Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/142

. Then for the living be the tomb, 8 And for the dead the smile ; Engrave oblivion on the tomb Of pulseless life and deadly bloomDim is such glare : but bright the gloom Around the funeral pile.'

The fine stanzas we shall now quote have long been deservedly popular, and form one of the pieces on which the fame of Brainard as a poet rests. There is a waywardness and melancholy about them which touches the fancy and melts the heart.

" The dead leaves strew the forest walk, And withered are the pale wild flowers ; The forest hangs black'ning on the stalk, The dew-drops fell 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 treeA 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, When birds are fresh, and every tree Is vocal with the vows 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 birds too fair ; No forest tree stands stripped and bare, No stream beneath the ice is dead, No mountain top with sleety hair Benda 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 shoneSee-that it all is fair and bright, Feel that it all is cold and gone." Here is a poem evincing a mirthfulness combined with a playfulness of manner which is peculiarly characteristic of the man.

""Tis a sweet stream--and so, 't is true, are all That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall, Pursue their way By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, By rock, that since the deluge fixed has stood, Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood By night and day. But yet, there's something in its humble rank, Something in its pure wave and sloping bank, Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank With unscared look ; There's much in its wild history, that teems With all that's superstitious-and that seems To match our fancy and eke out our dreams, In that small brook. Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain ; The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slainAnd many a quiver,

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Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill, Has spent itself in carnage. Now ' tis still, And whistling plough-boys oft their runlets fill From Salmon River. Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made Their spells by moonlight ; or beneath the shade That shrouds sequestered rock, or dark'ning glade, Or tangled dell, Here Philip came, and Miantonimo And asked about their fortunes long ago, As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show Old Samuel. And here the black fox roved, that howled and shook His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook Where they pursued their game, and him mistook For earthly fox; Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear, And his soft peltry, stripped and dressed, to wear, Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair Transfer him to a box. Such are the tales they tell. "Tis hard to rhyme About a little and unnoticed stream, That few have heard of- but it is a theme I chance to love ; And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, And whistle to the note of many a deed Done on this river- which, if there be need, I'll try to prove." The poems on " Niagara," and the " Connecticut River," are extensively known, and will always contribute to the reputation of Brainard. There is, perhaps, more finish in the latter piece than in any other of the productions of our poet. The former has been reviewed with some asperity, while at other hands it has met high praise. We can see many fine things in the poem, and on the whole rank it as one of the best of Brainard's productions. We here close our notice of these poems. We finish, however, with the regret with which we commenced, viz-that this collection of poems was ever made. Had the choicest pieces of our poet been published alone, his fame, among the people, would have stood higher. It will yet, however, be enviable. In spite even of this volume, the simplicity and truthfulness of Brainard will always commend him to the popular ear.

SONNET TO BY HENRY B. HIRST. Go smile on him as thou hast smiled on me, On him who like me never will adore thee, Tho' he has twined his gilded fetters o'er thee. May his young feelings, girl, as fickle be As April skies, or thy more fickle smile ; That meteor lamp which lured me from my way, Beaming with promise of a lovely day, Yet beaming, false one, only to beguile. I will not curse thee when I do recall The happy hours when seated by thy side. When rosy fancy painted thee my bride, An airy castle doomed in grief to fall! Such fate was mine ! Girl, tho' I may repine, 'Tis only that the hand which stung was thine!