THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. On high his glittering sword he waves, THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD, THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks. Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him 1 215 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!) 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 And this imperial domain— This kingdom-all is mine. This bending heaven, these floating clouds, And wilderness of glory, bring Their offerings to my soul. My palace, built by God's own hand, Though when in this, my lonely home, 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 And in these solitary haunts, I feel His presence in these shades, And as my eyelids close in sleep, 217 JUNE. BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. JUNE, with its roses-June! The gladdest month of our capricious year, Of the bright leaping waters, as they pass Earth, at her joyous coming, Smiles as she puts her gayest mantle on ; Their welcome song, breathe dreamy music round, The overarching sky Weareth a softer tint, a lovelier blue, As if the light of heaven were melting through Hiding the sunshine in their vapoury breast, A deeper melody, Pour'd by the birds, as o'er their callow young Music heart-born, like that which mothers sing JUNE. On the warm hill-side, where The sunlight lingers latest, through the grass Crushing the gather'd fruit in playful mood, A deeper blush is given To the half-ripen'd cherry, as the sun Day after day pours warmth the trees upon, The truant schoolboy looks with longing eyes, The farmer, in his field, Draws the rich mould around the tender maize; An ample harvest, and around his hearth Poised on his rainbow-wing, The butterfly, whose life is but an hour, Born for the sunshine and the summer-day, These are thy pictures, June! y! 219 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 |