THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

On high his glittering sword he waves,
And myriads feel the freeman's fire,
While he, around their fathers' graves,
Strikes to old strains the freeman's lyre!

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD,

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if GoD pour'd thee from his hollow" hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice, which seem'd 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?
O! what are all 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 drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains?—a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

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THE BACKWOODSMAN.

BY EPHRAIM PEABODY.

THE silent wilderness for me!

Where never sound is heard, Save the rustling of the squirrel's foot, And the flitting wing of bird,

Or its low and interrupted note,

And the deer's quick, crackling tread And the swaying of the forest boughs, As the wind moves overhead.

Alone, (how glorious to be free!)
My good dog at my side,
My rifle hanging in my arm,
I range the forests wide.
And now the regal buffalo

Across the plains I chase;

Now track the mountain streain, to find

The beaver's lurking place.

I stand upon the mountain's top,

And (solitude profound!)

Not even a woodman's smoke curls up

Within the horizon's bound.

Below, as o'er its ocean breadth

The air's light currents run, The wilderness of moving leaves

Is glancing in the sun.

THE BACKWOODSMAN.

I look around to where the sky
Meets the far forest line,

And this imperial domain—

This kingdom-all is mine.

This bending heaven, these floating clouds,
Waters that ever roll,

And wilderness of glory, bring

Their offerings to my soul.

My palace, built by God's own hand,
The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Wide stretch its living halls away,
Pillar'd and roof'd with green.
My music is the wind that now
Pours loud its swelling bars,
Now lulls in dying cadences,
My festal lamps are stars,

Though when in this, my lonely home,
My star-watch'd couch I

press,

I hear no fond "good night"-think not

I am companionless.

O, no! I see my father's house,

The hill, the tree, the stream,

And the looks and voices of my home
Come gently to my dream.

And in these solitary haunts,
While slumbers every tree
In night and silence, God himself
Seems nearer unto me.

I feel His presence in these shades,
Like the embracing air;

And as my eyelids close in sleep,
My heart is hush'd in prayer.

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JUNE.

BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.

JUNE, with its roses-June!

The gladdest month of our capricious year,
With its thick foliage and sunlight clear;
And with the drowsy tune

Of the bright leaping waters, as they pass
Laughingly on amid the springing grass!

Earth, at her joyous coming,

Smiles as she puts her gayest mantle on ;
And Nature greets her with a benison;
While myriad voices, humming

Their welcome song, breathe dreamy music round,
Till seems the air an element of sound.

The overarching sky

Weareth a softer tint, a lovelier blue,

As if the light of heaven were melting through
Its sapphire home on high;

Hiding the sunshine in their vapoury breast,
The clouds float on like spirits to their rest.

A deeper melody,

Pour'd by the birds, as o'er their callow young
Watchful they hover, to the breeze is flung-
Gladsome, yet not of glee-

Music heart-born, like that which mothers sing
Above their cradled infants slumbering.

JUNE.

On the warm hill-side, where

The sunlight lingers latest, through the grass
Peepeth the luscious strawberry! As they pass,
Young children gambol there,

Crushing the gather'd fruit in playful mood,
And staining their bright faces with its blood.

A deeper blush is given

To the half-ripen'd cherry, as the sun

Day after day pours warmth the trees upon,
Till the rich pulp is riven;

The truant schoolboy looks with longing eyes,
And perils limb and neck to win the prize.

The farmer, in his field,

Draws the rich mould around the tender maize;
While Hope, bright-pinion'd, points to coming days,
When all his toil shall yield

An ample harvest, and around his hearth
There shall be laughing eyes and tones of mirth.

Poised on his rainbow-wing,

The butterfly, whose life is but an hour,
Hovers coquettishly from flower to flower,
A gay and happy thing;

Born for the sunshine and the summer-day,
Soon passing, like the beautiful, away

These are thy pictures, June!

y!

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Brightest of summer-months-thou month of flowers! First-born of beauty, whose swift-footed hours

Dance to the merry tune

Of birds, and waters, and the pleasant shout
Of childhood on the sunny hills peal'd out.