spiritual life upon which he was about to enter. He had always regarded with reverence the Christian character and profession, and he was now united to the visible church, and received the holiest of the sacraments. He lingered until the twenty-sixth of September, 1828, when he passed peacefully to the rest of those who "know that their Redeemer lives."

The pathway of BRAINARD was aside from the walks of ambition, and the haunts of worldliness. He lived within himself, holding communion with his own thoughts, and suffering from deep and lasting melancholy. Like WILCOX, it is said, he had met with one of those disappointments in early life, which so frequently impress the soul with sadness; and though there was sometimes gayety in his manner and conversation, it was generally assumed, to conceal painful musings or to beguile

sorrow.

His person was small, and well formed; his countenance mild, and indicative of the kindness and gentleness of his nature; and in his eyes there was a look of dreamy listlessness and tenderness. He was fond of society, and his pleasing

conversation and amiable character won for him many ardent friends. He was peculiarly sensitive; and Mr. WHITTIER,* in a sketch of his life, remarks that in his gayest moments a coldly-spoken word, or casual inattention, would check at once | the free flow of his thoughts, cause the jest to die on his lips, and "the melancholy which had been lifted from his heart, to fall again with increased heaviness."

BRAINARD lacked the mental discipline and strong self-command which alone confer true power. He never could have produced a great work. His poems were nearly all written during the six years in which he edited the Mirror, and they bear marks of haste and carelessness, though some of them are very beautiful. He failed only in his humorous pieces; in all the rest his language is appropriate and pure, his diction free and harmonious, and his sentiments natural and sincere. His serious poems are characterized by deep feeling and delicate fancy; and if we had no records of his history, they would show us that he was a man of great gentleness, simplicity, and purity.

JERUSALEM.†

FOUR lamps were burning o'er two mighty graves— GODFREY'S and BALDWIN'S‡-Salem's Christian kings;

And holy light glanced from Helena's naves,
Fed with the incense which the pilgrim brings,-

On this occasion, says the Reverend Mr. M'EWEN, as he was too feeble to go to the church and remain through the customary services, he arrived at and entered the sanctuary when these were nearly or quite through. Every one present (literally, almost) knew him,-the occasion of his coming was understood,-and when he appeared, pale, feeble, emaciated, and trembling in consequence of his extreme debility, the sensation it produced was at once apparent throughout the whole assembly. There seemed to be an instinctive homage paid to the grace of God in him; or, perhaps, the fact shows how readily a refined Christian community sympathizes with genius and virtue destined to an early tomb.

The following intelligence from Constantinople was of the eleventh October, 1821: "A severe earthquake is said to have taken place at Jerusalem, which has destroyed great part of that city, shaken down the Mosque of Omar, and reduced the Holy Sepulchre to ruins from top to bottom."

GODFREY and BALDWIN were the first Christian kings at Jerusalem. The Empress HELENA, mother of CoNSTANTINE the Great, built the church of the sepulchre on Mount Calvary. The walls are of stone and the roof of cedar. The four lamps which lit it, are very costly. It is kept in repair by the offerings of pilgrims who resort to it. The mosque was originally a Jewish temple. The Emperor JULIAN undertook to rebuild the temple of Jerusalem at a very great expense, to disprove the prophecy of our Saviour, as it was understood by the Jews; but the work and the workmen were destroyed by an earthquake. The pools of Bethesda and Gihon-the tomb of the Virgin MARY, and of King JEHOSAPHAT-the pillar of ABSALOM-the tomb of ZACHARIAH-and the campo santo, or holy field, which is supposed to have been purchased with the price of JUDAS's treason, are, or were lately, the most interesting parts of Jerusalem.

While through the panell'd roof the cedar flings Its sainted arms o'er choir, and roof, and dome, And every porphyry-pillar'd cloister rings To every kneeler there its "welcome home," As every lip breathes out, "O LORD, thy kingdom come."

A mosque was garnish'd with its crescent moons,

And a clear voice call'd Mussulmans to prayer. There were the splendours of Judea's thronesThere were the trophies which its conquerors

wear

All but the truth, the holy truth, was there:For there, with lip profane, the crier stood,

And him from the tall minaret you might hear, Singing to all whose steps had thither trod, That verse misunderstood, "There is no God but GOD."

Hark! did the pilgrim tremble as he kneel'd?

And did the turban'd Turk his sins confess? Those mighty hands the elements that wield,

That mighty Power that knows to curse or bless, Is over all; and in whatever dress His suppliants crowd around him, He can see Their heart, in city or in wilderness, And probe its core, and make its blindness flee, Owning Him very Gon, the only Deity. There was an earthquake once that rent thy fane, Proud JULIAN; when (against the prophecy Of Him who lived, and died, and rose again,

"That one stone on another should not lie") Thou wouldst rebuild that Jewish masonry To mock the eternal Word.-The earth below Gush'd out in fire; and from the brazen sky,

JOHN G. WHITTIER was one of BRAINARD's intimate friends, and, soon after his death, he wrote an interesting account of his life, which was prefixed to an edition of his poems, printed in 1832.

And from the boiling seas such wrath did flow,
As saw not Shinar's plain, nor Babel's overthrow.

Another earthquake comes. Dome, roof, and wall
Tremble; and headlong to the grassy bank,
And in the muddied stream the fragments fall,
While the rent chasm spread its jaws, and drank
At one huge draught, the sediment, which sank
In Salem's drained goblet. Mighty Power!

Thou whom we all should worship, praise, and thank,

Where was thy mercy in that awful hour, When hell moved from beneath, and thine own heaven did lower?

Say, Pilate's palaces-proud Herod's towers

Say, gate of Bethlehem, did your arches quake? Thy pool, Bethesda, was it fill'd with showers? Calm Gihon, did the jar thy waters wake? Tomb of thee, MARY-Virgin-did it shake! Glow'd thy bought field, Aceldama, with blood?

Where were the shudderings Calvary might Did sainted Mount Moriah send a flood, [make? To wash away the spot where once a Gon had stood?

Lost Salem of the Jews-great sepulchre

Of all profane and of all holy thingsWhere Jew, and Turk, and Gentile yet concur To make thee what thou art! thy history brings Thoughts mix'd of joy and wo. The whole earth rings

With the sad truth which He has prophesied,

Who would have shelter'd with his holy wings Thee and thy children. You his power defied: You scourged him while he lived, and mock'd him as he died!

There is a star in the untroubled sky,

[made

That caught the first light which its Maker It led the hymn of other orbs on high;—

"Twill shine when all the fires of heaven shall fade.

Pilgrims at Salem's porch, be that your aid! For it has kept its watch on Palestine!

Look to its holy light, nor be dismay'd, Though broken is each consecrated shrine, Though crush'd and ruin'd all-which men have call'd divine.

ON CONNECTICUT RIVER.

FROM that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain
That links the mountain to the mighty main,
Fresh from the rock and swelling by the tree,
Rushing to meet, and dare, and breast the sea-
Fair, noble, glorious river! in thy wave
The sunniest slopes and sweetest pastures lave;
The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar,
Springs from its home and leaps upon thy shore:-
The promontories love thee-and for this
Turn their rough cheeks and stay thee for thy kiss.
Stern, at thy source, thy northern guardians
Rude rulers of the solitary land,
[stand,
Wild dwellers by thy cold, sequester'd springs,
Of earth the feathers and of air the wings;

Their blasts have rock'd thy cradle, and in storm
Cover'd thy couch and swathed in snow thy form-
Yet, bless'd by all the elements that sweep
The clouds above, or the unfathom'd deep,
The purest breezes scent thy blooming hills,
The gentlest dews drop on thy eddying rills,
By the moss'd bank, and by the aged tree,
The silver streamlet smoothest glides to thee.

The young oak greets thee at the water's edge,
Wet by the wave, though anchor'd in the ledge.
-Tis there the otter dives, the beaver feeds,
Where pensive osiers dip their willowy weeds,
And there the wild-cat purs amid her brood,
And trains them in the sylvan solitude,
To watch the squirrel's leap, or mark the mink
Paddling the water by the quiet brink ;-
Or to out-gaze the gray owl in the dark,
Or hear the young fox practising to bark.

Dark as the frost-nipp'd leaves that strew'd the ground,

The Indian hunter here his shelter found;
Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true,
Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe,
Spear'd the quick salmon leaping up the fall,
And slew the deer without the rifle-ball; [choose,
Here his young squaw her cradling tree would
Singing her chant to hush her swart pappoose;
Here stain her quills and string her trinkets rude,
And weave her warrior's wampum in the wood.
-No more shall they thy welcome waters bless,
No more their forms thy moon-lit banks shall press,
No more be heard, from mountain or from grove,
His whoop of slaughter, or her song of love.

Thou didst not shake, thou didst not shrink

One mighty sigh relieves thy icy breast,
And wakes thee from the calmness of thy rest.
Down sweeps the torrent ice-it may not stay
By rock or bridge, in narrow or in bay-
Swift, swifter to the heaving sea it goes,
And leaves thee dimpling in thy sweet repose.
-Yet as the unharm'd swallow skims his way,
And lightly drops his pinions in thy spray,
So the swift sail shall seek thy inland seas,
And swell and whiten in thy purer breeze,
New paddles dip thy waters, and strange oars
Feather thy waves and touch thy noble shores.

Thy noble shores! where the tall steeple shines,
At mid-day, higher than thy mountain pines;
Where the white school-house with its daily drill
Of sunburn'd children, smiles upon the hill;
Where the neat village grows upon the eye,
Deck'd forth in nature's sweet simplicity-
Where hard-won competence, the farmer's wealth,
Gains merit, honour, and gives labour health;
Where GOLDSMITH's self might send his exiled band
To find a new "Sweet Auburn" in our land.
What Art can execute, or Taste devise,
Decks thy fair course and gladdens in thine eyes-

As broader sweep the bendings of thy stream,
To meet the southern sun's more constant beam.
Here cities rise, and sea-wash'd commerce hails
Thy shores and winds with all her flapping sails,
From tropic isles, or from the torrid main--
Where grows the grape,or sprouts the sugar-cane--
Or from the haunts where the striped haddock play,
By each cold, northern bank and frozen bay.
Here, safe return'd from every stormy sea,
Waves the striped flag, the mantle of the free,
--That star-lit flag, by all the breezes curl'd
Of yon vast deep whose waters grasp the world.
In what Arcadian, what Utopian ground
Are warmer hearts or manlier feelings found,
More hospitable welcome, or more zeal
To make the curious "tarrying" stranger feel
That, next to home, here best may he abide,
To rest and cheer him by the chimney-side;
Drink the hale farmer's cider, as he hears
From the gray dame the tales of other years.
Cracking his shag-barks, as the aged crone
-Mixing the true and doubtful into one-
Tells how the Indian scalp'd the helpless child,
And bore its shrieking mother to the wild,
Butcher'd the father hastening to his home,
Seeking his cottage-finding but his tomb.
How drums, and flags, and troops were seen on high,
Wheeling and charging in the northern sky,

And that she knew what these wild tokens meant,
When to the Old French War her husband went.
How, by the thunder-blasted tree, was hid
The golden spoils of far-famed ROBERT KIDD;
And then the chubby grandchild wants to know
About the ghosts and witches long ago,
That haunted the old swamp.

The clock strikes ten-
The prayer
is said, nor unforgotten then
The stranger in their gates. A decent rule
Of elders in thy puritanic school.

[dream,

When the fresh morning wakes him from his And daylight smiles on rock, and slope, and stream, Are there not glossy curls and sunny eyes, As brightly lit and bluer than thy skies; Voices as gentle as an echo'd call, And sweeter than the soften'd waterfall That smiles and dimples in its whispering spray, Leaping in sportive innocence away :And lovely forms, as graceful and as gay As wild-brier, budding in an April day! -How like the leaves--the fragrant leaves it bears, Their sinless purposes and simple cares. Stream of my sleeping fathers! when the sound Of coming war echoed thy hills around, How did thy sons start forth from every glade, Snatching the musket where they left the spade. How did their mothers urge them to the fight, Their sisters tell them to defend the right;How bravely did they stand, how nobly fall, The earth their coffin and the turf their pall; How did the aged pastor light his eye, When, to his flock, he read the purpose high And stern resolve, whate'er the toil may be, To pledge life, name, fame, all-for liberty. -Cold is the hand that penn'd that glorious pageStill in the grave the body of that sage

Whose lip of eloquence and heart of zeal
Made patriots act and listening statesmen feel-
Brought thy green mountains down upon their foes,
And thy white summits melted of their snows,
While every vale to which his voice could come,
Rang with the fife and echoed to the drum.

Bold river! better suited are thy waves
To nurse the laurels clustering round thy graves,
Than many a distant stream, that soaks the mud
Where thy brave sons have shed their gallant blood,
And felt, beyond all other mortal pain,
They ne'er should see their happy home again.

Thou hadst a poet once,--and he could tell, Most tunefully, whate'er to thee befell; Could fill each pastoral reed upon thy shore-But we shall hear his classic lays no more! He loved thee, but he took his aged way, By Erie's shore, and PERRY's glorious day, To where Detroit looks out amidst the wood, Remote beside the dreary solitude.

Yet for his brow thy ivy leaf shall spread, Thy freshest myrtle lift its berried head, And our gnarl'd charter-oak put forth a bough, Whose leaves shall grace thy TRUMBULL'S honour'd brow.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WOODWARD, AT EDINBURGH.

"The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord-is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze."

ANOTHER! 'tis a sad word to the heart,

That one by one has lost its hold on life, From all it loved or valued, forced to part In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife That cuts at once and kills-its tortured strife Is with distill'd affliction, drop by drop

Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife With grief and sorrow! all that we would prop, Or would be propp'd with, falls--when shall the ruin stop?

The sea has one,* and Palestine has one,

And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone, And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaidAnd from the lonely tomb where thou art laid, Turn to some other monument--nor know

Whose grave she passes, or whose name she read: Whose loved and honour'd relics lie below; Whose is immortal joy, and whose is mortal wo. There is a world of bliss hereafter-else

Why are the bad above, the good beneath The green grass of the grave? The mower fells Flowers and briers alike. But man shall breathe (When he his desolating blade shall sheathe And rest him from his work) in a pure sky,

Above the smoke of burning worlds;--and Death On scorched pinions with the dead shall lie, When time, with all his years and centuries has pass'd by.

* Professor FISHER, lost in the " Albion," and Rev. LEVI PARSONS, missionary to Palestine, who died at Alexandria.

ON A LATE LOSS.*

"He shall not float upon his watery bier Unwept."

THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string, Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm; The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring, Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,

Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,
Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
That wave and wind can muster, when the might
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.

So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear,
And radiant learning beckon'd thee away.
The breeze was music to thee, and the clear

Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wreck'd thee!--But there is a shore Where storms are hush'd-where tempests

never rage;

Where angry skies and blackening seas no more
With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage.
By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod--
Thy home is heaven, and thy friend is Gon.

SONNET TO THE SEA-SERPENT.

"Hugest that swims the ocean stream."

WELTER upon the waters, mighty one

And stretch thee in the ocean's trough of brine; Turn thy wet scales up to the wind and sun, And toss the billow from thy flashing fin; Heave thy deep breathings to the ocean's din, And bound upon its ridges in thy pride:

Or dive down to its lowest depths, and in The caverns where its unknown monsters hide, Measure thy length beneath the gulf-stream's tide-Or rest thee on that navel of the sea Where, floating on the Maelstrom, abide

The krakens sheltering under Norway's lee; But go not to Nahant, lest men should swear You are a great deal bigger than you are.

THE FALL OF NIAGARA.

"Labitur et labetur."

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if Gon 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.

*Professor FISHER, lost in the Albion, off the coast of Kinsale, Ireland.

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 heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ?--a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

WHO shall weep when the righteous die?

Who shall mourn when the good depart?
When the soul of the godly away shall fly,
Who shall lay the loss to heart?

He has gone into peace-he has laid him down,
To sleep till the dawn of a brighter day;
And he shall wake on that holy morn,

When sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

But ye who worship in sin and shame
Your idol gods, whate'er they be:
Who scoff, in your pride, at your Maker's name,
By the pebbly stream and the shady tree,-
Hope in your mountains, and hope in your streams,
Bow down in their worship, and loudly pray;
Trust in your strength, and believe in your dreams,
But the wind shall carry them all away.

There's one who drank at a purer fountain,
One who was wash'd in a purer flood:
He shall inherit a holier mountain,

He shall worship a holier Gon.
But the sinner shall utterly fail and die,

Whelm'd in the waves of a troubled sea;
And Gon, from his throne of light on high,
Shall say, there is no peace for thee.

EPITHALAMIUM.

I SAW two clouds at morning,

Tinged by the rising sun,

And in the dawn they floated on,

And mingled into one;

I thought that morning cloud was bless'd,

It moved so sweetly to the west.

I saw two summer currents

Flow smoothly to their meeting,
And join their course, with silent force,

In peace each other greeting;

Calm was their course through banks of green, While dimpling eddies play'd between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat;
Like summer's beam, and summer's stream,
Float on, in joy, to meet

A calmer sea, where storms shall cease-
A purer sky, where all is peace.

TO THE DEAD.

How many now are dead to me

That live to others yet!

How many are alive to me

Who crumble in their graves, nor see
That sickening, sinking look, which we
Till dead can ne'er forget.

Beyond the blue seas, far away,
Most wretchedly alone,
One died in prison, far away,

Where stone on stone shut out the day,
And never hope or comfort's ray

In his lone dungeon shone. Dead to the world, alive to me,

Though months and years have pass'd;
In a lone hour, his sigh to me
Comes like the hum of some wild bee,
And then his form and face I see,
As when I saw him last.

And one with a bright lip, and cheek,
And eye, is dead to me.

How pale the bloom of his smooth cheek!
His lip was cold-it would not speak:
His heart was dead, for it did not break:

And his eye, for it did not see.

Then for the living be the tomb,
And for the dead the smile ;
Engrave oblivion on the tomb
Of pulseless life and deadly bloom,-
Dim is such glare: but bright the gloom
Around the funeral pile.

THE DEEP.

THERE's beauty in the deep: The wave is bluer than the sky; And, though the lights shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow, That sparkle in the depths below; The rainbow's tints are only made When on the waters they are laid; And sun and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine.

There's beauty in the deep.

There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore,-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves, with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away.
There's music in the deep.

There's quiet in the deep:-
Above, let tides and tempests rave,

And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;
Above, let care and fear contend
With sin and sorrow, to the end:

Here, far beneath the tainted foam That frets above our peaceful home; We dream in joy, and wake in love, Nor know the rage that yells above. There's quiet in the deep.

MR. MERRY'S LAMENT FOR "LONG TOM."

"Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore."

THY cruise is over now,

Thou art anchor'd by the shore,
And never more shalt thou

Hear the storm around thee roar;
Death has shaken out the sands of thy glass.
Now around thee sports the whale,
And the porpoise snuffs the gale,
And the night-winds wake their wail,
As they pass.

The sea-grass round thy bier
Shall bend beneath the tide,
Nor tell the breakers near

Where thy manly limbs abide;
But the granite rock thy tombstone shall be.
Though the edges of thy grave
Are the combings of the wave-
Yet unheeded they shall rave

Over thee.

At the piping of all hands,

When the judgment signal's spread— When the islands, and the lands,

And the seas give up their dead,

And the south and the north shall come;
When the sinner is dismay'd,
And the just man is afraid,
Then heaven be thy aid,
Poor Toм.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

WHAT is there saddening in the autumn leaves? Have they that "green and yellow melancholy" That the sweet poet spake of?-Had he seen Our variegated woods, when first the frost Turns into beauty all October's charmsWhen the dread fever quits us-when the storms Of the wild equinox, with all its wet, Has left the land, as the first deluge left it, With a bright bow of many colours hung Upon the forest tops-he had not sighed.

The moon stays longest for the hunter now: The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe And busy squirrel hoards his winter store: While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along The bright, blue sky above him, and that bends Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks, "What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?"