120 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 Then may the minister of death, in smiles, THE SEA DIVER. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. My way is on the bright blue sea, My plumage bears the crimson blush, 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, Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown At night upon my storm-drenched wing, And when the wind and storm had done, I saw the pomp of day depart,- The sailor's wasted corse went down. Peace be to those whose graves are made 121 122 THE WINDS. THE WINDS. BY HANNAH F. GOULD, WE Come, we come! and ye feel our might, Like the spirit of Liberty, wild and free! Ye mark as we vary our forms of power, And whether our breath be loud and high, And ye list, and ye look, but what do you see? TO THE MEMORY OF J. G. C. BRAINARD. 123 Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand; Then lift up your hearts to him who binds, 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, 124 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 |