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May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear

Of him who thought to die unmourned 'twill fall
Like choicest music, fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears, relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again,
And shed on the departing soul a sense
More precious than the benison of friends
About the honored death-bed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.

not wholly unworthy parallel of Shakspeare's description of "Queen Mab:"

"He put his acorn helmet on,

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down;

The corselet-plate that guarded his breast

Was once the wild bee's golden vest;

His cloak of a thousand mingled dyes
Was formed of the wings of butterflies;

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,
Studs of gold on a ground of green;

And the quivering lance which he brandished bright
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight."

When Drake was on his death-bed, his brother-in-law, Dr. De Kay, collected and copied all the young poet's productions in verse that could be found, and took them to him, saying, "See, Joe, what I have done." "Burn them," replied Drake; "they are valueless." Clever as they are, they did not come up to his ideal of what poetry ought to be. N. P. Willis remarks of him: "His power of language was prompt; his peculiarity was that of instantaneous creation; thought, imagination, truth, and

SONNET: ON THE RECEPTION OF THE POET imagery seemed to combine and produce their results in

WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD.

Oh, never did a mighty truth prevail

With such felicities of place and time

As in those shouts sent forth with joy sublime
From the full heart of England's youth, to hail
Her once neglected bard within the pale
Of Learning's fairest citadel! That voice,
In which the future thunders, bids rejoice
Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail
To bless with love as deep as life the name
Thus welcomed;-who in happy silence share
The triumph; while their fondest musings claim
Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous air,
That to their long-loved Poet's spirit bear
A nation's promise of undying fame.

Joseph Rodman Drake.

AMERICAN.

Drake (1795-1820), whose remarkable promise was checked by an early death, was a native of the city of New York. He obtained a good education, studied medicine, and was admitted to practice, soon after which he was married. With his wife he visited Europe in 1817. On his return pulmonary disease developed itself; in the winter of 1819 he visited New Orleans in the hope of relief, but died the following autumn, at the age of twenty-five. Like Bryant, he was a poet from boyhood, and wrote remarkable verses before he was fifteen. He was associated with Halleck in writing the poems signed "Croaker & Co.," and his "American Flag" first appeared among these (1819). "The Culprit Fay" (1819), his longest poem, is said to have been written in three days. It shows great facility in versifying, and an affluent fancy. The following passage is a

a moment."

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.

Majestic monarch of the cloud,

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning-lances driven,

When stride the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given

To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high! When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on,

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,—
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn;
And, as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall-
There shall thy meteor-glances glow,

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave:
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea

Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given!

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe, but falls before us? With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

ODE TO FORTUNE.

FROM THE CROAKERS."

Fair lady with the bandaged eye!
I'll pardon all thy scurvy tricks;

So thou wilt cut me and deny

Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: I'm quite contented as I am—

Have cash to keep my duns at bay,

Can choose between beefsteaks and ham, And drink Madeira every day.

My station is the middle rank,
My fortune just a competence-
Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank,
And twenty in the six per-cents. ;

No amorous chains my heart inthrall; I neither borrow, lend, nor sell; Fearless I roam the City Hall,

And bite my thumb at Mr. Bell.'

The horse that twice a year I ride,
At Mother Dawson's eats his fill;
My books at Goodrich's abide,

My country-seat is Weehawk hill;
My morning lounge is Eastburn's shop,
At Poppleton's I take my lunch;
Niblo prepares my mutton-chop,

And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch.

When merry, I the hours amuse

By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and balls; And when I'm troubled with the blues, Damn Clinton' and abuse canals. Then, Fortune! since I ask no prize,

At least preserve me from thy frown; The man who don't attempt to rise, Twere cruelty to tumble down.

THE GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES.

FROM THE CULPRIT FAY."

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night— The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high

But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue,

A river of light, on the welkin blue.

The moon looks down on old Cro'nest;
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge gray form to throw,

In a silver cone, on the wave below.
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark-
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.

The stars are on the moving stream,

And fling, as its ripples gently flow,

A burnished length of wavy beam
In an eel-like, spiral line below;

1 The sheriff of New York City.

2 De Witt Clinton, Governor of the State of New York, and the advocate of the great canal project.

3 Formerly pronounced canawls.

The winds are whist, and the owl is still,
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid,
And naught is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katydid,

And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill,
Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings
Ever a note of wail and woe,
Till morning spreads her rosy wings,

And earth and sky in her glances glow.

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;
He has counted them all with click and stroke,
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,
And he has awakened the sentry elve

Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
To bid him ring the hour of twelve,

And call the fays to their revelry; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell— ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)— "Midnight comes, and all is well!

Hither, hither wing your way!

"Tis the dawn of the fairy day."

They come from beds of lichen green,

They creep from the mullein's velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,

And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest

They had driven him out by elfin power,
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumbered there till the charméd hour;
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,
With glittering ising-stars inlaid;
And some had opened the four-o'clock,
And stole within its purple shade.

And now they throng the moonlight glade,
Above-below-on every side,

Their little minim forms arrayed

In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.

They come not now to print the lea
In freak and dance around the tree,
Or at the mushroom board to sup,
And drink the dew from the buttercup;-
A scene of sorrow waits them now,

For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow:
He has loved an earthly maid,
And left for her his woodland shade;

He has lain upon her lip of dew,
And sunned him in her eye of blue,
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,
Played in the ringlets of her hair,
And, nestling on her snowy breast,
Forgot the lily-king's behest.

For this the shadowy tribes of air

To the elfin court must haste away: And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay.

The throne was reared upon the grass,
Of spice-wood and of sassafras ;
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell
Hung the burnished canopy-
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell

Of the tulip's crimson drapery.
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat,

On his brow the crown imperial shone;

The prisoner fay was at his feet,

And his peers were ranged around the throne. He waved his sceptre in the air,

He looked around, and calmly spoke;
His brow was grave, and his eye severe,
But his voice in a softened accent broke:
"Fairy! Fairy! list and mark:

Thou hast broke thine elfin chain;
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain-
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity

In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye; Thou hast scorned our dread decree,

And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high. But well I know her sinless mind

Is pure as the angel forms above,
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind,

Such as a spirit well might love.
Fairy! had she spot or taint,
Bitter had been thy punishment:
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings;
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings;
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell;
Or every night to writhe and bleed
Beneath the tread of the centipede;
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim,
Your jailer a spider, huge and grim,
Amid the carrion bodies to lie

Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly:

These it had been your lot to bear,

Had a stain been found on the earthly fair.

Maria (Gowen) Brooks.

AMERICAN.

Mrs. Brooks (1795-1845), to whom Southey gave the pen-name of "Maria del Occidente" (Maria of the West), was of Welsh descent, the daughter of Mr. Gowen, of Medford, Mass., where she was born. Before her eighteenth year she married Mr. Brooks, a Boston merchant, and on his death, in 1823, went to live with a wealthy uncle in Cuba, who, dying, left her a cotton plantation and some other property. In 1830, in company with her brother, she went to France, and in 1831 passed the spring in the house of Robert Southey, the poet, to whom she addressed, at parting, these graceful lines:

"Soft be thy sleep as mists that rest

On Skiddaw's top at summer morn;
Smooth be thy days as Derwent's breast
When summer light is almost gone!
And yet, for thee why breathe a prayer?
I deem thy fate is given in trust
To seraphs who by daily care

Would prove that Heaven is not unjust.
And treasured shall thy image be

In Memory's purest, holiest shrine,
While truth and honor glow in thee,

Or life's warm, quivering pulse is mine." Southey calls Mrs. Brooks "the most impassioned and most imaginative of all poetesses "-praise which was echoed by Charles Lamb, but which will seem a little extravagant to the present generation. Southey read the proofs of her "Zophiel; or, The Bride of Seven," a poem in six cantos, which, in its completed form, was published in London in 1833, and in Boston in 1834. It contains lines of great descriptive beauty, but as a whole is like a surfeit of sweets. A new edition, with a memoir by Mrs. Zadel Barnes Gustafson, author of "Meg: a Pastoral, and other Poems," was published in Boston in 1879.

SONG OF EGLA. FROM "ZOPHIEL."

Day, in melting purple dying;
Blossoms, all around me sighing;
Fragrance, from the lilies straying;
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;—
Ye but waken my distress:
I am sick of loneliness!

Thou to whom I love to hearken,
Come, ere night around me darken!
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee:
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent;
Let me think it innocent!

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure; All I ask is friendship's pleasure:

Let the shining ore lie darkling,—
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling:
Gifts and gold are naught to me;
I would only look on thee;—

Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing;

Paint to thee the deep sensation,
Rapture in participation,

Yet but torture, if compressed
In a lone, unfriended breast.

Absent still? Ah, come and bless me!
Let these eyes again caress thee!
Once, in caution, I could fly thee;
Now I nothing could deny thee:
In a look if death there be,
Come, and I will gaze on thee!

Thomas Carlyle.

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Carlyle, famous as moralist, satirist, historian, and biographer-the censor of his age," "the prince of scolds"-has also been, in a small way, a poet. He lacked the lyrical faculty, however, and was, perhaps, aware of his failure; for in a letter from his pen, dated 1870, we find him giving it as his mature opinion that "the writing of verse-in this age, at least is an unworthy occupation for a man of ability." able to reach the grapes, he decries them as sour. The penetrating thinker will probably find as much fresh wisdom in Wordsworth's verse as in Carlyle's rugged prose, where we often have the obscurity without the melody of the profound poet. Carlyle was born December 4th, 1795, in the village of Ecclesfechan, Scotland. His father was a man of great moral worth and sagacity, while his mother was affectionate and more than ordinarily intelligent. It is not with his remarkable prose writings that we have here to deal. There is little that is worthy of preservation in his verse. In 1834 he took up his residence in Chelsea, near London, where he was living in 1880, honored and respected for his brilliant talents and his much-prized contributions to the literature of the age.

CUI BONO?

What is hope? A smiling rainbow Children follow through the wet: 'Tis not here-still yonder, yonder; Never urchin found it yet.

What is life? A thawing iceboard
On a sea with sunny shore:
Gay we sail; it melts beneath us;
We are sunk, and seen no more.

What is man? A foolish baby;

Vainly strives, and fights, and frets: Demanding all, deserving nothing, One small grave is what he gets!

TO-DAY.

So here hath been dawning another blue day! Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?

Out of Eternity this new day was born; Into Eternity at night will return.

Behold it aforetime no eye ever did; So soon it forever from all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning another blue day: Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?

Fitz-Greene Halleck.

AMERICAN.

Halleck (1795-1867) was a native of Guilford, Conn. While a boy of fourteen he began to versify. In 1813 he entered the banking-house of Jacob Barker in New York, and subsequently became the confidential clerk of New York's foremost millionnaire, John Jacob Astor. In 1849 he retired to his native town on a competence. He made frequent visits to New York, however, where he had troops of friends. He remained a bachelor, and wrote little after giving up his clerkship. In 1819 he had been associated with Drake in the composition of some satirical poems called "The Croaker Papers." In 1822, '23 he visited Europe, and as the fruits of his travels we have two fine poems, "Alnwick Castle" and the lines on Burns, which last show the influence of Campbell, of whom Halleck was a great admirer.

The first collection of his poems appeared in 1827; the second in 1836; a third, with illustrations, in 1847; and a fourth in 1852. His flights were limited; his poetry is that of the emotions rather than of the meditative faculty; and a small volume will hold all that he wrote. But in his day Halleck was a conspicuous figure, and regarded with some local pride in the city of his adoption. He was an agreeable companion, scrupulously honorable in all his dealings; and his beaming countenance, the smile on which seemed to come from an affectionate nature, made him a welcome guest at all social gatherings. He had little ambition as an author, regarding himself only as an amateur, and having a keener consciousness than any of his critics of his own literary limitations. His "Life and Letters," edited by James Grant Wilson of New York, was published in 1869. Bryant, in vindicating Halleck from the charge of occasional roughness in his versification, says: "He knows that the rivulet is made musical by the obstructions in its channel."

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

"The good die first,

And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust

Burn to the socket."-WORDSWORTH.

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep;

And long where thou art lying Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven,

To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow

To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine,

It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow; But I've in vain essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free; The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourus a man like thee.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

Marco Bozzaris fell in a night attack on the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platæa, August 20th, 1823. His last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain."

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power;

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams, his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ring; Then pressed that monarch's throne,-a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,. As Eden's garden bird.

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