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Bold Shakspeare sat, and look'd creation through,
That throne is cold—that lyre in death unstrung,
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 bandRealms 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,
TO MY CIGAR.
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;
They ’re sweeter while they last.
And oft, mild friend, to me thou art
A monitor, though still;
Beyond the preacher's skill.
Thou 'rt like the man of worth, who gives
To goodness every day,
When in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
Man's fate in thine I see.
Oft as thy snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,
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;
My soul shall cleave the sky.
THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.
Two swallows, having flown into church during divine service, were apostoupaized in the following stanzas.
Gay, guiltless pair,
Ye have no need of prayer,
Why perch ye here,
Can your pure spirits fear
Ye never knew
Penance is not for you,
To you 't is given
Beneath the arch of heaven
Then spread each wing,
And join the choirs that sing
blue dome not rear'd with hands.
Or if ye stay,
Teach me the airy way,
Above the crowd,
I'd bathe in you bright cloud,
'T were heaven indeed,
On nature's charms to feed,
When froin the sacred garden driven,
She led him through the trackless wild,
He rends the oak—and bids it ride,
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
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 Härtford, 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