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THE SEA DIVER.

The hill, where many groups of happy boys Swing on the branches of the linden tree, Delights me more than the high mountain, Bathing its summit in the golden sunbeams!

Would I might once, before my spirit sink
Into the blest Elysian world of shades,
Visit the happy fields where childhood,
Lapt in its dreams of heaven, joyous reposed.

Then may the minister of death, in smiles,
His torch extinguish. I will gladly haste
To Xenophon, and Plato's wisdom,
And to Anacreon's bright myrtle wreath.

THE SEA DIVER.

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me
Where billows clasp the worn sea-side

My plumage bears the crimson blush,
When ocean by the sun is kissed!
When fades the evening's purple flush,
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.

THE SEA DIVER.

Full many a fathom down beneath

The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea shell breathe O'er living myriads in their sleep.

They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem,

Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown
The glorious dwellings made for them.

At night upon my storm-drenched wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shattered thing
Had passed away and left no mark.

And when the wind and storm had done,
A ship, that had rode out the gale,
Sunk down-without a signal gun,
And none was left to tell the tale.

I saw the pomp of day depart,-
The cloud resign its golden crown,
When to the ocean's beating heart,

The sailor's wasted corse went down.

Peace be to those whose graves are made
Beneath the bright and silver sea!—
Peace that their relics there were laid
With no vain pride and pageantry.

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THE WINDS.

THE WINDS.

BY HANNAH F. GOULD,

WE Come, we come! and ye feel our might,
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight,
And over the mountains, and over the deep,
Our broad invisible pinions sweep,

Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free!
And ye look on our works, and own 't is we,
Ye call us the Winds, but can ye tell
Whither we go, or where we dwell?

Ye mark as we vary our forms of power,
And fell the forest, or fan the flower,
When the hare-bell moves, and the rush is bent,
When the tower's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent,
As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave,
Or hurry its crew to a watery grave;
And ye say it is we! but can ye trace
The wandering Winds to their secret place?

And whether our breath be loud and high,
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh,
Our threatenings fill the soul with fear,
Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear
With music aerial, still 't is we;

And ye list, and ye look, but what do you see?
Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace,
Or waken one note when our numbers cease?

TO THE MEMORY OF J. G. C. BRAINARD.

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Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand;
We come and we go at his command,
Though joy or sorrow may mark our track,
His will is our guide, and we look not back;
And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away,
Or win us in gentlest air to play,

Then lift up your hearts to him who binds,
Or frees, as he will, the obedient Winds.

TO THE MEMORY OF J. G. C. BRAINARD.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

GONE to the land of silence-to the shadows of the dead

With the green turf on thy bosom, and the gray stone at thy head!

Hath thy spirit too departed? Doth it never linger

here,

When the dew upon the bending flower is falling like a tear?

When the sunshine lights the green earth, like the perfect smile of God,

Or when the moonlight gladdens, or the pale stars look abroad?

Hast thou lost thy pleasant fellowship with the beautiful of Earth,

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TO THE MEMORY OF J. G. C. BRAINARD.

With the green trees, and the quiet streams around thy place of birth?

The wave that wanders seaward-the tall, gray hills, whereon

Lingers, as if for sacrifice, the last light of the

sun;

The fair of form-the pure of soul-the eyes that shone, when thou

Wast answering to their smile of love-art thou not with them now?

Thou art sleeping calmly, Brainard-but the fame denied thee when

Thy way was with the multitude-the living tide

of men,

Is burning o'er thy sepulchre-a holy light and

strong,

And gifted ones are kneeling there, to breathe thy words of song

The beautiful and pure of soul—the lights of Earth's cold bowers

Are twining on thy funeral-stone a coronal of flowers!

Ay, freely hath the tear been given—and freely hath gone forth

The sigh of grief, that one like thee should pass away from Earth

Yet those who mourn thee, mourn thee not like those to whom is given

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