author. These lines, from the seventh canto, are excellent:

"Thou phantom, military fame!

How long will Genius laud thy name.
And curtain features from the sight,
More foul than those Khorassen's seer
Ilid behind veil of silver bright,

Tempting his victim to draw near?
How long will thy misleading lamp
Through regions wrapped in smoke and fire,
To Slaughter's cavern, rel and damp,

Guide beardless boy and gray-haired sire?
Up, fearless battlers for the right,
And flood old groaning earth with light!
Bid nations ponder well and pause,
When blade corrupt Ambition draws-
Oh! teach the world that Conquest wears
A darker brand than felon bears;
Prolific fount, from earliest time,

Of murder, orphanage, and crime!”

In a preface to his poems relating to the Indians. Mr. HOSMER reminds us of the extrordinary advantages he has enjoyed, "by their campfires, and

The queen of Beauty and her blushing daughters
In Crathis bathed-that old poetic stream-
And each dark ringlet from the sparkling waters
Imbibed an amber gleam.

Thus thoughts that send and will send on forever,
From the dim plains of long ago, a light,
Caught from Imagination's golden river
Their glow divinely bright.

When done with life, its fever, din, and jostle,
How scant and poor a portion after all
Of Nature's priest, and Art's renowned apostle
Lies hid beneath the pall.

Though grazing herd and hosts with clanging sabres
Their graves forgotten trample rudely o'er,
To tribes and nations, through their crowning la-
They speak for evermore.

[bors,

Oh, Genius! dowered with privilege immortal,
Thus from the wastes of time to stretch thy hand,
And, with a touch unfold the glittering portal
Of an enchanted land!

Death knows thee not, tho' long ago were blended

Thy visible forms with undistinguished clay; The dead are they whose mission here is endedThy voice is heard to-day.

From a poem on The Utility of Imagination."

in their councils," for becoming acquainted with their characteristics and traditions, and discusses eloquently the suitableness of his theme for poetical treatment.

To such poems, however, most readers will be apt to prefer the simpler effusions in which he has echoed the "Notes of the Birds," or painted the varying phenomena of "The Months." In these, too, he has faithfully subjected his muse to the requirements of truth. He accomplishes his task of description by felicities in selection and combination from nature. An AUDUBON or a MICHAUX would search in vain for an error in his plumage or foliage, and a COLE might give the finishing touches to the lights and shadows of his landscapes from the poet's observation of atmospheric effects or the changing influence of the

seasons.

In 1854 Mr. HOSMER removed to the city of New York, where he occupies a place in the custom-house.

Heard on the honeyed lip of JULIET meltingIn dreaming RICHARD's cry of guilty fearIn shouts that rise above the night-storm pelting From old distracted LEAR:

Heard in the organ-swell of MILTON pealingIn GRAY's elegaic sorrow for the past

In flute-notes from the muse of SPENSER stealing,
In DRYDEN'S bugle's blast:

Heard in the matchless works of thy creation,
Spreaking from canvas, scroll, and marble lips,
In those deep awful tones of inspiration
That baffle death's eclipse.

THE SOLDIER OF THE CLOSET.*

Nor they alone work faithfully who labor

On the dull, dusty thoroughfare of life; The clerkly pen can vanquish, when the sabre Is useless in the strife.

In cloistered gloom the quiet man of letters

Launching his thoughts, like arrows from the Oft strikes the traitor and his base abettors, [bow, Bringing their grandeur low.

Armed with a scroll, the birds of evil omen,

That curse a country, he can scare away, Or, in the wake of error, marshal formen Impatient for the fray.

Scorn not the sons of Song! nor deem them only

Poor, worthless weeds upon the shore of time Although they move in walks retired and lonely They have their tasks sublime.

When tyrants tread the hill-top and the valley,

Calling the birthright of the brave their own, Around the tomb of Liberty they rally, And roll away the stone!

From "The Ideal"

BATTLE-GROUND OF DENONVILLE.

OH! what secrets are revealed
In this ancient battle-field!

Round are scattered skull and bone,
Into light by workmen thrown
Who across this valley fair
For the train a way prepare.
Pictures brighten thick and fast
On the mirror of the past;
To poetic vision plain
Plume and banner float again;
Round are mangled bodies lying,
Some at rest, and others dying-
Thus the Swan-ne-ho-oht greet
Those who plant invading feet

On the chase-ground where their sires
Long have kindled council-fires.
Fragments of the deadly brand,
Lying in the yellow sand,
With the fleur-de-lis to tell

Of the Frank who clenched it well,
When his race encountered here

Tameless chasers of the deer-
Arrow-head and hatchet-blade,
War-club broken and decayed,
Belts in part resolved to dust,
Gun-locks red with gnawing rust.
Other sounds than pick and spade,
When this valley lay in shade,
Ringing on the summer air
Scared the panther from his lair;
Other sounds than axe and bar,
Pathway building for the car,
Buzzing saw, or hammer-stroke,
Echo wild from slumber woke,
When New France her lilies pale
Here unfolded to the gale-
Rifle-crack and musket-peal,
Whiz of shaft and clash of steel-
Painted forms from cover leaping,
Crimson swaths through foemen reaping,
While replied each savage throat,

To the rallying bugle-note,
With a wolf-howl long and loud,
That the stoutest veteran cowed,
Mingled in one fearful din

Where these graves are crumbling in.

Busy actors in the fray
Were their tenants on that day;
But each name, forgotten long,
Cannot now be wove in song.

They had wives, perchance, who kept
Weary watch for them, and wept
Bitter tears at last to learn
They would never more return;
And in hut as well as hall
Childless mothers mourned their fall.
In a vain attempt they died
To bring low Na-do-wa pride,
And extend the Bourbon's reign
O'er this broad and bright domain.
When the whirlwind of the fight
Sunk into a whisper light,
Rudely opened was the mould
For their bodies stiff and cold:

Brush and leaves were loosely piled
On their grave-couch in the wild,
That their place of rest the foe,
Drunk with blood, might never know.
When the settler for his hearth,
Cleared a spot of virgin earth;
And its smoke-thread on the breeze,
Curled above the forest trees,
Nor memorial sign, nor mound
Told that this was burial ground.
Since this bank received its dead,
Now unroofed to startled sight,
With its skeleton's all white,
More than eightscore years have fled.
Gather them with pious care,—
Let them not lie mouldering there.
Crushed beneath the grinding wheel,
And the laborer's heavy heel.
Ah! this fractured skull of inan
Nursed a brain once quick to plan,
And these ribs that round me lie
Hearts enclosed that once beat high.
Here they fought, and here they fell,
Battle's roar their only knell,

And the soil that drank their gore
Should embrace the brave once more.

MENOMINEE DIRGE.

WE bear the dead, we bear the dead, In robes of otter habited,

From the quiet depths of the greenwood shada,
To her lonely couch on the hill-top made.
There, there the sun when dies the day
Flings mournfully his parting ray
In vain the winds lift her tresses black-
Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac !*
When ploughs tear up the forest floor,
And hunters follow the deer no more,
When the red man's council-bearth is cold
His glory, like a tale that's told,
Spare, white man! spare an oak to wave
Its bough above the maiden's grave,
And the dead will send a blessing back-
Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac!
Another race are building fires

Above the bones of our buried sires--
Soon will the homes of our people be
Far from the bright Menominee;
But yearly to yon burial-place
Some mourning band of our luckless race
To smooth the turf will wander back-
Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te-nac!

On the wafting wings of yesternight,
The soul of our peerless one took flight;
She heard a voice from the clime of souls,
Sweeter than lays of orioles,

Say, "Come to that bright and blissful land
Where Death waves not his skeleton hand,
Where the sky with storm is never black"-
Ke-ton-ee-mi-coo, Wa-was-te nac!

Flower, farewell!

THE SWALLOW.

"La Rondinella, sopra il nido allegra,
Cantando salutava il nuovo giorno."

"The swallow is one of my favorite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he glads my sense of seeing, as the other does my sense of hearing."-Sir H. DAVY.

WARM, cloudless days have brought a blithe new

comer,

Beloved by young and old,

That twitters out a welcome unto summer,

Arrayed in green and gold.

With sunlight on his plume, the happy swallow

Is darting swiftly by,

As if, with shaft dismissed by bright Apollo, His speed he fain would try.

Now high above yon steeple wheels the rover, In many a sportive ring;

Anon, the glassy lakelet skimming over,

He dips his dusky wing.

Old nests yet hang, though marred by winter's traces,

To rafter, beam and wall,

And his fond mate, to ancient breeding-places, Comes at his amorous call.

Those mud-built domes were dear to me in childhood,

With feathers soft inlaid;

Dearer than the nests whose builders in the wildwood.

Were birds of man afraid.

To seedy floors of barns in thought I wander,
When swallows glads my sight,

And play with comrades in the church-yard yonder,
Shut out from air and light.

The "guests of summer" in and out are flying,
Their mansions to repair,

While on the fragrant hay together lying,
We bid adieu to care.

Barns that they haunt no thunderbolt can shatter,
Full many a hind believes;

No showers that bring a blighting mildew patter Upon the golden sheaves.

Taught were our fathers that a curse would follow,
Beyond expression dread,

The cruel farmer who destroyed the swallow
That builded in his shed.

Oh! how I envied, in the school-house dreary,
The swallow's freedom wild,

Cutting the wind on pinion never, weary,
Cleaving the clouds up piled.

And when the bird and his blithe mate beholding
Abroad in airy race,

Their evolutions filled my soul unfolding

With images of grace.

And, oh! what rapture, after wintry chidings, And April's smile and tear,

Thrilled to the core, my bosom at the tidings, "The swallow, boy, is here!"

Announcement of an angel on some mission Of love without alloy,

Could not have sooner wakened a transition From gloom to heart-felt joy.

For summer to the dreaming youth a heaven
Of bliss and beauty seems,

And in her sunshine less of earthly leaven
Clings to our thoughts and dreams.

In honor of the bird, with vain endeavor,
Why lengthen out my lay?

By SHAKSPEARE's art he is embalmed forever,
Enshrined in song by GRAY.

LAY OF A WANDERER. A FLORIDIAN SCENE.

WHERE Pablo to the broad St. John
His dark and briny tribute pays,
The wild deer leads her dappled fawn,
Of graceful limb and timid gaze;
Rich sunshine falls on wave and land,
The gull is screaming overhead,
And on a beach of whiten'd sand

Lie wreathy shells with lips of red.

The jessamine hangs golden flowers
On ancient oaks in moss array'd,
And proudly the palmetto towers,

While mock-birds warble in the shade; Mounds, built by mortal hands are near, Green from the summit to the base, Where, buried with the bow and spear, Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase.

Cassada, nigh the ocean shore,
Is now a ruin, wild and lone,
And on her battlements no more

Is banner waved or trumpet blown;
Those doughty cavaliers are gone

Who hurled defiance there to France,
While the bright waters of St. John
Reflected flash of sword and lance.

But when the light of dying day
Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time,
And the wan features of decay

Wear softened beauty like the clime,
My fancy summons from the shroud
The knights of old Castile again,
And charging thousands shout aloud-
"St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain!"
When mystic voices, on the breeze

That fans the rolling deep, sweep by,
The spirits of the Yemassees,

Who ruled the land of yore, seemed nigh; For mournful marks, around where stood Their palm-roofed lodges, yet are seen, And in the shadows of the wood Their monumental mounds are green.

* An old Spanish fort.

J. V. HUNTINGTON, of the distinguished Connecticut family of that name, was born in New York in 1815; was graduated bachelor of arts at the University of New York in 1835, and doctor of medicine at the University of Pennsylvania in 1838; practised his profession about two years in his native city, and then turned his attention to literature; wrote, for the "New York Review," an article on the Greek Anthology, which made him known among scholars, and various papers in the magazines; became professor of mental philosophy in St. Paul's College; in 1841 was ordained a clergyman in the Protestant Episcopal church; married his cousin (a daughter of the late Reverend JOSHUA HUNTINGTON, the memoirs of whose wife, Mrs. SUSAN HUNTINGTON, have had so wide a circulation as a religious biography); took a parish in Middlebury, Vermont,

I. THE ABBEY.

WITHIN the minster's venerable pile

What pomps unwonted flash upon our eyes! What galleries, in gold and crimson, rise Between the antique pillars of the aisle, Crowded with England's gayest life; the while Beneath, her dead, unconscious glory lies; Above, her ancient faith still seeks the skies; And with apparent life doth well beguile Our senses in that ever-growing roof;

Whence on the soul return those recollections Of her great annals-built to be time-proof, Which chiefly make this spot the fittest scene Wherein to consecrate those new affections We plight this day to Britain's virgin queen.

11. THE QUEEN.

How strange to see a creature young and fair
Assume the sceptre of these widespread lands!-
How in her femininely feeble hands
The orb of empire shall she ever bear!—
And crowns, they say, not more with gems than care
Are weighty yet with calmest mien she stands;
August in innocence herself commands,
And will that stately burden lightly wear.
Claims surely inoffensive!-What is she?
Of ancient sovereignty a living shoot;
The latest blossom on a royal tree

Deep in the past extends whose famous root; And realms from age to age securely free, Gather of sucial peace its yet unfailing fruit.

YE Winds, whose various voices in his lay
That hard interpreted-your utterance mild,
Nor less your ministration fierce and wild,
Of those resistless laws which ye obey
In your apparent lawlessness-oh say!
Is not your will-less agency reviled
When it is liken'd unto what is styled
By such unwise the Spirit of the Day?
Not all the islands by tornadoes swept,
E'er knew such ruin as befalls a state
When not the winds of God, but mortal breath,
With threatening sweetness of melodious bite,
Assaults the fabrics reverent ages kept
To shelter ancient loyalty and faith.

511

TO EMMELINE: A THRENODIA.

J.

SISTER! for as such I loved thee,

May I not the privilege claim As thy brother to lament thee,

Though not mine that sacred name? For though not indeed thy brother, Yet fraternal is the grief, That in tears no solace meeting,

Now in words would find relief.

Who did watch thy final conflict?

Who did weep when it was o'er? Whose the voice which then consoled

One by thee beloved more?

Lips that kiss'd thy cold white forehead
Sure may sing thy requiem;
Hands that closed thy stiffening eyelids,
Should it not be writ by them?
To perform those death-bed honours
Soften'd much my deep regret;
But to celebrate thy virtues

Is a task more soothing yet.
O'er thy features death-composed,
As the life-like smile that play'd,
By its beauty so familiar

Tears drew forth which soon it stay'd So the memory of thy goodness

Calms the grief that from it springs: That which makes our loss the greatest, Sweetest consolation brings.

11.

When the Christian maiden findeth
In the grave a maiden's rest,
We mourn not as did the heathen

Over beauty unpossess'd.

As the tender MELEAGER,

In that sweetly mournful strain, Sung the fate of CLEARISTA Borne to nuptial couch in vain : How her virgin zone unloosed,

She in Death's embraces slept; As for vainly-woo'd ANTIBIA

Pure ANYTE hopeless wept. For the soul to CHRIST united

Need regret no human bliss,
And there yet remains a marriage
Better than the earthly is.

Weaded love is but the symbol
Of a holier mystery,

Which unto the stainless only
Ever shall unfolded be.

Life and Hope, when they embracing
Seem like one, are Love on earth;
Death and Hope, so reuniting,

Are the Love of heavenly birth. Was it haply this foreknowing That thou so wouldst ever be?From pursuing ardours shrinking In thy saintly chastity.

III.

In thy fairy-like proportions
Woman's dignity was yet,
And in all thy winning actions
With the grace of childhood met.
With what light and airy motion
Wert thou wont to glide or spring?
As if were that shape elastic
Lifted by an unseen wing.

In what sweet and lively accents
Flow'd or gush'd thy talk or song!
What pure thoughts and gentle feelings
Did that current bear along!
But affliction prematurely

On thy tender graces breathed,
And in sweet decay about thee

Were the faded flowerets wreathed.
Blasts that smite with death the flower,
Cull for use the ripen'd fruit;
Suns the plant that overpower,
Cannot kill the buried root:

So the grief that dimm'd thy beauty
Shower'd gifts of higher worth,
And the germ of both is hidden
Safely now within the earth.
Nature, eldest, truest sybil.

Writes upon her wither'd leaves,
Words of joy restored prophetic
To the heart her law bereaves.

IV.

Greenly swell the clustering mountains
Whence thy passing spirit went;
Clear the waters they embosom;
Blue the skies above them bent.

Pass'd away the spirit wholly

From the haunts to us so dear?
Or at will their forms assuming,
In them doth it reappear?
For there is a new expression

Now pervading all the place;
Rock and stream do look with meanings
Such as wore thy living face.
Nor alone the face of Nature;
Human features show it too:
Chiefly those by love illumin'd
Of the heart-united few.

We upon each other gazing,

Mystic shadows come and go, Over each loved visage flitting, Why and whence we do not know. In the old familiar dances

Mingle thy accustom'd feet;
Blending with the song familiar

Still are heard thy concords sweet.
Hence we know the world of spirits
Is not far from each of us;
Scarce that veil forbids our entrance
Which thou hast half lifted us.