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What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-hair'd, and so strong!

How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
"Pity' thee! So I do!

I pity the dumb victim at the altar—
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee, though I knew

A thousand lives were perishing in thine-
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine

"Hereafter! Ay-hereafter!

A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the skeptic's laughter?

Come from the grave to-morrow with that story-
And I may take some softer path to glōry.

"No, no, old man! we die

Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they!
Strain well thy fainting eye-

For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

"Yet there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn-
And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

"Ay-though it bid me rifle.

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first-
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild-

"All-I would do it all

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rct-
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!

:,

17

O heavens!-but I appall

Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!-rack him till he revives!

"Vain-vain-give o'er! His eye

Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

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Shivering! Hark! he mutters

Brokenly now that was a difficult breath-
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders-gasps-Jove help him!-so-he's dead." 18. How like a mounting devil in the heart.

Rules the unrein'd ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,

We look upon our splendor and forget

The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life

Many a falser idol. There are hopes

Promising well; and love-touch'd dreams for some;

And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes
For gold and pleasure-yet will only this
Balk not the soul-AMBITION only, gives,
Even of bitterness, a beaker full!

19. Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,
Troubled at best-Love is a lamp unseen,
Burning to waste, or, if its light is found,
Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken-
Gain is a groveling care, and Folly tires,
And Quiet is a hunger never fed-

And from Love's věry bosom, and from Gain,
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose-
From all but keen AMBITION-will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child away.

20. Oh, if there were not better hopes than these—
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame-
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers-if the links
Falsehood hath broken will unite no more-
If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found.
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears-
If truth, and fervor, and devotedness,

Finding no worthy altar, must return

And die of their own fullness--if beyond

The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love

Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart

May spend itself—WHAT THIRICE-MŎck'd fools are wE!

N. P. WILLIS.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS, one of the most voluminous and successful of American writers, was born in Portland, Maine, on the 20th of January, 1807. His father, a distinguished journalist, removed to Boston when he was six years of age. He was prepared for college at the Latin School of Boston and at the Phillips Academy at Andover. He graduated with high honors at Yale in 1827. While in college, he distinguished himself by a series of sacred poems, and gained the prize of fifty dollars for the best poem, offered by Lockwood, the publisher of "The Album." After his graduation he edited "The Legendary," a series of volumes of tales, and then established the " American Monthly Magazine," which, after two years and a half, was merged in the "New York Mirror," and the literary fraternity of N. P. WILLIS and GEORGE P. MORRIS began. Immediately after the partnership was formed, he set sail for a tour in Europe, palatable and piquant reports of which appeared in the "Mirror," entitled "Pencilings by the Way." This first and extended residence abroad led our traveler through all the capitals of Europe, and even to "the poetic altars of the Orient.” In 1835, after residing two years in London, and contributing to the New Monthly Magazine" tales and sketches, republished under the title of **Inklings of Adventure," he married Mary Leighton Stacy, the daughter of a distinguished officer who had won high honors at Waterloo, and was then Commissary-general in command of the arsenal, Woolwich. In 1837, he returned to his native land, and established himself at "Glenmary," in Central New York, near the village of Owego. The portrait of this happy home and the landscape around, is drawn in "Letters from under a Bridge." In 1839, he became one of the editors of "The Corsair," a literary gazette, and made a short trip to England. On his return home, "The Corsair" I aving been discontinued

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he revived, with his former partner, Gen. Morris, the "Mirror." Upon the death of his wife, in 1844, he again visited Europe for the improvement of his health. Soon after, the "Mirror" having passed into other hands, the partners established "The Home Journal," a paper eminently successful, upon which they are still employed. In October, 1846, he married Cornelia, only daughter of the Hon. Joseph GRINNELL, of Massachusetts, since which time he has resided at "Idlewild," a romantic place, which he has cultivated and embellished, near Newburg, on the Hudson. His poems have recently been published in an elegant octavo volume, illustrated by Leutze. More recently, a uniform collection of his prose writings, in twelve volumes, of some five hundred pages each, has come from the press. His last and most extensive novel, “Paul Fane," abounds in that dainty analysis of certain subtle traits of character and social manner, in which he is alway so singularly successful. Mr WILLIS is qually happy as a writer of prose and verse. With a felicitous style, a warm and exuberant fancy, and a ready and sparkling wit, he wins the admiration of readers of the most refined sentiment and the daintiest fancy, and at the same time commands the full sympathy of the masses.

108. AMBITION.

1

WHY should I serve thee, when I know so well
Thy promises are ne'er fulfill'd? No cheat

Or low impostor comes to me more bare
Of that on which we would rest our belief
Than thou-not only to my sight disclosed
By mine own losses, but those who have worn
Thy yoke the longest, and received of thee
Thy richest gifts, declare them dross and poor.
Yět do I find so keen an appetite

For thy most empty banquet, that I still
Hunt round thy table for its meanest crumbs.
2. We do thee homage in our daily walks,

Ordering our dress and gait as to thy whim.
When we would speak for but the interchange
Of casual thought, if there be listeners near,
At thy command we measure every word:
If we sit silent, yet beneath some eye
Regarding us, then doth our care adjust
Each fold and feature, lest it thee offend.
Within the house of prayer, while we do kneel,
If not supreme, thou second art in power,
Abating from the heart, thought of the flesh.

But when it cometh to life's chosen task,
Changing its purpose and its true design,
For thee we bear the burden-put at risk
All God hath loan'd us to be used for him,
And pay a price to be enroll'd thy slaves!

3. Where dost thou sit enthroned? What secret power Is this of thine that doth throughout prevail

All heights-all depths unto our being's end?
It takes a tifhe of virtue; to its aim
Turneth each vice, uniting to one draught
What were abhorrent on another road.
It is my close companion-to the gate
Of Heaven it lurketh after when I soar,
Or by the doors of Hell, gone on before,
It stands and beckons when I do descend.
I can not be alone! The silent path
Of the mid-forest, where no foot doth tread
But softly mine, or the close-bolted room,
Alike do, as I enter, let it in.

Oh! subtle foe, who now I rather give

Thy humbler, truer name, Self-love, by thee
How many wounds I have, and how great loss!

4. I may not reach thee. Can I separate
From my full mind its Memory? or at will
Pluck from Imagination her swift wings?
So am I helpless mid a guilty soul.
If I can bind ambition, why not pierce
The sack of hatred's venom? or cut off
The talons keen of covetousness? Try
To raise a dam and boundary between
The sense of beauty and the evil eye!

5. Enchurch affection-call the raven back
When it hath left the ark, gone to and fro!
Sweep out each dusty spot within my soul,
And there, henceforth, be pure-let not the thought
Nor secret act be to the test unclean!

I may not conquer them-they, separate,

Have power and strong dominion over me;

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