The Fall of Niagara

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,

While I look upward to thee. It wold 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 cent'ries in the eternal rocks.

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,

That hear the question of that voice sublime?

Oh! 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.

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard

Epithalamium

I SAW two clouds at morning,

Tinged with the rising sun;

And in the dawn they floated on,

And mingled into one:

I thought that morning cloud was blest,

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.

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard

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 charms--

When 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 colors hung

Upon the forest tops--he had not sigh'd.

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?"

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard

The Two Comets

THERE once dwelt in Olympus some notable oddities,

For their wild singularities call'd Gods and Goddesses.--

But one in particular beat'em all hollow,

Whose name, style, and title was Phoebus Apollo.

Now Phoeb. was a genius--his hand he could turn

To anything, everything genius can learn:

Bright, sensible, graceful, cute, spirited, handy,

Well bred, well behaved--a celestial Dandy!

An eloquent god, though he didn't say much;

But he drew a long bow, spoke Greek, Latin and Dutch;

A doctor, a poet, a soarer, a diver,

And of horses in harness an excellent driver.

He would tackle his steeds to the wheels of the sun,

And he drove up the east every morning, but one;

When young Phaeton begg'd of his daddy at five,

To stay with Aurora a day, and he'd drive.

So good natured Phoebus gave Phaey the seat,

With his mittens, change, waybill, and stage horn complete;

To the breeze of the morning he shook his bright locks,

Blew the lamps of the night out, and mounted the box.

The crack of his whip, like the breaking of day,

Warm'd the wax in the ears of the leaders, and they

With a snort, like the fog of the morning, clear'd out

For the west, as young Phaey meant to get there about

Two hours before sunset. He look'd at his "turnip,"

And to make the delay of the old line concern up,

He gave'em the reins; and from Aries to Cancer,

The style of his drive on the road seem'd to answer;

But at Leo, the ears of the near wheel-horse prick'd.

And at Virgo the heels of the off leader kick'd;

Over Libra the whiffle-tree broke in the middle,

And the traces snapp'd short, like the strings of a fiddle.

One wheel stuck near Scorpio, who gave it a roll,

And sent it to buzz, like a top, round the pole;

While the other whizz'd back with its linchpin and hub,

Or, more learnedly speaking, its nucleus or nub;

And, whether in earnest, or whether in fun,

He carried away a few locks of the sun.

The state of poor Phaeton's coach was a blue one,

And Jupiter order'd Apollo a new one;

But our driver felt rather too proud to say "Whoa,"

Letting horses, and harness, and everything go

At their terrified pleasure abroad; and the muse

Says, they cut to this day just what capers they choose;

That the eyes of the chargers as meteors shine forth;

That their manes stream along in the lights of the north;

That the wheels which are missing are comets, that run

As fast as they did when they carried the sun;

And still pushing forward, though never arriving,

Think the west is before them, and Phaeton driving.

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard

Stanzas

THE dead leaves strew the forest walk,

And whither'd are the pale flowers;

The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,

The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.

Gone are the spring's green sprouting bowers,

Gone summer's rich and mantling vines,

And autumn, with her yellow hours,

On hill and plain no longer shines.

I learned a clear and wild-toned note,

That rose and swell'd from yonder tree--

A gay bird, with too sweet a throat,

There perch'd and rais'd her song for me.

The winter comes, and where is she?

Away--where summer wings will rove,

Where buds are fresh, and every tree

Is vocal with the notes of love.

Too mild the breath of southern sky,

Too fresh the flower that blushes there,

The northern breeze that rustles by

Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair;

No forest tree stands stripp'd and bare,

No stream beneath the ice is dead,

No mountain top, with sleety hair,

Bends o'er the snows its reverend head.

Go there, with all the birds, and seek

A happier clime, with livelier flight,

Kiss, with the sun, the evenings cheek,

And leave me lonely with the night.

I'll gaze upon the cold north light,

And mark where all its glories shone,--

See--that it all is fair and bright,

Feel--that it is all cold and gone.

John Gardiner Calkins Brainard