MR. CLARKE is a native of Boston. He is a grandson of the Reverend JAMES FREEMAN, D. D., for many years minister of King's Chapel, in that city, and was from his childhood designed for the church. He was educated in the university and in the divinity-school at Cambridge, and on being

admitted to orders, went to Louisville, Kentucky, where he resided several years, and conducted with much ability a monthly miscellany of religion and letters, entitled "The Western Messenger." In 1846 he published a poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society

HYMN AND PRAYER.

INFINITE Spirit! who art round us ever,

In whom we float, as motes in summer-sky, May neither life nor death the sweet bond sever, Which joins us to our unseen Friend on high.

Unseen-yet not unfelt-if any thought

Has raised our mind from earth, or pure desire, A generous act, or noble purpose brought,

It is thy breath, O LORD, which fans the fire.

To me, the meanest of thy creatures, kneeling, Conscious of weakness, ignorance, sin, and shame, Give such a force of holy thought and feeling, That I may live to glorify thy name;

That I may conquer base desire and passion,

That I may rise o'er selfish thought and will, O'ercome the world's allurement, threat, and fashion, Walk humbly, softly, leaning on thee still.

I am unworthy. Yet, for their dear sake

I ask, whose roots planted in me are found; For precious vines are propp'd by rudest stake, And heavenly roses fed in darkest ground. Beneath my leaves, though early fallen and faded, Young plants are warm'd,-they drink my branches' dew:

Let them not, LORD, by me be Upas-shaded; Make me, for their sake, firm, and pure, and true. For their sake, too, the faithful, wise, and bold,

Whose generous love has been my pride and stay, Those who have found in me some trace of gold, For their sake purify my lead and clay.

And let not all the pains and toil be wasted, Spent on my youth by saints now gone to rest; Nor that deep sorrow my Redeemer tasted,

When on his soul the guilt of man was press'd.

Tender and sensitive, he braved the storm,

That we might fly a well-deserved fate,
Pour'd out his soul in supplication warm,
Look'd with his eyes of love on eyes of hate.

Let all this goodness by my mind be seen,
Let all this mercy on my heart be seal'd!
Lord, if thou wilt, thy power can make me clean:
, speak the word thy servant shall be heal'd.

THE POET.

HE touch'd the earth, a soul of flame,
His bearing proud, his spirit high;
Fill'd with the heavens from whence he came,
He smiled upon man's destiny.

Yet smiled as one who knows no fear,

And felt a secret strength within, Who wonder'd at the pitying tear

Shed over human loss and sin.

Lit by an inward, brighter light

Than aught that round about him shone, He walk'd erect through shades of night; Clear was his pathway-but how lone! Men gaze in wonder and in awe

Upon a form so like to theirs, Worship the presence, yet withdraw And carry elsewhere warmer prayers. Yet when the glorious pilgrim-guest, Forgetting once his strange estate, Unloosed the lyre from off his breast,

And strung its chords to human fate;

JACOB'S WELL.*

HERE, after JACOB parted from his brother,
His daughters linger'd round this well, new-made;
Here, seventeen centuries after, came another,

And talk'd with JESUS, wondering and afraid.
Here, other centuries past, the emperor's mother
Shelter'd its waters with a temple's shade.
Here, mid the fallen fragments, as of old,
The girl her pitcher dips within its waters cold.

And JACOB's race grew strong for many an hour,
Then torn beneath the Roman eagle lay;
The Roman's vast and earth-controlling power

Has crumbled like these shafts and stones away; But still the waters, fed by dew and shower,

Come up, as ever, to the light of day,

And still the maid bends downward with her urn, Well pleased to see its glass her lovely face return.

And those few words of truth, first utter'd here, Have sunk into the human soul and heart; A spiritual faith dawns bright and clear,

Dark creeds and ancient mysteries depart; The hour for God's true worshippers draws near; Then mourn not o'er the wrecks of earthly art: Kingdoms may fall, and human works decay, Nature moves on unchanged-Truths never pass away.

THE VIOLET.t

WHEN April's warmth unlocks the clod,
Soften'd by gentle showers,
The violet pierces through the sod,
And blossoms, first of flowers;
So may I give my heart to GoD
In childhood's early hours.

Some plants, in gardens only found,
Are raised with pains and care:
Gon scatters violets all around,
They blossom everywhere;
Thus may my love to all abound,
And all my fragrance share.

Some scentless flowers stand straight and high,
With pride and haughtiness:
But violets perfume land and sky,
Although they promise less.
Let me, with all humility,

Do more than I profess.

Sweet flower, be thou a type to me
Of blameless joy and mirth,
Of widely-scatter'd sympathy,
Embracing all GoD's earth-
Of early-blooming piety,

And unpretending worth.

Suggested by a sketch of Jacob's Well, and Mount

Gerizim.

Written for a little girl to speak on May-day, in the character of the Violet.

TO A BUNCH OF FLOWERS.
LITTLE firstlings of the year!
Have you come my room to cheer?
You are dry and parch'd, I think;
Stand within this glass and drink;
Stand beside me on the table,
'Mong my books-if I am able,
I will find a vacant space
For your bashfulness and grace;
Learned tasks and serious duty
Shall be lighten'd by your beauty.
Pure affection's sweetest token,
Choicest hint of love unspoken,
Friendship in your help rejoices,
Uttering her mysterious voices.
You are gifts the poor may offer—
Wealth can find no better proffer:
For you tell of tastes refined,
Thoughtful heart and spirit kind.
Gift of gold or jewel-dresses
Ostentatious thought confesses;
Simplest mind this boon may give,
Modesty herself receive.
For lovely woman you were meant
The just and natural ornament,
Sleeping on her bosom fair,
Hiding in her raven hair,

Or, peeping out mid golden curls,
You outshine barbaric pearls;
Yet you lead no thought astray,
Feed not pride nor vain display,
Nor disturb her sisters' rest,
Waking envy in their breast.
Let the rich, with heart elate,
Pile their board with costly plate;

Richer ornaments are ours,

We will dress our homes with flowers,

Yet no terror need we feel

Lest the thief break through to steal.

Ye are playthings for the child,
Gifts of love for maiden mild,
Comfort for the aged eye,

For the poor, cheap luxury.
Though your life is but a day,

Precious things, dear flowers, you say,

Telling that the Being good
Who supplies our daily food,
Deems it needful to supply
Daily food for heart and eye.
So, though your life is but a day,
We grieve not at your swift decay;
He, who smiles in your bright faces,
Sends us more to take your places;
"Tis for this ye fade so soon,
That He may renew the boon;
That kindness often may repeat

These mute messages so sweet:
That Love to plainer speech may get,
Conning oft his alphabet;

That beauty may be rain'd from heaven,
New with every morn and even,
With freshest fragrance sunrise greeting:
Therefore are ye, flowers, so fleeting.

JAMES ALDRICH was born near the Hudson, in the county of Suffolk, on the tenth of July, 1810. He received his education partly in Orange county, and partly in the city of New York, where, early in life, he became actively engaged in mercantile business. In 1836 he was married to MATILDA,

daughter of Mr. JOHN B. LYON, of Newport, Rhode Island, and in the same year relinquished the occupation of a merchant. He has since devoted his attention entirely to literature; and has edited two or three popular periodicals. He resides in New York.

MORN AT SEA.

CLEARLY, with mental eye,

Where the first slanted ray of sunlight springs,
I see the morn with golden-fringed wings
Up-pointed to the sky.

In youth's divinest glow,

She stands upon a wandering cloud of dew,
Whose skirts are sun-illumed with every hue
Worn by GoD's covenant bow!

The child of light and air!

O'er land or wave, where'er her pinions move, The shapes of earth are clothed in hues of love And truth, divinely fair.

Athwart this wide abyss,

On homeward way impatiently I drift;

O, might she bear me now where sweet flowers lift Their eyelids to her kiss!

Her smile hath overspread

The heaven-reflecting sea, that evermore

Is tolling solemn knells from shore to shore
For its uncoffin'd dead.

Most like an angel-friend,

With noiseless footsteps, which no impress leave, She comes in gentleness to those who grieve, Bidding the long night end.

How joyfully will hail,

With reenliven'd hearts, her presence fair, The hapless shipwreck'd, patient in despair, Watching a far-off sail.

Vain all affection's arts

To cheer the sick man through the night have been:
She to his casement goes, and, looking in,
Death's shadow thence departs.

How many, far from home,
Wearied, like me, beneath unfriendly skies,
And mourning o'er affection's broken ties,
Have pray'd for her to come.

Lone voyager on time's sea!
When my dull night of being shall be past,
O, may I waken to a morn, at last,
Welcome as this to me!

A DEATH-BED.

HER suffering ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away,
In statue-like repose.

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

She pass'd through Glory's morning-gate, And walk'd in Paradise!

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

IN beauty lingers on the hills

The death-smile of the dying day;
And twilight in my heart instils
The softness of its rosy ray.

I watch the river's peaceful flow,
Here, standing by my mother's grave,
And feel my dreams of glory go,
Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.

Gon gives us ministers of love,

Which we regard not, being near; Death takes them from us-then we feel That angels have been with us here! As mother, sister, friend, or wife,

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain;
And when the grave has closed between
Our hearts and theirs, we love-in vain!
Would, mother! thou couldst hear me tell
How oft, amid my brief career,
For sins and follies loved too well,

Hath fallen the free, repentant tear.
And, in the waywardness of youth,
How better thoughts have given to me
Contempt for error, love for truth,

Mid sweet remembrances of thee.

The harvest of my youth is done,

And manhood, come with all its cares, Finds, garner'd up within my heart,

For every flower a thousand tares. Dear mother! couldst thou know my thoughts, Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine,

The depth of feeling in my breast,

Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine!

A SPRING-DAY WALK.

ADIEU, the city's ceaseless hum,

The haunts of sensual life, adieu! Green fields, and silent glens! we come,

To spend this bright spring-day with you. Whether the hills and vales shall gleam

With beauty, is for us to choose; For leaf and blossom, rock and stream, Are colour'd with the spirit's hues. Here, to the seeking soul, is brought A nobler view of human fate, And higher feeling, higher thought, And glimpses of a higher state. Through change of time, on sea and shore, Serenely nature smiles away; Yon infinite blue sky bends o'er

Our world, as at the primal day. The self-renewing earth is moved

With youthful life each circling year;
And flowers that CERES' daughter loved
At Enna, now are blooming here.
Glad nature will this truth reveal,

That God is ours and we are His;
O, friends, my friends! what joy to feel
That He our loving father is!

TO ONE FAR AWAY.

SWIFTER far than swallow's flight, Homeward o'er the twilight lea; Swifter than the morning light, Flashing o'er the pathless sea, Dearest in the lonely night Memory flies away to thee! Stronger far than is desire;

Firm as truth itself can be; Deeper than earth's central fire; Boundless as the circling sea; Yet as mute as broken lyre,

Is my love, dear wife, for thee! Sweeter far than miser's gain,

Or than note of fame can be Unto one who long in vain

Treads the paths of chivalryAre my dreams, in which again My fond arms encircle thee!

BEATRICE.

UNTOUCH'D by mortal passion,
Thou seem'st of heavenly birth,
Pure as the effluence of a star

Just reach'd our distant earth!
Gave Fancy's pencil never
To an ideal fair

Such spiritual expression

As thy sweet features wear. An inward light to guide thee Unto thy soul is given, Pure and serene as its divine Original in heaven.

Type of the ransom'd PSYCHE!

How gladly, hand in hand,

To some new world I'd fly with thee From off this mortal strand.

LINES.

UNDERNEATH this marble cold,
Lies a fair girl turn'd to mould;
One whose life was like a star,
Without toil or rest to mar
Its divinest harmony,

Its Gop-given serenity.

One, whose form of youthful grace,
One, whose eloquence of face
Match'd the rarest gem of thought
By the antique sculptors wrought:
Yet her outward charms were less
Than her winning gentleness,
Her maiden purity of heart,
Which, without the aid of art,
Did in coldest hearts inspire
Love, that was not all desire.
Spirit forms with starry eyes,
That seem to come from Paradise,
Beings of ethereal birth,

Near us glide sometimes on earth,
Like glimmering moonbeams dimly seen
Glancing down through alleys green;
Of such was she who lies beneath
This silent effigy of grief.

Wo is me! when I recall
One sweet word by her let fall-
One sweet word but half-express'd-
Downcast eyes told all the rest,
To think beneath this marble cold,
Lies that fair girl turn'd to mould.

THE DREAMING GIRL.
SHE floats upon a sea of mist,
In fancy's boat of amethyst!
A dreaming girl, with her fair cheek
Supported by a snow-white arm,
In the calm joy of innocence,

Subdued by some unearthly charm.
The clusters of her dusky hair
Are floating on her bosom fair,
Like early darkness stealing o'er

The amber tints that daylight gave,
Or, like the shadow of a cloud

Upon a fainting summer-wave.
Is it a spirit of joy or pain
Sails on the river of her brain?
For, lo! the crimson on her cheek

Faints and glows like a dying flame;
Her heart is beating loud and quick-
Is not love that spirit's name?
Up-waking from her blissful sleep,
She starts with fear too wild to weep;
Through the trailing honeysuckle,
All night breathing odorous sighs,
Which her lattice dimly curtains,
The morn peeps in with his bright eyes.
Perfume loved when it is vanish'd,
Pleasure hardly felt ere banish'd,
Is the happy maiden's vision,

That doth on her memory gleam, And her heart leaps up with gladness— That bliss was nothing but a dream!

THE devious way on which they march'd
By braided boughs was overarch'd;
And right and left spread far away
Fens only lit by fire-fly's ray:
Dark with a tangled growth of vine,
Black ash, huge water-oak and pine,
Mix'd with red cedar, moss'd and old,
Set firmly in the watery mould.
Here, cover'd with a slime of green,
Stagnant and turbid pools were seen,
Edged round with wild aquatic weeds,
Long-bladed flag and clustering reeds,
Pond lilies, oily-leaved and pale,
Red willow, and the alder frail;
There, skeletons of groves gone by-
Sad objects to poetic eye!—
Like monarchs by the battle-blast
Assail'd and overthrown at last,
Wasted and worn in bough and stem,
And robb'd of leaf-wrought diadem,
Lay rotting in their barky mail,
Indifferent to sun and gale.
Deep hollows in the miry clay

Mark'd where their roots once spread away,
Now mix'd with many a rugged mound,
Form'd when their fastenings were unbound,
Or wrench'd, like gossamer, in twain,
By the wild rushing hurricane.

WOODS BY MOONLIGHT.

ABOVE, the overhanging banks
Were lined by trees in broken ranks,
And moonlight falling gently down,
Set with rich pearls each emerald crown;
There tower'd, majestical and old,

The dark-leaved hemlock from the mould;
The spruce, unstirr'd by breath of air,
Shaped like a parasol, was there,

51

And the huge pine full proudly bore
His honours like a regal thing,
His trunk, with mossy velvet hoar,
Fit ermine for so wild a king.

MOCK INDIAN FIGHT.

LIKE cougar, mad with taste of blood,
A warrior darted from the throng,
While the dim arches of the wood

Rang with their gathering song,-
High overhead his hatchet raised,
While lightning from his eye-balls blazed,
Then buried in the solid oak

Its glittering blade with rending stroke.
Changed was the scene from measure slow,
To frantic leap and deafening yell,
And on imaginary foe

A hundred weapons fell,
Till hacked and splinter'd to the ground,
In fragments lay the post around.

Wild and more wild the tumult grew
Amid the crazed, demoniac crew;
Knives flash'd, and man to man opposed;
Dark forms in mimic combat closed;
Upwhirl'd in clouds the summer dust;
Quick blows were aim'd, and furious thrust,
With face convulsed the fallen gasp'd,
And murderous hands the scalp-lock grasp'i;
Some from the swathing board cut loose
With seeming hate, the swart pappoose,
Then raised it, struggling, by the heel,
And pointed at its throat the steel;
While others on the trampled ground,
Limbs of the frantic mother bound,
And her shrill cry with laughter drown'd.
Feign'd was base flight and bold advance,
Poised was the long, bone-headed lance;
Stout arms the heavy war-club sway'd;
Elastic bows sharp twanging made;
And mock'd, with modulated tone,
Was victor shout and dying groan.

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