tie a ribbon round them,

If you'll but think, in your lonely hours,
Of the sweet little girl that bound them.

I'll cull the earliest that put forth,
And those that last the longest;

And the bud, that boasts the fairest birth,
Shall cling to the stem that's strongest.

I've run about the garden walks,

And search'd among the dew, Sir;
These fragrant flowers, these tender stalks,
I've pluck'd them all for you, Sir!

So here's your bunch of buds and flowers,
And here's the ribbon round them;
And here, to cheer your sadden'd hours,
Is the sweet little girl that bound them.

EPITHALAMIUM.

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
While dimpling eddies play'd between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat;

green,

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.

JOHN GARDNER CALKINS BRAINARD.

STANZAS.

THE dead leaves strew the forest 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 tree,-
A 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 tree stands 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 cheek, 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.

45

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.

Born in London 1802-died 1828.

A HEALTH.

I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,—

A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements

And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,—
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain;

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;

But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh

Will not be life's, but hers.