THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY. SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose Or like herself,-she will be dead to-morrow. How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl! And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl That floats around her; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam, Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted! O, bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, And now she lies in ruins-look and weep! How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow. TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN. GRAVE of waters gone to rest! Wandering on the trackless plain, Sailing mid the angry storm, Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, Piling to the clouds thy form! Wandering monument of rain, Prison'd by the sullen north! Is it that thou comest forth? Roamer in the hidden path, 'Neath the green and clouded wave! Trampling in thy reckless wrath, On the lost, but cherish'd brave; Parting love's death-link'd embraceCrushing beauty's skeletonTell us what the hidden race With our mourned lost have done! Floating isle, which in the sun Wend thee to the southern main; Warm skies wait to welcome thee! Mingle with the wave again! THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. WHEN the summer sun was in the west, Some on the blue and changeful sea, And some in the prisoner's cell. And then his eye with a smile would beam, And the blood would leave his brain, And the verdure of his soul return, Like sere grass after rain! But when the tempest wreathed and spread A mantle o'er the sun, He gather'd back his woes again, And brooded thereupon; And thus he lived, till Time one day TO A WAVE. LIST! thou child of wind and sea, Wave! now on the golden sands, Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer? Was telling of a floating prison, Which, when tempests swept along, And the mighty winds were risen, Founder'd in the ocean's grasp. While the brave and fair were dying, Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds, as thou wert flying? Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock Where the pride of kings reposes, Crown'd with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire, green, and roses! Or with joyous, playful leap, Hast thou been a tribute flinging, Up that bold and jutty steep, Pearls upon the south wind stringing? Faded Wave! a joy to thee, Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover! On the shore of time is driven, THOMAS WARD. [Born, 1807.] DOCTOR WARD was born at Newark, in New Jersey, on the eighth of June, 1807. His father, General THOMAS WARD, is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respectable citizens of that town; and has held various offices of public trust in his native state, and represented his district in the national Congress. Doctor WARD received his classical education at the academies in Bloomfield and Newark, and the college at Princeton. He chose the profession of physic, and, after the usual preparation, obtained his degree of Doctor of Medicine in the spring of 1829, at the Rutgers Medical College, in New York. In the autumn of the same year he went to Paris, to avail himself of the facilities afforded in that capital for the prosecution of every branch of medical inquiry; and, after two years' absence, during which he accomplished the usual tour through Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and Great Britain, he returned to New York, and commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the course MUSINGS ON RIVERS. BEAUTIFUL rivers! that adown the vale With graceful passage journey to the deep, Let me along your grassy marge recline At ease, and musing, meditate the strange Bright history of your life; yes, from your birth, Has beauty's shadow chased your every step; The blue sea was your mother, and the sun Your glorious sire: clouds your voluptuous cradle, Roof'd with o'erarching rainbows; and your fall To earth was cheer'd with shout of happy birds, With brighten'd faces of reviving flowers And meadows, while the sympathising west Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. From deep, mysterious wanderings your springs Break bubbling into beauty; where they lie In infant helplessness a while, but soon Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks; Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood Rings with the boisterous glee; whileo'er their heads, Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, The frolic children of the wanton sun. Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, Though calm, unlovely; still, where'er ye move, Your train is beauty; trees stand grouping by To mark your graceful progress: giddy flowers, And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge To greet their faces in your flattering glass; The thirsty herd are following at your side; And water-birds, in clustering fleets, convoy of two or three years, however, he gradually withdrew from business, his circumstances permitting him to exchange devotion to his profession for the more congenial pursuits of literature and general knowledge. He is married, and still resides in New York; spending his summers, however, in his native city, and among the more romantic and beautiful scenes of New Jersey. His first literary efforts were brief satirical pieces, in verse and prose, published in a country gazette, in 1825 and 1826. It was not until after his return from Europe, when he adopted the signature of "FLACCUS," and began to write for the "New York American," that he attracted much attention. His principal work, “Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that River," appeared in 1841. It contains some fine descriptive passages, and its versification is generally correct and musical. "The Monomania of Money-getting," a satire, and many of his minor poems, are more distinguished for vigour than for melody, though he rarely violates the rules of metre. Your sea-bound tides; and jaded man, released Is record traced of Gon's exuberant grace Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores, New riders spur them, and enraged they rush, As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs, Back to the primal chaos fancy sweeps Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree, TO THE MAGNOLIA. WHEN roaming o'er the marshy field, Chaste blossom! such a balm as thou. So, in the dreary path of life, Through clogging toil and thorny care, Love rears his blossom o'er the strife, Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there: Which pours such incense round the spot, His pains, his cares, are all forgot. TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN. THOU bright and star-like spirit! I see mid heaven's seraphic host- But have we cause to grieve? The little weeper, tearless, The sinner, snatch'd from sin'; And I, thy earthly teacher, And I, a child to thee! Thy brain, so uninstructed While in this lowly state, Now threads the mazy track of spheres, Or reads the book of fate. Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision, Now range the realms of spaceLook down upon the rolling stars, Look up to God's own face. Thy little hand, so helpless, That scarce its toys could hold, Now clasps its mate in holy prayer, Or twangs a harp of gold. Thy feeble feet, unsteady, That totter'd as they trod, Nor is thy tongue less skilful, "T is pleading for a mother's weal, And now, still more to tempt our hearts, JOHN H. BRYANT. [Born, 1807.] JOHN HOWARD BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, on the twenty-second day of July, 1807. His youth was passed principally in rural occupations, and in attending the district and other schools, until he was nineteen years of age, when he began to study the Latin language, with a view of entering one of the colleges. In 1826, he wrote the first poem of which he retained any copy. This was entitled "My Native Village," and first appeared in the "United States Review and Literary Gazette," a periodical published simultaneously at New York and Boston, of which his brother, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, was one of the editors. It is included in the present collection. After this he gave up the idea of a university education, and placed himself for a while at the Rensselaer School at Troy, under the superintendance of Professor EATON. He subsequently applied himself to the study of the mathematical and natural sciences, under different instructors, and in his intervals of leisure produced several poems, which were published in the gazettes. In April, 1831, he went to Jacksonville, in Illinois; and in September of the next year went to Princeton, in the same state, where he sat himself down as a squatter, or inhabitant of the public lands not yet ordered to be sold by the government. When the lands came into the market, he purchased a farm, bordering on one of the fine groves of that country. He was married in 1833. He accepted soon afterward two or three public offices, one of which was that of Recorder of Bureau county; but afterward resigned them, and devoted himself to agricultural pursuits. Of his poems, part were written in Massachusetts, and part in Illinois. They have the same general characteristics as those of his brother. He is a lover of nature, and describes minutely and effectively. To him the wind and the streams are ever musical, and the forests and the prairies clothed in beauty. His versification is easy and correct, and his writings show him to be a man of refined taste and kindly feelings, and to have a mind stored with the best learning. THE NEW ENGLAND PILGRIM'S FUNERAL. It was a wintry scene, The hills were whiten'd o'er, And the chill north winds were blowing keen Gone was the wood-bird's lay, And the voice of the stream has pass'd away And the low sun coldly smiled They raised it gently up, They bore it away, with a solemn step, And grief was in each eye, When they laid his cold corpse low Weeping, they pass'd away, With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, But the mossy forest-stone. When the winter storms were gone And o'er him giant trees When these were overspread These woods are perish'd now, And the yeoman sings, as he drives his plough O'er that once sacred spot. Two centuries are flown Since they laid his cold corpse low, And his bones are moulder'd to dust, and strown To the breezes long ago. And they who laid him there, Now sleep in dust,-to tell us where Their memory remains, And ever shall remain, More lasting than the aged fanes Of Egypt's storied plain. A RECOLLECTION. HERE tread aside, where the descending brook Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream, And all the summer long, on silver feet, Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out A mellow murmur on the quiet air. Just up this narrow glen, in yonder glade Set, like a nest amid embowering trees, Where the green grass, fresh as in early spring, Spreads a bright carpet o'er the hidden soil, Lived, in my early days, an humble pair, A mother and her daughter. She, the dame, Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten. Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame, And bow'd with time and toil; the lines of care Were deep upon her brow. At shut of day I've met her by the skirt of this old wood, Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself, Haply, the history of her better days. I knew that history once, from youth to age:- Had wrong'd her love, and thick the darts of death Fit place is this for so much loveliness To find its rest. It is a hallow'd shrine, Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave; The green boughs o'er her, in the summer-time, Sigh to the winds; the robin takes his perch Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate; The brier-rose blossoms to the sky of June, And hangs above her in the winter days Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near; The noisy schoolboy keeps aloof, and he Who hunts the fox, when all the hills are white, Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found, Around the head-stone carefully entwined, Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom. For two years past I've miss'd them; doubtless one Who held this dust most precious, placed them there, And, sorrowing in secret many a year, At last hath left the earth to be with her. MY NATIVE VILLAGE. THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale, With sloping hills and waving woods around, Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground; And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, And a bright verdure, born of gentler showers. "Twas there my young existence was begun, My earliest sports were on its flowery green, And often, when my schoolboy task was done, I climb'd its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height, the sweetest of the day. There, when that hour of mellow light was come, And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain, I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home, In the lone path that winds across the plain, To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play, And tell him o'er the labours of the day. And when the woods put on their autumn glow, Ah! happy days, too happy to return, Fled on the wings of youth's departed years, A bitter lesson has been mine to learn, The truth of life, its labours, pains, and fears; Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay, A twilight of the brightness pass'd away. My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still, |