THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

HE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,

While I look upward to thee. It would seem

As if God poured thee from his hollow hand, And hung his bow upon thine awful front; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed 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 ages in the eternal rocks.

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime? O, what are 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 drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains?-a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

INVOCATION TO RAIN IN SUMMER.

GENTLE, gentle summer rain,
Let not the silver lily pine,
The drooping lily pine in vain

To feel that dewy touch of thine-
To drink thy freshness once again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain!

In heat the landscape quivering lies;
The cattle pant beneath the tree;
Through parching air and purple skies

The earth looks up, in vain, for thee.
For thee-for thee, it looks in vain,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams,
And soften all the hills with mist,

O falling dew. from burning dreams

By thee shall herb and flower be kissed,
And earth shall bless thee yet again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

WILLIAM Cox BENNETT.

THE BROOK-SIDE

WANDERED by the brook-side,
I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow-
The noisy wheel was still;

There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard:

I sat beneath the elm-tree;
I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid,

For I listened for a footfall,

I listened for a word

But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not-no, he came not-
The night came on alone-
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my check
The leaves above were stirred-
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder-
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer-nearer-
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

LORD HOUGHTON,

ODE TO LEVEN-WATER.

N Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout in speckled pride, The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war, The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, And edges flowered with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily green,

May numerous herds and flocks be seen:
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,

And shepherds piping in the dale;

And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrowned with toil;
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared,

The blessings they enjoy to guard!

T. GEORGE SMOLLET

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses ;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

SONG OF THE BROOK.

COME from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges;
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;

I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weru and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling;
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel;

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming siver;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

1 steal by lawns and grasy plots;
I slide by hazel covers:

ALFRED TENNYSON

LITTLE STREAMS.

ITTLE streams are light and shadow,
Flowing through the pasture meadow,
Flowing by the green way-side,
Through the forest dim and wide,
Through the hamlet still and small-
By the cottage, by the hall,

By the ruined abbey still ;
Turning here and there a mill,
Bearing tribute to the river-
Little streams, I love you ever.

Summer music is there flowing-
Flowering plants in them are growing;

Happy life is in them all,

Creatures innocent and small;
Little birds come down to drink,
Fearless of their leafy brink;
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low;
And between, the sunshine, glancing,
In their little waves, is dancing.

Little streams have flowers a many,
Beautiful and fair as any;

Typha strong, and green bur-reed;
Willow-herb, with cotton-seed ;
Arrow-head, with eye of jet ;
And the water-violet.
There the flowering-rush you meet,
And the plumy meadow-sweet;
And, in places deep and stilly,
Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery,
Sound forth welcomes to the weary,
Flowing on from day to day,
Without stint and without stay;
Here, upon their flowery bank.
In the old time pilgrims drank—

Here have seen, as now, pass by,
King-fisher, and dragon-fly;

Those bright things that have their dwelling,
Where the little streams are welling.

Down in valleys green and lowly,
Murmuring not and gliding slowly;
Up in mountain-hollows wild,
Fretting like a peevish child;
Through the hamlet, where all day
In their waves the children play;
Running west, or running east,
Doing good to man and beast-
Always giving, weary never,
Little streams, I love you ever.

Niagara's streams might fail,

And human happiness be undisturbed:
But Egypt would turn pale,

Were her still Nile's o'erflowing bounty curbed!
BERNARD BARTON.

SHOWERS IN SPRING.

HE north-east spends his rage; he now, shu up Within his iron cave, the effusive south

Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of

heaven

Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent.
At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining ether, but by swift degrees,
In heaps on heaps the doubled vapor sails
Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep,
Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom;
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed,
Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope, of every joy,

The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze
Into a perfect calm, that not a breath

Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves
Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods diffused
In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse,
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye
The falling verdure. Hushed in short suspense,
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off,
And wait the approaching sign, to strike at once
Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales,
And forests, seem impatient to demand
The promisec. sweetness. Man superior walks
Amid the glad creation, musing praise
And looking lively gratitude. At last
The clouds consign their treasures to the fields,
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow
In large effusion o'er the freshened world.
The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard
By such as wander through the forest walks,
Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves.
JAMES THOMSON,

THE ANGLER'S SONG.

How vast the mossy forest-halls,
Silent, and full of gloom!
Through the high roof the day beam falls,
Like torch-light in a tomb.
The old trunks of trees rise round

Like pillars in a church or old,
And the wind fills them with a sound
As f a bell were tolled.

Where falls the noisy stream,
In many a bubble bright,
Along whose grassy margin gleam
Flowers gaudy to the sight,
There silently I stand,

Watching my angle play,
And eagerly draw to the land
My speckled prey.

Oft, ere the carrion bird has left

His eyrie, the dead tree,

Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft
The cloud in heaven's blue sea,
Or ere the lark's swift pinion speeds
To meet the misty day,

My foot hath shaken the bending reeds,
My rod sought out 'ts prey.

And when the twilight, with a blush
Upon her cheek, goes by,

And evening's universal hush

Fuls all the darkened sky,

And steadily the tapers burn

In villages far away,

Then from the lonely stream I turn

And from the forests gray.

The tented dome, of heavenly blue,

Suspended on the rainbow's rings !
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to Thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at Thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense-fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

WILLIAM B. PEABODY

SIGNS OF RAIN.

ISAAC MCLELlan.

HYMN OF NATURE.

OD of the earth's extended plains!

The dark green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where the man might commune with the
sky:

The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers on the vale below,

Where the shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the light and viewless air!
Where the summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry-
Bring forth the language of Thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs

FORTY REASONS FOR NOT ACCEPTING AN INVITATION OF A FRIEND TO MAKE AN EXCURSION WITH HIM.

HE hollow winds begin to blow;

2 The clouds look black, the glass is low, 3 The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, 4 And spiders from their cobwebs peep. 5 Last night the sun went pale to bed, 6 The moon in halos hid her head; 7 The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,

8 For see, a rainbow spans the sky!

9 The walls are damp, the ditches smell, 10 Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. II Hark how the chairs and table crack! 12 Old Betty's nerves are on the rack; 13 Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry, 14 The distant hills are seeming nigh, 15 How restless are the snorting swine! 16 The busy flies disturb the kine, 17 Low o'er the grass the swallow wings, 18 The cricket, too, how sharp he sings! 19 Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, 20 Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws; 21 Through the clear streams the fishes rise, 22 And nimbly catch the incautious flies. 23 The glow-worms, numerous and light, 24 Illumed the dewy dell last night; 25 At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 26 Hopping and crawling o'er the green; 27 The whirling dust the wind obeys, 28 And in the rapid eddy plays;

The frog has changed his yellow vest, 30 And in a russet coat is dressed. 31 Though June, the air is cold and still, 32 The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill; 33 My dog, so altered in his taste,

34 Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast;

-5 And see yon rooks, how odd their flight!

36 They imitate the gliding kite,

37 And seem precipitate to fall,
38 As if they felt the piercing ball.

39 'T will surely rain; I see with sorrow
40 Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.
EDWARD JENNER.

BEFORE THE RAIN.

E knew it would rain, for all the morn,
A spirit on slender ropes of mist
Was lowering its golden buckets down
Into the vapory amethyst

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens-
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,
Dipping the jewels out of the sea,

To sprinkle them over the land in showers.

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves, the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind-and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

AFTER THE RAIN.

'HE rain has ceased, and in my room
The sunshine pours an airy flood;
And on the church's dizzy vane
The ancient cross is bathed in blood.
From out the dripping ivy-leaves,
Antiquely carven, gray and high,
A dormer, facing westward, looks
Upon the village like an eye:
And now it glimmers in the sun,
A square of gold, a disk, a speck:
And in the belfry sits a dove
With purple ripples on her neck.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

THE ANGLER'S WISH.

'N these flowery meads would be,
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise,
I with my angle would rejoice,

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove,
Court his chaste mate to acts of love:
Or on that bank, feel the west wind
Breathe health and plenty, please my mind
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then wash off by April showers:

Here, hear my Kenna sing a song,
There, see a blackbird feed her young,
Or a laveroca build her nest;
Here give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitched thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love:

Thus free from lawsuits, and the noise
Of princes courts, I would rejoice:
Or with my Bryan and a book,
Loite: ong days near Shawford Brook;
There sit by him, and eat my meat,
There see the sun both rise and set;
There bid good-morning to next day;
There meditate my time away;

And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
IZAAK WALTOM

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN

HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore.
There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own;
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan— Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole; or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone

And I have loved thee, ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror- 'twas a pleasing For I was, as it were, a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here. LORD BYRON.