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Bold Shakspeare sat, and look'd creation through,
That throne is cold-that lyre in death unstrung,
One spot shall spare-the grave where Shakspeare sleeps.
But Nature's laureate bards shall never die.
Art's chisell'd boast, and Glory's trophied shore,
While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim,
O Thou! to whose creative power
We dedicate the festal hour,
While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand,
Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own.
But thou, harmonious ruler of the mind,
TO MY CIGAR
YES, social friend, I love thee well,
I love thy fragrant, misty spell,
What though they tell, with phizzes long,
And oft, mild friend, to me thou art
Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart,
Thou 'rt like the man of worth, who gives
To goodness every day,
The odor of whose virtues lives,
When in the lonely evening hour,
O'er history's varied page I pore,
Oft as thy snowy column grows,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Awhile like thee earth's masters burn,
And then like thee to ashes turn,
And mingle with the ground.
Life's but a leaf adroitly roll'd,
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,
But though thy ashes downward go,
THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.
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 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:
To you 't is given
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Then spread each wing,
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands.
Above the crowd,
On upward wings could I but fly,
"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,
And cross'd the wanderer's sunless path.
She led him through the trackless wild,
He rends the oak-and bids it ride,
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And mocks his own Creator's skill.
In fields of air he writes his name,
JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD.
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