THE LYRE AND SWORD.

BY GEORGE LUNT.

THE freeman's glittering sword be blest,-
For ever blest the freeman's lyre,—
That rings upon the tyrant's crest;
This stirs the heart like living fire:
Well can he wield the shining brand,
Who battles for his native land;

But when his fingers sweep the chords,
That summon heroes to the fray,
They gather at the feast of swords,
Like mountain-eagles to their prey!

And mid the vales and swelling hills,
That sweetly bloom in Freedom's land,
A living spirit breathes and fills

The freeman's heart and nerves his hand;
For the bright soil that gave him birth,
The home of all he loves on earth,-
For this, when Freedom's trumpet calls,
He waves on high his sword of fire,—
For this, amidst his country's halls

For ever strikes the freeman's lyre!

His burning heart he may not lend

To serve a doting despot's sway,A suppliant knee he will not bend, Before these things of "brass and clay :" When wrong and ruin call to war, He knows the summons from afar;

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.

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!)
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 and 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

Scems nearer unto mc.

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.

217

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 clement 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.