The Poets and Poetry of America

Exulting now, he clamours o'er his prey;
His secret shaft hath not been idly sped;
He lurk'd within the rocky cleft all day,
Till the proud bird rose sweeping o'er his head,
And thus he slew him! He should weep him dead,
Whom, living, he could love not-weep that he,
The noble lesson taught him, never read-
Exulting o'er the victim much more free
Than, in his lowly soul, he e'er can hope to be.

'Tis triumph for the base to overthrow
That which they reach not-the ignoble mind
Loves ever to assail with secret blow
The loftier, purer beings of their kind:
In this their petty villany is blind;
They hate their benefactors-men who keep
Their names from degradation-men design'd
Their guides and guardians: well, if late they weep
The cruel shaft that struck such noble hearts so deep.

Around thy mountain dwelling the winds lie-
Thy wing is gone, thy eyry desolate;
O, who shall teach thy young ones when to fly,-
Who fill the absence of thy watchful mate?
Thou type of genius! bitter is thy fate,

A boor has sent the shaft that leaves them lone,
Thy clustering fellows, guardians of thy state-
Shaft from the reedy fen whence thou hast flown,
And feather from the bird thy own wing hath struck
down!

THE BROOKLET.

A LITTLE farther on, there is a brook

Where the breeze lingers idly. The high trees
Have roof'd it with their crowding limbs and leaves,
So that the sun drinks not from its sweet fount,
And the shade cools it. You may hear it now,
A low, faint beating, as, upon the leaves
That lie beneath its rapids, it descends
In a fine, showery rain, that keeps one tune,
And 'tis a sweet one, still of constancy.

THE SHADED WATER.
WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise
And bustle of the crowd, I feel rebuke,
I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys,

And sit me down beside this little brook:
The waters have a music to mine ear
It glads me much to hear.

It is a quiet glen as you may see,

Shut in from all intrusion by the trees,
That spread their giant branches, broad and free,
The silent growth of many centuries;
And make a hallow'd time for hapless moods,
A Sabbath of the woods.

Few know its quiet shelter,-none, like me,
Do seek it out with such a fond desire,
Poring, in idlesse mood, on flower and tree,

And listening, as the voiceless leaves respire-
When the far-travelling breeze, done wandering,
Rests here his weary wing.

And all the day, with fancies ever new,

And sweet companions from their boundless
Of merry elves, bespangled all with dew, [store
Fantastic creatures of the old time lore,-
Watching their wild but unobtrusive play,
I fling the hours away.

A gracious couch,-the root of an old oak,

Whose branches yield it moss and canopy,
Is mine-and so it be from woodman's stroke
Secure, shall never be resigned by me;
It hangs above the stream that idly plies,
Heedless of any eyes.

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent,

Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour,
While every sense, on earnest mission sent, [er;
Returns, thought-laden,back with bloom and flow•
Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil,
A profitable toil.

And still the waters, trickling at my feet,
Wind on their way with gentlest melody,

Ere yet I noted much the speed of time,
And knew him but in songs and ballad-books,
Nor cared to know him better, I have lain ;
With thought unchid by harsher din than came
From the thick thrush, hat, gliding through the

Beside its banks, through the whole livelong day, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat,

copse,

Hurried above me; or the timid fawn

That came down to the brooklet's edge to drink,
And saunter'd through its shade, cropping the
grass,

Even where I lay,-having a quiet mood,
And not disturbing, while surveying mine.

Thou smilest-and on thy lip a straying thought
Says I have trifled-calls my hours misspent,
And looks a solemn warning! A true thought,-
And so my errant mood were well rebuked!-
Yet there was pleasant sadness that became
Meetly the gentle heart and pliant sense,
In that same idlesse-gazing on that brook
So pebbly and so clear,-prattling away,

Like a young child, all thoughtless, till it goes
From shadow into sunlight, and is lost.

Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by,—
Yet not so rudely as to send one sound
Through the thick copse around.
Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest

Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees,
Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, press'd
On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries,—
And, with awaken'd vision upward bent,
I watch the firmament.

How like-its sure and undisturb'd retreat,
Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm-
To the pure waters trickling at my feet,

The bending trees that overshade my form;
So far as sweetest things of earth may seem
Like those of which we dream.

Thus, to my mind, is the philosophy

The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight,
Sails far into the blue that spreads on high,
Until I lose him from my straining sight,—
With a most lofty discontent, to fly
Upward, from earth to sky.

ADED WAT

TO THE BREEZE:

AFTER A PROTRACTED CALM AT SEA.

die Taou hast been slow to bless us, gentle breeze;
Where hast thou been a lingerer, welcome friend?
Where, when the midnight gather'd to her brow
Her pale and crescent minister, wert thou?

On what far, sullen, solitary seas,

Piping the mariner's requiem, didst thou tend
The home-returning bark,

Curling the white foam o'er her lifted prow, [dark?
White, when the rolling waves around her all were

Gently, and with a breath

Of spicy odour from Sabæan vales,
Where subtle life defies and conquers death,
Fill'dst thou her yellow sails!

On, like some pleasant bird,
With glittering plumage and light-loving eye,
While the long pennant lay aloft unstirr'd,
And sails hung droopingly,

Camest thou with tidings of the land to cheer
The weary mariner.

How, when the ocean slept,
Making no sign;

And his dumb waters, of all life bereft,
Lay 'neath the sun-girt line;

His drapery of storm-clouds lifted high

In some far, foreign sky,

While a faint moaning o'er his bosom crept,
As the deep breathings of eternity,
Above the grave of the unburied time,
Claiming its clime-
How did the weary tar,

His form reclined along the burning deck,
Stretch his dim eye afar,

To hail the finger, and delusive speck,
Thy bending shadow, from some rocky steep,
Down-darting o'er the deep!

Born in the solemn night,
When the deep skies were bright,
With all their thousand watchers on the sight-
Thine was the music through the firmament
By the fond nature sent,

To hail the blessed birth,
To guide to lowly earth

The glorious glance, the holy wing of light!

Music to us no less,

Thou comest in our distress,

To cheer our pathway. It is clear, through thee,
O'er the broad wastes of sea.
How soothing to the heart that glides alone,
Unwatch'd and unremember'd, on the wave,

Perchance his grave!—

Should he there perish, to thy deeper moan
What lip shall add one tone?

I bless thee, gentle breeze!

Sweet minister to many a fond desire,

Thou bear'st me to my sire,
Thon, and these rolling seas!

What-0, thou GoD of this strong element !—

Are we, that it is sent,

Obedient to our fond and fervent hope?
But that its pinion on our path is bent,
We had been doom'd beyond desire to grope,

Doth raise his certain lamp when tempests lower-
He sees no more that perish'd light again!
And gloomier grows the hour

[dark,

Which may not, through the thick and crowding
Restore that lost and loved one to her tower.

He looks, the shepherd on Chaldea's hills,
Tending his flocks,--

And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze,
Gladdening his gaze;

And, from his dreary watch along the rocks,
Guiding him safely home through perilous ways!
How stands he in amaze,

Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills
The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils
Its leaden dews--how chafes he at the night,
Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light,
So natural to his sight!

And lone,

Where its first splendours shone,

Shall be that pleasant company of stars:
How should they know that death

Such perfect beauty mars;

And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath,
Fallen from on high,

Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die--
All their concerted springs of harmony,
Snapp'd rudely, and the generous music gone.

A strain-a mellow strain-

Of wailing sweetness, fill'd the earth and sky;
The stars lamenting in unborrow'd pain
That one of the selectest ones must die;
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!
Alas! 'tis ever more the destiny,

The hope, heart-cherish'd, is the soonest lost;
The flower first budded soonest feels the frost:
Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest?
And, like the pale star shooting down the sky,
Look they not ever brightest when they fly
The desolate home they bless'd?

WILLIAM G. SIMMS.

THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP.

"TIs a wild spot, and hath a gloomy look;
The bird sings never merrily in the trees,
And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growth
Spreads poisonously round, with power to taint
With blistering dews the thoughtless hand that dares
To penetrate the covert. Cypresses
Crowd on the dank, wet earth; and, stretch'd at
[length,
The cayman-a fit dweller in such home-
Slumbers, half-buried in the sedgy grass.
Beside the green ooze where he shelters him,
A whooping crane erects his skeleton form,
And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks, aroused
To apprehension, as they hear his cry,
Dash up from the lagoon, with marvellous haste,
Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these,
And startled at our rapid, near approach,
The steel-jaw'd monster, from his grassy bed,
Crawls slowly to his slimy, green abode,
Which straight receives him. You behold him now,
His ridgy back uprising as he speeds,
In silence, to the centre of the stream,
Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly,
That, travelling all the day, has counted climes
Only by flowers, to rest himself a while,
Lights on the monster's brow. The surly mute
Straightway goes down, so suddenly, that he,
The dandy of the summer flowers and woods,
Dips his light wings, and spoils his golden coat,
With the rank water of that turbid pond.
Wondering and vex'd, the plumed citizen
Flies, with a hurried effort, to the shore,
Seeking his kindred flowers :-but seeks in vain—
Nothing of genial growth may there be seen,
Nothing of beautiful! Wild, ragged trees,
That look like felon spectres-fetid shrubs,
That taint the gloomy atmosphere-dusk shades,
That gather, half a cloud, and half a fiend
In aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge,—
Gloom with their sternness and forbidding frowns
The general prospect. The sad butterfly,
Waving his lacker'd wings, darts quickly on,
And, by his free flight, counsels us to speed
For better lodgings, and a scene more sweet,
Than these drear borders offer us to-night.

CHANGES OF HOME.
WELL may we sing her beauties,
This pleasant land of ours,

Her sunny smiles, her golden fruits,
And all her world of flowers;
The young birds of her forest-groves,
The blue folds of her sky,

And all those airs of gentleness,

That never seem to fly;

They wind about our forms at noon,
They woo us in the shade,

When panting, from the summer's heats,
The woodman seeks the glade;
They win us with a song of love,

They cheer us with a dream,

That gilds our passing thoughts of life,
As sunlight does the stream;

And well would they persuade us now,
In moments all too dear,

That, sinful though our hearts may be,
We have our Eden here.

Ah, well has lavish nature,
From out her boundless store,
Spread wealth and loveliness around,
On river, rock, and shore:
No sweeter stream than Ashley glides-
And, what of southern France!-
She boasts no brighter fields than ours,
Within her matron glance;

Our skies look down in tenderness
From out their realms of blue,
The fairest of Italian climes

May claim no softer hue;
And let them sing of fruits of Spain,

And let them boast the flowers,
The Moors' own culture they may claim,
No dearer sweet than ours-
Perchance the dark-hair'd maiden
Is a glory in your eye,
But the blue-eyed Carolinian rules,
When all the rest are nigh.

And none may say, it is not true,

The burden of my lay,
"Tis written, in the sight of all,

In flower and fruit and ray;
Look on the scene around us now,

And say if sung amiss,
The song that pictures to your eye
A spot so fair as this:
Gay springs the merry mocking-bird
Around the cottage pale,—
And, scarcely taught by hunter's aim,
The rabbit down the vale;
Each boon of kindly nature,

Her buds, her blooms, her flowers,
And, more than all, the maidens fair
That fill this land of ours,
Are still in rich perfection,

As our fathers found them first,
But our sons are gentle now no more,
And all the land is cursed.
Wild thoughts are in our bosoms
And a savage discontent;
We love no more the life we led,
The music, nor the scent;
The merry dance delights us not,
As in that better time,
When, glad, in happy bands we met,
With spirits like our clime.
And all the social loveliness,
And all the smile is gone,
That link'd the spirits of our youth,
And made our people one.
They smile no more together,
As in that earlier day,
Our maidens sigh in loneliness,

Who once were always gay;
And though our skies are bright,
And our sun looks down as then-
Ah, me! the thought is sad I feel,
We shall never smile again.

FEW persons in private life, who have died so young, have been mourned by so many warm friends as was JONATHAN LAWRENCE. Devoted eto a profession which engaged nearly all his time, and regardless of literary distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them.

He was born in New York, in November, 1807, and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered Columbia College, at which he was graduated before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after became a student in the office of Mr. W. SLOSSON, an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, and the undeviating purity and honourableness of his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered into a partnership with Mr. SLOSSON, and daily added confirmation to the promise of his probational career, until he was suddenly called to a better life, in April, 1833.

The industry with which he attended to his professional duties did not prevent him from giving considerable attention to general literature; and in moments-to use his own language

"Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes at my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude,"-

he produced many poems and prose sketches of considerable merit. These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence of which he was for several years an active member. After his death, in compliance with a request by this society, his brother made a collection of his writings, of which a very small edition was printed, for private circulation. Their character is essentially meditative. Many of them are devotional, and all are distinguished for the purity of thought which guided the life of the

man.

THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT.

MANY a sad, sweet thought have I,
Many a passing, sunny gleam,
Many a bright tear in mine eye,
Many a wild and wandering dream,
Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes by my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude.

Oft, when the south wind's dancing free
Over the earth and in the sky,

And the flowers peep softly out to see

The frolic Spring as she wantons by;

When the breeze and beam like thieves come in,
To steal me away, I deem it sin

To slight their voice, and away I'm straying
Over the hills and vales a-Maying.

Then can I hear the earth rejoice,
Happier than man may ever be;
Every fountain hath then a voice,
That sings of its glad festivity;
For it hath burst the chains that bound
Its currents dead in the frozen ground,
And, flashing away in the sun, has gone
Singing, and singing, and singing on.
Autumn hath sunset hours, and then
Many a musing mood I cherish;

Many a hue of fancy, when

The hues of earth are about to perish;
Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween,
Hath real sunset never seen,
Sad as the faces of friends that die,
And beautiful as their memory.
Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep,
Visions the mind may not control,
Waking, as fancy does in sleep,

The secret transports of the soul;
Faces and forms are strangely mingled,
Till one by one they're slowly singled,
To the voice, and lip, and eye of her
I worship like an idolater.

Many a big, proud tear have I,

When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky,

And spring, and love, I hurry back;
Then what a dismal, dreary gloom
Settles upon my loathed room,
Darker to every thought and sense
Than if they had never travell'd thence.
Yet, I have other thoughts, that cheer
The toilsome day and lonely night,
And many a scene and hope appear,

And almost make me gay and bright.
Honour and fame that I would win,
Though every toil that yet hath been
Were doubly borne, and not an hour
Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.

And, though I sometimes sigh to think

Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea,
And know that the cup which others drink
Shall never be brimm'd by me;
That many a joy must be untasted,
And many a glorious breeze be wasted,
Yet would not, if I dared, repine,
That toil, and study, and care are mine.

SEA-SONG.

OVER the far blue ocean-wave,

On the wild winds I flee,

Yet every thought of my constant heart
Is winging, love, to thee;

For each foaming leap of our gallant ship
Had barb'd a pang for me,

Had not thy form, through sun and storm,
Been my only memory.

O, the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast,
As he dips in the dancing spray;
But fleeter and faster the thoughts, I ween,
Of dear ones far away!

And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue,
As it lights the tinted sea,

Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams
Of the heart that throbs for thee.

And when moon and stars are asleep on the waves,
Their dancing tops among,

And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour
By the music of his song;

When our sail is white in the dark midnight,
And its shadow is on the sea,

O, never knew hall such festival
As my fond heart holds with thee!

LOOK ALOFT.

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each wo,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are
array'd,

"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall
fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to

thine eye,

Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

Come, holy May!

When, sunk behind the cold and western hill,
His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill,

And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay;
Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be
Like a pure temple consecrate to thee.

Like youth and loveliness,
Come, beautiful May!
Like her I love; O, come in thy full dress,

The drapery of dark winter cast away;
To the bright eye and the glad heart appear
Queen of the spring, and mistress of the year.

Yet, lovely May!
Teach her whose eves shall rest upon this rhyme
To spurn the gilded mockeries of time,

The heartless pomp that beckons to betray,
And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year,
Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

And let me too, sweet May!
Let thy fond votary see,
As fade thy beauties, all the vanity
Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though

decay

In his short winter bury beauty's frame,

In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another spring shall bloom, eternal and the same.

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