So, in the pleasant night of June,
He lightly sails away,

To where the glimmer of the moon
Lies right across the bay.

And she sits singing on the shore
A song of pure delight;
The boat flies on-a little more,
And he will cross the light.

The boat flies on, the song is done,
The light before him gleams;
A little more, and he has won !
'Tis farther than it seems.

The boat flies on, the boat flies fast;
The wind blows strong and free;
The boat flies on, the bay is past,
He sails into the sea.

And on, and on, and ever on,
The light lies just before;
But ah, forevermore is done
The song upon the shore!

A WINTER EVENING.

Expecting his, her fancy talks
(By like and unlike set astir)
Of one of her last summer walks
To where he sat expecting her.

We had no sunset here to-day,
Nor are there any stars to-night;

But all above was pearly gray

And all beneath was silver white;

And still the snow-flakes fall and fall
In silence, for the weary breeze
Is sleeping and no noise at all

Is in the bushes or the trees,

On which the snow lies like white moss, Too light to bend them; but the grass Must be quite hidden all across

The meadow through which he will pass Unheard, unseen, till he is near

The lilac sparkling in the glow
Of this my little lamp, placed here
To call him to me through the snow.

'Tis not so very cold without;

But here within 'tis light and warm, The hot wood murmurs, wrapped about By lithe long flames of fickle form; And swiftly running on, to make

Its lurking cuckoo leap and laugh, The clock's incessant chatterings wake An answering echo in behalf Of sweeter noises than its own: Till, hearing them I seem to see Once more the meadows overgrown With waving grass, and every tree With bright green leaves well woven close To take the sunlight, and the wind Almost to take, that comes and goes

And never quite makes up its mind. And in the meadows near and far, With daisies and snapdragon dight, Unanswerable crickets are

Forever singing out of sight;

And little flickering brooks that flow
To their own music ever, make
For me a music that I know-

How well indeed, who used to take
The path so often close beside

The brightest of them, singing past
Well-watered grass on either side,
Till, o'er the little bridge at last,
Good-by to brook and path, but not
Till, spite of all the surly bees
That grudge the treasure, I have got
As many ear-drops as I please :
And then the meadow ('twas a sin
To flout the quiet daisies so);
With scared grasshoppers out and in
The grasses leaping as I go;
Along the moss-grown shaky wall,

Across the close-nipped pasture-ground Where only mulleins dare grow tall,

And blackberry vines creep close around The gray-green mossy rocks that sleep Luxurious in the flattering light Of sunshine all day long, and keep Warm sides to feel of in the night; Past patient cows that mildly gaze Upon me as I pass them by, And stop to fix a lock that strays, And startle at a far-off cry ;— And then a turn, and there is naught Between me and the place I know But vines and bushes interwrought To make a screening tangle go

About a green and golden glade,
Where 'neath the appointed chestnut tree,
And quaintly dappled by its shade,

Who is it I have come to see?
And yet, forsooth, the eager eyes
Must cloud a little and go astray
A moment with the thoughts that rise
Of many things, and will have way,
Before I dare to draw the screen
Of interwoven leaves apart
A little way, and peer between,
And see him, with as full a heart--

As now I have to see him there,
Behind my lilac in the snow
Peering at me, and with an air
As if a woman would not know !

WINTER SUNSET.

I saw a cloud at set of sun
Exceeding white and fair,
High over every other one,
And poised in purer air.

Like one that follows, forward bent,
With arms outspread before,
Into the splendid west he went
Just as the day was o’er.

I saw him turn to rosy red,
I saw him turn to fire,
I saw him burn away instead
Of ceasing to desire.

BRAINARD, JOHN GARDNER CALKINS.

On Connecticut River....

Stanzas..

BROWN, CHARLES BROCKDEN.

Yellow Fever Scenes in Philadelphia, 1793...... . . . .

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Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids..

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