TO SENECA LAKE.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream! The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam,

And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north wind, heave their foam,

And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide,

And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!

Oh, I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er.

THE CORAL GROVE.

Deep in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea plants lift
Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There, with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter:

There, with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea:
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ;
Then far below, in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

SONNET.

ACROSTIC TRIBUTE (1825) TO A BOSTON LADY, WIDELY
CELEBRATED FOR HER BEAUTY.

Earth holds no fairer, lovelier one than thou,
Maid of the laughing lip and frolic eye!
Innocence sits upon thy open brow
Like a pure spirit in its native sky.

If ever beauty stole the heart away,

Enchantress, it would fly to meet thy smile;
Moments would seem by thee a summer day,
And all around thee an Elysian isle.
Roses are nothing to the maiden blush
Sent o'er thy cheeks' soft ivory, and night
Has naught so dazzling in its world of light,
As the dark rays that from thy lashes gush.
Love lurks amid thy silken curls, and lies
Like a keen archer in thy kindling eyes.

MAY.

I feel a newer life in every gale;
The winds that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours,-

Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south wind calls
From his blue throne of air,

And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves:

And from its darkening shadow floats
A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; The tresses of the woods

With the light dallying of the west wind play, And the full-brimming floods,

As gladly to their goal they run,

Hail the returning sun.

HOAR-FROST: A SONNET.

What dream of beauty ever equalled this!
What bands from Fairy-land have sallied forth,
With snowy foliage from the abundant North,
With imagery from the realms of bliss!
What visions of my boyhood do I miss
That here are not restored! All splendors pure,

All loveliness, all graces that allure;
Shapes that amaze; a paradise that is, -
Yet was not,-will not in few moments be:
Glory from nakedness, that playfully
Mimics with passing life each summer boon;
Clothing the ground-replenishing the tree;
Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon;
Still as a dream,-and like a dream to flee!

A VISION.

"Whence dost thou come to me, Sweetest of visions,

Filling my slumbers with holiest joy ?"

"Kindly I bring to thee

Feelings of childhood,

That in thy dreams thou be happy awhile."

"Why dost thou steal from me

Ever as slumber

Flies, and reality chills me again?"

"Life thou must struggle through: Strive, and in slumber Sweetly again I will steal to thy soul."

William Howitt.

Howitt (1795-1879), husband of Mary Howitt, was a native of Heanor, in Derbyshire, England. Of Quaker descent, he was educated at a public seminary of Friends. He was a great student of languages, and wrote verses almost from boyhood. He and his wife, after the year 1837, made literature their chief means of support. He was the author of "The Rural Life of England," "Visits to Remarkable Places," and other successful prose works, including translations. He also published a "History of the Supernatural." He went, with his two sons, to Australia in 1852, and gave the results of his experiences in several volumes. With his wife and family he resided at times in Germany and Italy. His poetry is scattered mostly through "Annuals" and magazines; in 1871 he published "The Mad War Planet, and other Poems." About the year 1850 he became an active Spiritualist, and wrote copiously in defence of the modern phenomena, which he reconciled with a broad Christianity. He died in Rome, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. He had a brother, Richard, who also wrote poetry.

THE WIND IN A FROLIC.

The Wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!

I'll make a commotion in every place!"

So it swept with a bustle right through a great

town,

Creaking the signs, and scattering down
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls:
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges tumbled about;
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes
Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.

Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,

And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;
It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colts' manes all over their brows,
"Till, offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute.
So on it went, capering, and playing its pranks,
Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks,
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags:
"Twas so bold, that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig, or the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried, gayly," Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"
And it made them bow without more ado,
Or cracked their great branches through and
through.

Then it rushed, like a monster, on cottage and

farm,

Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm,

So they ran out like bees when threatened with harm.

There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over

their caps,

To see if their poultry were free from mishaps; The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd; There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had swept on, and met in a lane With a school-boy, who panted and struggled in vain:

For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood

With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud.
Then away went the Wind in its holiday glee!
And now it was far on the billowy sea;
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,
And the little boats darted to and fro:-
But, lo! night came, and it sank to rest
On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming west,
Laughing to think, in its fearful fun,
How little of mischief it had done!

John Gardiner Caulkins Brainard.

AMERICAN.

Brainard (1795-1828) was a native of New London, Conn., son of a judge of the Supreme Court. He was educated at Yale College, and in 1822 went to Hartford to take editorial charge of the Connecticut Mirror. Samuel G. Goodrich, author of the "Peter Parley Tales," was his intimate friend, and persuaded him to publish his first volume of poems. This appeared in New York, in 1826, from the press of Bliss & White. A second edition, with a memoir by J. G. Whittier, appeared in 1832; and this was followed by a third, in 1842, from the press of Hopkins, Hartford. "At the age of eight-and-twenty," says Goodrich, "Brainard was admonished that his end was near. With a submissive spirit, in pious, gentle, cheerful faith, he resigned himself to his doom. In person he was short; his general appearance that of a clumsy boy. At one moment he looked stupid, and then inspired. He was true in friendship, chivalrous in all that belongs to personal honor." An instance of his ready wit is given in a retort he addressed to a critic, who had objected to the use of the word "brine," as a word which "had no more business in sentimental poetry than a pig in a parlor;" to which the poet replied that his critic, "living inland, must have got his ideas of the salt-water from his father's pork-barrel."

THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG.

On the deep is the mariner's danger,
On the deep is the mariner's death;
Who to fear of the tempest a stranger
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath?
'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
Lone looker on despair;
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
The only witness there.

Who watches their course who so mildly
Careen to the kiss of the breeze?
Who lists to their shrieks who so wildly
Are clasped in the arms of the seas?
"Tis the sea-bird, etc.

Who hovers on high o'er the lover,

And her who has clung to his neck? Whose wing is the wing that can cover With its shadow the foundering wreck? 'Tis the sea-bird, etc.

My eye in the light of the billow,
My wing on the wake of the wave,
I shall take to my breast for a pillow
The shroud of the fair and the brave.
I'm the sea-bird, etc.

My foot on the iceberg has lighted,
When hoarse the wild winds veer about;
My eye, when the bark is benighted,
Sees the lamp of the light-house go out.
I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
Lone looker on despair;
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
The only witness there.

STANZAS.

The dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And withered are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs black'ning 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 rushes 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 walk where all its glories shoneSee that it all is fair and bright, Feel that it all is cold and gone.

TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND.

I pray thee by thy mother's face,
And by her look, and by her eye,
By every decent matron grace
That hovered round the resting-place

Where thy young head did lie,-
And by the voice that soothed thine ear,
The hymn, the smile, the sigh, the tear,
That matched thy changeful mood; -
By every prayer thy mother taught,
By every blessing that she sought,—
I pray thee to be good.

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

In his "Recollections of a Lifetime," S. G. Goodrich (1793-1863) tells us that he was present when Brainard dashed off the following lines in the printing-office while the compositor was waiting for copy.

The 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;
Had hung his bow upon thy awful front;
Had 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 centuries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
Oh what are all the notes that ever rang
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 Keats.

John Keats (1796-1821) was born in London, October 29th, 1796, in the house of his grandfather, who kept a livery-stable at Moorfields. Educated at Enfield, at fifteen years of age John was apprenticed to a surgeon. In 1818 he published "Endymion," a poem of great promise, and showing rare imaginative powers. It was criticised severely by Croker and Gifford in the Quarterly Review; for Keats, having been lauded and befriended by Leigh Hunt, was treated by his Tory critics as belonging to a distasteful school of politics. Keats did not write politics, but he had a friend who did. It is not probable that the Quarterly's abuse hastened the young poet's death, as is generally supposed. He suffered less than Shelley imagined from censure that he knew to be unjust. To him and others Keats modestly admitted the shortcomings of his early work. "I have written," he said, "independently, without judgment; I may write independently, and with judgment, hereafter. The genius of poetry must work out its own salvation in a man." That Keats was largely influenced in his style by his familiarity with the poems of Leigh Hunt is quite apparent; but he soon surpassed his model. "Endymion seems to have worked its way gradually to recognition as the production of a true poet; and the praises bestowed on it awakened the jealousy of Byron, who wrote: "No more Keats, I entreat! flay him alive; if some of you don't, I must skin him myself. There is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the manikin." But Byron lived to lament his rough words; and (November, 1821) attributes his indignation to Keats's depreciation of Pope, which, he says, "hardly permitted me to do justice to his own genius, which, malgré all the fantastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of great promise. His fragment of 'Hyperion' seems actually inspired by the Titans, and is as sublime as Eschylus."

In 1820 appeared Keats's "Lamia," "Isabella," "The Eve of St. Agnes," and other poems. Of a delicate and sensitive constitution, he had seriously impaired his health by the care he had lavished on his dying brother, Tom; and he made a trip to Italy with the hope of recovering strength: but the seeds of consumption were lodged in his constitution. Speaking of his brother's death, he writes: "I have a firm belief in immortality,

and so had Tom." "The Eve of St. Agnes" was praised warmly by Jeffrey and other leading critics. It is one of the most charming and perfect of the poet's works, and written, it would seem, under Spenserian influence.

At Rome Keats became seriously worse, and died on the 23d of February, 1821. A few days before his death he had expressed to his friend, Mr. Severn, the wish that on his gravestone should be the inscription: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." Shelley was moved by Keats's death to produce the fiery elegy of "Adonais," worthy to be classed with the "Lycidas" of Milton, and the "In Memoriam" of Tennyson. Keats's rank is at the head of all the poets who have died young. The affluence of his imagination is such that he often seems to have given himself no time to select and properly dispose of his images. His "Hymn to Pan," in Endymion," was referred to by Wordsworth as "a pretty piece of Paganism". -a just criticism, but one that somewhat nettled Keats. He would have been a more popular, if not a greater, poet, if he had been less in love with the classic mythology. He has had a brood of imitators, American as well as English.

Coleridge, in his "Table-Talk," gives an interesting reminiscence, as follows: "A loose, slack, not welldressed youth met Mr. and myself in a lane near Highgate. knew him, and spoke. It was Keats. He was introduced to me, and stayed a minute or so. After he had left us a little way, he came back, and said, Let me carry away the memory, Coleridge, of having pressed your hand!' There is death in that hand,' I said to, when Keats was gone; yet this was, I believe, before the consumption showed itself distinctly."

The fame of Keats has not diminished since his death. The fact that what he wrote was written before his twenty-sixth year will long give to his productions a peculiar interest.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.

I.

St. Agnes' Eve,-ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped trembling through the frozen
grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold;
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer
he saith.

II.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptured dead on each side seem to freeze,
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails:

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

III.

Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this agéd man and poor : But no-already had his death-bell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung. His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went; and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve.

IV.

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide;
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests;
The carvéd angels, ever eager-eyed,

Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts.

V.

At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily

The brain, new stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

VI.

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honeyed middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties lily-white; Nor look behind nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

VII.

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a god in pain,
She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes divine,