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النشر الإلكتروني

Bold Shakspeare sat, and look'd creation through,
The Minstrel Monarch of the worlds he drew?

That throne is cold-that lyre in death unstrung,
On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung.
Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps,

One spot shall spare-the grave where Shakspeare sleeps.
Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie,

But Nature's laureate bards shall never die.

Art's chisell'd boast, and Glory's trophied shore,
Must live in numbers, or can live no more.

While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim,
Still rolls th' Olympic car in Pindar's fame:
Troy's doubtful walls, in ashes past away,
Yet frown on Greece in Homer's deathless lay :
Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling fanes,
Stands all immortal in her Maro's strains:--
So, too, yon giant empress of the isles,
On whose broad sway the sun for ever smiles,
To Time's unsparing rage one day must bend,
And all her triumphs in her Shakspeare end!

O Thou! to whose creative power

We dedicate the festal hour,

While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand,
Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's rose-lipp'd band-
Realms yet unborn, in accents now unknown,

Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own.
Deep in the West, as Independence roves,
His banners planting round the land he loves,
Where nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace,
In time's full hour shall spring a glorious race :-
Thy name, thy verse, thy language shall they bear,
And deck for thee the vaulted temple there.
Our Roman-hearted fathers broke
Thy parent empire's galling yoke,

But thou, harmonious ruler of the mind,
Around their sons a gentler chain shalt bind ;--
In thee shall Albion's sceptre wave once more,
And what her monarch lost her monarch-bard restore.


YES, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctors' spite;

I love thy fragrant, misty spell,
I love thy calm delight.

What though they tell, with phizzes long,
My years are sooner past;
I would reply, with reason strong,
They 're sweeter while they last.

And oft, mild friend, to me thou art
A monitor, though still;

Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart,
Beyond the preacher's skill.

Thou 'rt like the man of worth, who gives

To goodness every day,

The odor of whose virtues lives,
When he has pass'd away.

When in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,

O'er history's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thine I see.

Oft as thy snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,

I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee earth's masters burn,
And smoke and fume around,

And then like thee to ashes turn,

And mingle with the ground.

Life's but a leaf adroitly roll'd,
And time's the wasting breath,
That late or early, we behold,
Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe, One common doom is pass'd,

Sweet nature's works, the swelling globe,

Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now?-A little moving heap,

That soon like thee to fate must bow,
With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus when my body must lie low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.


Two swallows, having flown into church during divine servico, were apostrophized in the following stanzas.

GAY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,
Bless'd wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 't is given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven
To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands.

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Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in you bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky,

"T were heaven indeed, Through fields of trackless light to soar, On nature's charms to feed, And nature's own great God adore.


WHEN from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,
An angel left her place in heaven,

And cross'd the wanderer's sunless path.
"T was Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke,
Where her light foot flew o'er the ground;
And thus with seraph voice she spoke,
"The curse a blessing shall be found."

She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noontide sunbeam never blazed:-
The thistle shrunk-the harvest smiled,
And nature gladden'd as she gazed.
Earth's thousand tribes of living things,
At Art's command to him are given,
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to heaven.

He rends the oak-and bids it ride,
To guard the shores its beauty graced;
He smites the rock-upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength, and domes of taste.
Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal,
Fire bears his banner on the wave,
He bids the mortal poison heal,
And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill:

He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,

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And mocks his own Creator's skill.
With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky;
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame,
That quivers round the Throne on high.
In war renown'd, in peace sublime,
He moves in greatness and in grace;
His power subduing space and time,
Links realm to realm, and race to race.


BRAINARD was a native of New London, Connecticut, and son of the Hon. Jeremiah G. Brainard, who has been for several years one of the Judges of the Superior Court of that state. He was graduated at Yale College in 1815, and having fitted himself for the bar, he entered into practice at Middletown, Conn. Not finding the degree of success that he wished, he returned in a short time to his native town, and thence in 1822 he went to Hartford, to undertake the editorial charge of the Connecticut Mirror. In this capacity he was occupied until about a year before his death, when marked by evident symptoms, as a victim of consumption, he returned once again to the paternal roof, where he died, September 26, 1828, at the age of thirtytwo.

There are few men more richly gifted than was the subject of this memoir. The collection of poems, that were published by him in a volume, and which will carry his name down to futurity, were all composed for the columns of a weekly paper, and were only regarded by the writer as light and trifling productions, serving to fill his columns and discharge his obliga

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