Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon

My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.

Thou art the firm unshaken rock
On which we rest;

And, rising from thy hardy stock,
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free the oppressed:

All who the wreath of Freedom twine
Beneath the shadow of their vine
Are blessed.

We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand!-

Let foreign navies hasten o'er,
And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their cannon's loudest roar,
And storm our land;

They still shall find our lives are given
To die for home,—and leant on Heaven
Our hand.

NIGHT.

Am I not all alone?-The world is still
In passionless slumber,-not a tree but feels
The far-pervading hush, and softer steals
The misty river by. Yon broad bare hill
Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars
Seem eyes deep-fixed in silence, as if bound
By some unearthly spell,-no other sound

But the owl's unfrequent moan.-Their airy cars The winds have stationed on the mountain peaks. Am I not all alone ?-A spirit speaks

From the abyss of night, "Not all alone: Nature is round thee with her banded powers, And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours;

Mind and its kingdom now are all thine own."

SONNET.

THE blue heaven spreads before me with its keen
And countless eyes of brightness,-worlds are there,—
The boldest spirit cannot spring, and dare
The peopled universe that burns between
This earth and nothing. Thought can wing its way
Swifter than lightning-flashes, or the beam

That hastens on the pinions of the morn;
But, quicker than the glowing dart of day,
It tires and faints along the starry stream,—
A wave of suns through countless ether borne,
Though infinite, eternal! Yet one power
Sits on the Almighty Centre, whither tend
All worlds and beings from time's natal hour,
Till suns and all their satellites shall end.

SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH.

[Born about 1796.1 A publisher, and author of the once immensely popular juvenile books issued under the pseudonym of "Peter Parley"].

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.

1 It has been stated to me (but not as a certainty) that Mr. Goodrich died in some recent year in Parls.

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 caves,

Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan
Deems as a bubble all your waves!

JOHN GARDNER CALKINS BRAINARD.

[Born in 1796, died in 1828. In his brief career he was first called to the bar; then undertook the editorship of a weekly ga zette; and consumption closed a somewhat desultory and melancholy life].

STANZAS.

THE dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And withered 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 learned a clear and wild-toned note,
That rose and swelled from yonder tree-
A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,

There perched, 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 stripped 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.

ROBERT C. SANDS.

[Born in 1799, died in 1832. At first a lawyer; afterwards a miscellaneous writer of poems, memoirs, humorous pieces, &c.].

DREAM OF THE PRINCESS PAPANTZIN.1
MEXITLIS' power was at its topmost pride;
The name was terrible from sea to sea;
From mountains, where the tameless Ottomite
Maintained his savage freedom, to the shores
Of wild Higueras. Through the nations passed,
As stalks the angel of the pestilence,

The great king's messengers. They marked the young,
The brave and beautiful, and bore them on
For their foul sacrifices. Terror went

Before the tyrant's heralds. Grief and wrath
Remained behind their steps; but they were dumb.

1“Papantzin, a Mexican princess, sister of Moteuczoma, and widow of the governor of Tlatelolco, died, as was supposed, in the palace of the latter, in 1509. Her funeral rites were celebrated with the usual pomp ; her brother and all the nobility attending. She was buried in a cave, or subterranean grotto, in the gardens of the same palace, near a reservoir in which she usually bathed. The entrance of the cave was closed with a stone of no great size. On the day after the funeral, a little girl, five or six years old, who lived in the palace, was going from her mother's house to the residence of the princess's major-domo, in a farther part of the garden; and passing by, she heard the princess calling to her cocoton, a phrase used to call and coax children, &c. &c. The princess sent the little girl to call her mother, and much alarm was of course excited. At length the King of Tezcuco was notified of her resurrection; and, on his representation, Moteuczoma himself, full of terror, visited her with his chief nobility. He asked her if she was his sister. 'I am,' said she, 'the same whom you buried yesterday. I am alive, and desire to tell you what I have seen, as it imports to know it.' Then the kings sat down, and the others remained standing, marvelling at what they heard.

"Then the princess, resuming her discourse, said :—' After my life, or, if that is possible, after sense and the power of motion departed, incontinently I found myself in a vast plain, to which there was no bound in any direction. In the midst I discerned a road, which divided into various paths, and on one side was a great river. whose waters made a frightful rushing noise. Being minded to leap into it to cross to the opposite side, a fair youth stood before