FORTUNATUS COSBY. [Born 1802.] FORTUNATUS COSBY, a son of Mr. Justice CosBY, for many years one of the most eminent lawyers of Louisville, Kentucky, was born at Harrod's Creek, Jefferson county, in that state, on the second of May, 1802; graduated at Yale College in 1819; married a young lady of New England in 1825; and has since been known as a lover of literature, and a poet, though too careless of his fame as an author to collect the many waifs he has from time to time contributed to the periodicals, some of which have been widely published under the names of other writers. In his later years he has resided in Washington. Mr. COSBY has sung with natural grace and genuine feeling of domestic life, and of the charms of nature, as seen in the luxuriant west, where, in his own time, forests of a thousand years have disappeared before the axe of the settler, and cities. with all the institutions of cultivated society, have taken the places of wigwams and hunting-camps. Among the longer effusions which he has printed anonymously, besides the following fine ode “To the Mocking Bird," (written about the year 1826,) may be mentioned "The Traveler in the Desert," "A Dream of Long Ago," "Fireside Fancies," and The Solitary Fountain." 64 TO THE MOCKING BIRD.* BIRD of the wild and wondrous song, I hear thy rich and varied voice Swelling the greenwood depths among, Till hill and vale the while rejoice. Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain, I list to that inspiring strain; I thread the forest's tangled maze The thousand choristers to see, I search in vain each pause between- "T is but the music of a dream, An airy sound that mocks the car; But hark again! the eagle's screamIt rose and fell, distinct and clear! And list! in yonder hawthorn bush, The red bird, robin, and the thrush! Lost in amaze I look around, Nor thrush nor eagle there behold: But still that rich ærial sound, Like some forgotten song of old That o'er the heart has held control, Falls sweetly on the ravished soul. And yet the woods are vocal still, The air is musical with song; O'er the near stream, above the hill, The wildering notes are borne along; But whence that gush of rare delight? And what art thou, or bird, or sprite?Perched on yon maple's topmost bough, With glancing wings and restless feet, Bird of untiring throat, art thou Sole songster in this concert sweet! In earlier editions of this volume erroneously attributed to Mr. ALFRED B. MEEK. So perfect, full, and rich, each part, Once more, once more, that thrilling strain!- More sweet than harp or lover's lute; Thy "wood-note wild" again is fled: And all the "soul of song" is dead! On glittering wing, erect and bright, With arrowy speed he darts aloft, His frame in restless motion wheels, To act the ecstacy he feelsAs though his very feet kept time To that inimitable chime! And ever, as the rising moon Climbs with full orb the trees above, He sings his most enchanting tune, While echo wakes through all the grove; His descant soothes, in care's despite, The weary watches of the night; The sleeper from his couch starts up, To listen to that lay forlorn; And he who quaffs the midnight cup Looks out to see the purple morn! Oh, ever in the merry spring, Sweet mimic, let me hear thee sing! JAMES WILLIAM MILLER. [Born about 1802. Died 18:9.] JAMES WILLIAM MILLER was a young man of singular refinement, and most honorable character, "with the single defect of indecision," which, according to his biographer, “attended almost every action in his chequered existence," so that, young as he was when he died, "he had been engaged in as many as eight different pursuits, none of which was prosecuted with sufficient perseverance to command success." In 1828, after having passed some time in the desultory study of the law, at Middleborough, near Boston, he suddenly determined to make a desperate effort to acquire fortune, or at least a competence, in the West Indies; and after visiting several of the islands, finally settled upon one of those which are subject to Spain, and though his health was feeble and precarious, was prosecuting his plans with great energy, and prospects of abundant success, when he died-his brain and heart and body overtasked -in 1829, at the age of twenty-seven years. Mr. N. P. WILLIS describes him, in his "American Monthly Magazine," for October, 1830, as having been "a man of exceeding sensitiveness, and great delicacy, both of native disposition and culture;" and "of the kind of genius which is out of place in common life, and which, at the same time that it interests and attracts you, excites your fear and pity." Mr. MILLER was for a short time associated with JOHN NEAL in the editorship of "The Yankee," and he wrote for this and other periodicals, many poems, simple and touching in sentiment, for the most part, but with indications of his constitutional carelessness, which after his death were collected and published, with a graceful and appreciative memoir. A SHOWER. 'THE pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain! On twangling leaf and dimpling pool- The withering grass, and fading flowers, All things of earth, all grateful things! They hear the sound of the warning burst, It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain! It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers, It hath kiss'd the tomb of the lilly pale, And it bears its life on its living wings- * "He left this country abruptly, to run a wild hazard of life for which his delicate habits unfitted him-for a reward most distant and visionary.... The country he was going to was rude and sickly; the pursuits he was to engage in were coarse and repulsive; the language, the people, new to him; the prospects of success too distant for anything but desperation."-Notice b, N. P. Willis. ་ And yet it comes the lightning's flash It comes with the rush of a god's descent With a rush as of a thousand steeds, And now it is up, with a sudden lift- The pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain! I see the smile of the opening cloud, And the happy earth gives back her smiles, As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart, So came the good of the pleasant rain, It shall breathe this truth on the human ear, That to bring the gift of a bounteous Heaven, The pleasant rain hath come. ALBERT G. GREENE. [Born, 1802.] MR. GREENE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since remained. One of his earliest metrical compositions was the familiar piece entitled "Old Grimes," which was written in the year in which he entered the university. His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, and have never been published in a collected form. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'ER a low couch the setting sur Whose fame had ne'er been bent Its iron strength had spent. "They come around me here, and say To tell me now, that I, Their own liege lord and master born,— "And what is death? I've dared him oft "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,- Bid each retainer arm with speed,- Up with my banner on the wall,— A hundred hands were busy then,— Along the vaulted wall, Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, ant! spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall. But I defy him:-let him come !" And, with the black and heavy plumes TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE. THE dawn has broke, the morn is up, And there thy poised and gilded spear Upon that steep and lofty tower Where thou thy watch hast kept, A true and faithful sentinel, While all around thee slept. For years, upon thee, there has pour'd And through the long, dark, starless night, By day and night the same, Still thou hast met and faced the storm, No chilling blast in wrath has swept But thou hast watch'd its onward course, Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes How oft I've seen, at early dawn, Or twilight's quiet hour, Come darting round thy tower, And when, around thee or above, Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight Till, after twittering round thy head In many a mazy track, The whole delighted company Have settled on thy back. Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth, Now all away!-here ends our play, Men slander thee, my honest friend, They have no right to make thy name Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known But when thou changest sides, canst give Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course Art touch'd by many airs froin heaven Which they do never know, Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod Through one more dark and cheerless night And now in glory o'er thy head The morning light has burst. And unto earth's true watcher, thus, When his dark hours have pass'd, Will come "the day-spring from on high," To cheer his path at last. Bright symbol of fidelity, Still may I think of thee: And may the lesson thou dost teach May I be faithful to my trust, ADELHEID. WHY droop the sorrowing trees, Drearily, wearily, They ever seem crying, "Adelheid! Adelheid!" evening and morn: Adelheid! Adelheid! where has she gone?" With their arms bending there, Icy and chill, Trembling and glistening, With the snow round their feet, With the warm breath of Spring Now the foliage is stirr'd; On the pathway below them A footstep is heard. OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old mar He used to wear a long, black coat, His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray-- Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn'd; Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, He lived at peace with all mankind, For thirty years or more. He had no malice in his mind, He wore large buckles on his shoes, Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, His worldly goods he never threw OH, THINK NOT THAT THE BOSOM'S LIGHT. OH think not that the bosom's light To feel its warmth and share its glow. To those who gather near the shrine. Doth not more clear and brightly burn The fire which lives through one brief hour, But bear no heat within its breast, Do the dull flint, the rigid steel, Which thou within thy hand mayst hold, Unto thy sight or touch reveal The hidden power which they enfold? Until the blow that woke it came, By which the fire can be discern'd It wears its giant heart away. The burning mass which lies below. Has been at last to madness wrought, For heart to bear or tongue to speak! |