Thus broke ambition's trumpet-note

On Visions wild,

Yet blithesome as this river

On which the smiling moon-beams float, That thus have there for ages smiled,

And will thus smile forever.

And now no more the fresh green-wood,
The forest's fretted aisles

And leafy domes above them bent,
And solitude

So eloquent!

Mocking the varied skill that's blent

In art's most gorgeous piles

No more can soothe my soul to sleep
Than they can awe the sounds that sweep
To hunter's horn and merriment

Their verdant passes through,
When fresh the dun-deer leaves his scent
Upon the morning dew.

The game's afoot!-and let the chase
Lead on, whate'er my destiny-
Though fate her funeral drum may brace
Full soon for me!

And wave death's pageant o'er me-
Yet now the new and untried world
Like maiden banner first unfurl'd,

Is glancing bright before me!
The quarry soars! and mine is now the sky,
Where, "at what bird I please, my hawk shall fly!"
Yet something whispers through the wood
A voice like that perchance

Which taught the haunter of EGERIA's grove
To tame the Roman's dominating mood

And lower, for awhile, his conquering lance
Before the images of Law and Love-
Some mystic voice that ever since hath dwelt
Along with Echo in her dim retreat,

A voice whose influence all, at times, have felt
By wood, or glen, or where on silver strand
The clasping waves of Ocean's belt

Do clashing meet

Around the land:

It whispers me that soon-too soon
The pulses which now beat so high
Impatient with the world to cope
Will, like the hues of autumn sky,
Be changed and fallen ere life's noon
Should tame its morning hope.
It tells me not of heart betray'd
Of health impair'd,

Of fruitless toil,

And ills alike by thousands shared, Of which each year some link is made To add to "mortal coil:"

And yet its strange prophetic tone

So faintly murmurs to my soul

The fate to be my own,

That all of these may be

Reserved for me

Ere manhood's early years can o'er me roll.

Yet why,

While Hope so jocund singeth

And with her plumes the gray-beard's arrow wingeth, Should I

Think only of the barb it bringeth?

Though every dream deceive

That to my youth is dearest,

Until my heart they leave

Like forest leaf when searest

Yet still, mid forest leaves,

Where now

Its tissue thus my idle fancy weaves,

Still with heart new-blossoming

While leaves, and buds, and wild flowers spring,

At Nature's shrine I'll bow;

Nor seek in vain that truth in her
She keeps for her idolater.

Since that time Mr. HOFFMAN has devoted his attention almost constantly to literature. While connected with the " American," he published a series of brilliant articles in that paper, under the signature of a star (*), which attracted much attention. In 1833, for the benefit of his health, he left New York on a travelling tour for the far west," and his letters, written during his absence, were also first published in that popular journal. They were afterward included in his "Winter in the West," of which the first impression appeared in New York, in 1834, and the second, soon after, in London. This work has passed through many editions, and it will continue to be popular so long as graphic descriptions of scenery and character, and richness and purity of style, are admired. His next work, entitled "Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie," was first printed in 1837, and, like its predecessor, it contains many admirable pictures of scenery, inwoven with legends of the western country, and descriptive poetry. This was followed by a romance, entitled "Greyslaer,” founded upon the famous criminal trial of BEAUCHAMP, for the murder of Colonel SHARPE, the Solicitor-General of Kentucky,-the particulars of which, softened away in the novel, are minutely detailed in the appendix to his "Winter in the West." "Greyslaer" was a successful noveltwo editions having appeared in the author's native city, one in Philadelphia, and a fourth in London, in the same year. It placed him in the front rank of American novelists. He describes in it, with remarkable felicity, American forest-life, and savage warfare, and gives a truer idea of the border contests of the Revolution than any formal history of the period that has been published.

The Knickerbocker magazine was first issued under the editorial auspices of Mr. HOFFMAN. He subsequently became the proprietor of the American Monthly Magazine, (one of the ablest literary periodicals ever published in this country,) and during the long term of which he was the chief editor of this journal, he also, for one year, conducted the New York Mirror, for its proprietor, and wrote a series of zealous papers in favour of international copyright, for the New Yorker, the Corsair, and other journals.

The poems which follow are but a small portion of those which Mr. HOFFMAN has written; but they are nearly all that I have been able to collect from the magazines and gazettes in my possession. He has permitted them to have their periodical career in the journals, under a variety of unique signatures of his own invention, and the names of popular foreign authors, unclaimed, and by himself unvalued.

The poetry of Mr. HOFFMAN is graceful and fanciful. No American is comparable to him as a song-writer. Although some of his pieces are exquisitely finished, they have all evidently been thrown off without labour, in moments of feeling. A few of his pieces, in which he has copied the style of the old and antique song," are equal to the richest melodies of the time of HERRICK and WALLER.

MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON.

WRITTEN AT WEST POINT.

I'm not romantic, but, upon my word,

There are some moments when one can't help feeling

As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirr'd
By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing
A little music in his soul still lingers,
Whene'er its keys are touch'd by Nature's fingers:

And even here, upon this settee lying,

With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying,

Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever?

Bright Dian, who, Camilla-like, dost skim yon
Azure fields-thou who, once earthward bending,
Didst loose thy virgin zone to young ENDYMION
On dewy Latmos to his arms descending—
Thou whom the world of old on every shore,
Type of thy sex, Triformis, did adore:

Tell me where'er thy silver bark be steering,
By bright Italian or soft Persian lands,
Or o'er those island-studded seas careering,
Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral

strands;

Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover,

A lovelier stream than this the wide world over?

Doth Achelöus or Araxes, flowing

Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er-meeting brothers

Doth Tagus, o'er his golden pavement glowing, Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers,

The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver-Match they in beauty my own glorious river?

What though no cloister gray nor ivied column

Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear? What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn Of despots tell and superstition hereWhat though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls

Did ne'er enclose a baron's banner'd halls

Its sinking arches once gave back as proud
An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal--
As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd
As ever beat beneath a vest of steel,

When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day

Call'd forth chivalric host to battle-fray:

For here amid these woods did he keep court,
Before whose mighty soul the common crowd
Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought,
Are like the patriarch's sheaves to Heaven's
chosen bow'd—

He who his country's eagle taught to soar,
And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.

And sights and sounds at which the world have wonder'd

Within these wild ravines have had their birth; Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thunder'd,

And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth; And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary But treasures up within the glorious story.

And yet not rich in high-soul'd memories only, Is every moon-kiss'd headland round

gleaming,

Each cavern'd glen and leafy valley lonely,

me

And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground. Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the nightThou that to love so oft has lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languish'd 'neath thy light, Or fiery ROMEO to his JULIET stoleWhere dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

O, loiter not upon that fairy shore,

To watch the lazy barks in distance glide, When sunset brightens on their sails no more,

And stern-lights twinkle in the dusky tideLoiter not there, young heart, at that soft hour, What time the bird of night proclaims love's power.

Even as I gaze upon my memory's track,

Bright as that coil of light along the deep, A scene of early youth comes dream-like back, Where two stand gazing from yon tide-wash'd steep

A sanguine stripling, just toward manhood flushing, A girl scarce yet in ripen'd beauty blushing.

The hour is his-and, while his hopes are soaring, Doubts he that maiden will become his bride? Can she resist that gush of wild adoring,

Fresh from a heart full-volumed as the tide? Tremulous, but radiant is that peerless daughter Of loveliness-as is the star-paved water! The moist leaves glimmer as they glimmer'd thenAlas! how oft have they been since renew'd! How oft the whip-poor-will from yonder glen

Each year has whistled to her callow brood! How oft have lovers by yon star's same beam Dream'd here of bliss-and waken'd from their dream!

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending,

Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride.

Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting: While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver,

As of the good when heavenward hence departing,
Shines thy last smile upon the placid river.
So could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray-
Would I too steal from this dark world away.

Thus broke ambition's trumpet-note

On Visions wild,

Yet blithesome as this river

On which the smiling moon-beams float, That thus have there for ages smiled,

And will thus smile forever.

And now no more the fresh green-wood,
The forest's fretted aisles

And leafy domes above them bent,
And solitude

So eloquent!

Mocking the varied skill that's blent

In art's most gorgeous piles

No more can soothe my soul to sleep
Than they can awe the sounds that sweep
To hunter's horn and merriment

Their verdant passes through,
When fresh the dun-deer leaves his scent
Upon the morning dew.

The game's afoot!-and let the chase
Lead on, whate'er my destiny-
Though fate her funeral drum may brace
Full soon for me!

And wave death's pageant o'er me-
Yet now the new and untried world
Like maiden banner first unfurl'd,

Is glancing bright before me!
The quarry soars! and mine is now the sky,
Where, "at what bird I please, my hawk shall fly!"
Yet something whispers through the wood
A voice like that perchance

Which taught the haunter of EGERIA's grove
To tame the Roman's dominating mood

And lower, for awhile, his conquering lance
Before the images of Law and Love-
Some mystic voice that ever since hath dwelt
Along with Echo in her dim retreat,

A voice whose influence all, at times, have felt
By wood, or glen, or where on silver strand
The clasping waves of Ocean's belt

Do clashing meet

Around the land:

It whispers me that soon-too soon
The pulses which now beat so high
Impatient with the world to cope
Will, like the hues of autumn sky,
Be changed and fallen ere life's noon
Should tame its morning hope.
It tells me not of heart betray'd
Of health impair'd,

Of fruitless toil,

And ills alike by thousands shared, Of which each year some link is made To add to "mortal coil:"

And yet its strange prophetic tone

So faintly murmurs to my soul

The fate to be my own,

That all of these may be

Reserved for me

Ere manhood's early years can o'er me roll.

Yet why,

While Hope so jocund singeth

And with her plumes the gray-beard's arrow wingeth, Should I

Think only of the barb it bringeth?

Though every dream deceive

That to my youth is dearest,

Until my heart they leave

Like forest leaf when searest

Yet still, mid forest leaves,

Where now

Its tissue thus my idle fancy weaves,

Still with heart new-blossoming

While leaves, and buds, and wild flowers spring,
At Nature's shrine I'll bow;

Nor seek in vain that truth in her
She keeps for her idolater.

66

Since that time Mr. HOFFMAN has devoted his attention almost constantly to literature. While connected with the "American," he published a series of brilliant articles in that paper, under the signature of a star (*), which attracted much attention. In 1833, for the benefit of his health, he left New York on a travelling tour for the far west," and his letters, written during his absence, were also first published in that popular journal. They were afterward included in his " Winter in the West," of which the first impression appeared in New York, in 1834, and the second, soon after, in London. This work has passed through many editions, and it will continue to be popular so long as graphic descriptions of scenery and character, and richness and purity of style, are admired. His next work, entitled " Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie," was first printed in 1837, and, like its predecessor, it contains many admirable pictures of scenery, inwoven with legends of the western country, and descriptive poetry. This was followed by a romance, entitled Greyslaer," founded upon the famous criminal trial of BEAUCHAMP, for the murder of Colonel SHARPE, the Solicitor-General of Kentucky,-the particulars of which, softened away in the novel, are minutely detailed in the appendix to his "Winter in the West." "Greyslaer" was a successful noveltwo editions having appeared in the author's native city, one in Philadelphia, and a fourth in London, in the same year. It placed him in the front rank of American novelists. He describes in it, with remarkable felicity, American forest-life, and savage warfare, and gives a truer idea of the border contests of the Revolution than any formal history of the period that has been published.

The Knickerbocker magazine was first issued under the editorial auspices of Mr. HOFFMAN. He subsequently became the proprietor of the American Monthly Magazine, (one of the ablest literary periodicals ever published in this country,) and during the long term of which he was the chief editor of this journal, he also, for one year, conducted the New York Mirror, for its proprietor, and wrote a series of zealous papers in favour of international copyright, for the New Yorker, the Corsair, and other journals.

The poems which follow are but a small portion of those which Mr. HOFFMAN has written; but they are nearly all that I have been able to collect from the magazines and gazettes in my possession. He has permitted them to have their periodical career in the journals, under a variety of unique signatures of his own invention, and the names of popular foreign authors, unclaimed, and by himself unvalued.

The poetry of Mr. HOFFMAN is graceful and fanciful. No American is comparable to him as a song-writer. Although some of his pieces are exquisitely finished, they have all evidently been thrown off without labour, in moments of feeling. A few of his pieces, in which he has copied the style of "the old and antique song,” are equal to the richest melodies of the time of HERRICK and WALLER.

MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON.

WRITTEN AT WEST POINT.

I'm not romantic, but, upon my word,
There are some moments when one can't help
feeling

As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirr'd
By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing
A little music in his soul still lingers,
Whene'er its keys are touch'd by Nature's fingers:

And even here, upon this settee lying,

With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying,

Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever!

Bright Dian, who, Camilla-like, dost skim yon
Azure fields-thou who, once earthward bending,
Didst loose thy virgin zone to young ENDYMION
On dewy Latmos to his arms descending―
Thou whom the world of old on every shore,
Type of thy sex, Triformis, did adore:

Tell me where'er thy silver bark be steering,
By bright Italian or soft Persian lands,
Or o'er those island-studded seas careering,
Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral
strands;

Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover,
A lovelier stream than this the wide world over?

Doth Achelöus or Araxes, flowing

Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er-meeting brothers

Doth Tagus, o'er his golden pavement glowing, Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers,

The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver--
Match they in beauty my own glorious river?

What though no cloister gray nor ivied column
Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear?
What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn
Of despots tell and superstition here-
What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling
walls

Did ne'er enclose a baron's banner'd halls

Its sinking arches once gave back as proud
An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal--
As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd
As ever beat beneath a vest of steel,
When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest
day

Call'd forth chivalric host to battle-fray:

For here amid these woods did he keep court,
Before whose mighty soul the common crowd
Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought,
Are like the patriarch's sheaves to Heaven's
chosen bow'd-

He who his country's eagle taught to soar,
And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.

And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground. Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the nightThou that to love so oft has lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languish'd 'neath thy light, Or fiery ROMEO to his JULIET stoleWhere dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

O, loiter not upon that fairy shore,

To watch the lazy barks in distance glide, When sunset brightens on their sails no more, And stern-lights twinkle in the dusky tideLoiter not there, young heart, at that soft hour, What time the bird of night proclaims love's power. Even as I gaze upon my memory's track,

Bright as that coil of light along the deep, A scene of early youth comes dream-like back, Where two stand gazing from yon tide-wash'd steep

A sanguine stripling, just toward manhood flushing, A girl scarce yet in ripen'd beauty blushing.

The hour is his—and, while his hopes are soaring, Doubts he that maiden will become his bride? Can she resist that gush of wild adoring,

Fresh from a heart full-volumed as the tide? Tremulous, but radiant is that peerless daughter Of loveliness-as is the star-paved water!

The moist leaves glimmer as they glimmer'd thenAlas! how oft have they been since renew'd! How oft the whip-poor-will from yonder glen

Each year has whistled to her callow brood! How oft have lovers by yon star's same beam Dream'd here of bliss-and waken'd from their dream!

yon

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending,
Thy pearly car hangs o'er mountain's crest,
And Night, more nearly now each step attending,
As if to hide thy envied place of rest,
Closes at last thy very couch beside,
A matron curtaining a virgin bride.

Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting: While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver,

As of the good when heavenward hence departing,
Shines thy last smile upon the placid river.
So-could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray—
Would I too steal from this dark world away.

THAW-KING'S VISIT TO NEW YORK.

HE comes on the wings of the warm south-west,
In the saffron hues of the sunbeam dress'd,
And lingers a while on the placid bay,
As the ice-cakes languidly steal away,

To drink these gems which the wave turns up,
Like Egyptian pearls in the Roman's cup;

Then hies to the wharves, where the hawser binds
The impatient ship from the wistful winds,
And slackens each rope till it hangs from on high,
Less firmly pencill'd against the sky;
And sports in the stiffen'd canvass there,
Till its folds float out in the wooing air;
Then leaves these quellers of ocean's pride
To swing from the pier on the lazy tide.
He reacheth the Battery's grassy bed,
And the earth smokes out from beneath his tread;
And he turns him about to look wistfully back
On each charm that he leaves on his beautiful track;
Each islet of green which the bright waters fold,
Like emerald gems from their bosom roll'd,
The sea just peering the headlands through,
Where the sky is lost in its deeper blue,
And the thousand barks which securely sweep
With silvery wings round the land-locked deep.
He loiters a while on the springy ground,
To watch the children gambol around,
And thinks it hard that a touch from him
Cannot make the aged as lithe of limb;
That he has no power to melt the rime,
The stubborn frost that is made by Time;
And, sighing, he leaves the urchins to play
And launches at last on the world of Broadway.

There were faces and figures of heavenly mould,
Of charms not yet by the poet told;
There were dancing plumes, there were mantles gay,
Flowers and ribbons flaunting there,
Such as of old on a festival day

Th' Idalian nymphs were wont to wear.
And the Thaw-king felt his cheek flush high,
And his pulses flutter in every limb,
As he gazed on many a beaming eye,
And many a form that flitted by,

With twinkling foot and ankle trim.

And he practised many an idle freak,
As he lounged the morning through;
He sprung the frozen gutters aleak,

For want of aught else to do,
And left them black as the libeller's ink,
To gurgle away to the sewer's sink.
He sees a beggar gaunt and grim

Arouse a miser's choler,

And he laughs while he melts the soul of him
To fling the wretch a dollar;

And he thinks how small a heaven 't would take,
For a world of souls like his to make.

And now, as the night falls chill and gray,
Like a drizzling rain on a new-made tomb,
And his father the Sun has slunk away,

And left him alone to gas and gloom,
The Thaw-king steals in a vapour thin,
Through the lighted porch of a house, wherein

Music and mirth were gayly mingled;
And groups like hues in one bright flower,
Dazzled the Thaw-king while he singled
Some one on whom to try his power.
He enters first in a lady's eyes,

And thrusts at a dandy's heart;
But the vest that is made by Frost, defies
The point of the Thaw-king's dart;
And the baffled spirit pettishly flies

On a pedant, to try his art;

But his aim is equally foiled by the dust

y lore that envelopes the man of must. And next he tries with a lover's sighs To melt the heart of a belle; But around her waist there's a stout arm placed, Which shields that lady well.

(would And that waist! O! that waist-it is one that you Like to clasp in a waltz, or-wherever you could. Her figure was fashion'd tall and slim, But with rounded bust and shapely limb;

And her queen-like step as she trod the floor, And her look, as she bridled in beauty's pride, Was such as the Tyrian heroine wore When she blush'd alone on the conscious shore, The wandering Dardan's unwedded bride. And the Thaw-king gazed on that lady bright, With her form of love, and her looks of light, Till his spirits began to wane;

And his wits were put to rout,
And, entering into a poet's brain,
He thaw'd these verses out:-

"They are mockery all-these skies, these skies-
Their untroubled depths of blue-
They are mockery all-those eyes, those eyes,
Which seem so warm and true.
Each tranquil star in the one that lies,
Each meteor-glance that at random flies

The other's lashes through;

They are mockery all, these flowers of spring,
Which her airs so softly woo-

And the love to which we would madly cling,
Ay! it is mockery too;

The winds are false which the perfume stir,
And the looks deceive to which we sue,
And love but leads to the sepulchre,
Which flowers spring to strew."

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S PRAYER-BOOK.

THY thoughts are heavenward! and thy heart, they say,

Which love, O! more than mortal, fail'd to move, Now in its virgin casket melts away,

And owns the impress of a Saviour's love! Many, in days gone by-full many a prayer, [thee, Pure, though impassioned, has been breathed for By one who once thy hallowed name did dare Prefer with his to the Divinity! Requite them now! not with an earthly love;

But since with that his lot thou mayst not blessAsk, what he dare not pray for from aboveFor him the mercy of forgetfulness!