He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her braveGush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry;

O! be it never heard again.

Soon rested those who fought; but thou

Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weapon'd throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown-yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again: The eternal years of GoD are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove,
The wither'd leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust,
And to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown,
And from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow,
Through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers,
That lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs,

A beauteous sisterhood!
Alas! they all are in their graves;

The gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds,

With the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie,

But the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth,
The lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet,

They perish'd long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died,
Amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod,

And the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook
In autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven,
As falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone,
From upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day,
As still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee

From out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light

The waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers

Whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood
And by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in

Her youthful beauty died,
The fair, meek blossom that grew up
And faded by my side;

In the cold, moist earth we laid her,

When the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely
Should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,

Should perish with the flowers.

THE FUTURE LIFE.

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again

In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.
Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

Shall it be banish'd from thy tongue in heaven?
In meadows framed by heaven's life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfetter'd mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that join'd us here;
The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,-
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
Await thee there; for thou hast bow'd thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.
For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell
Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?
Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home
The wisdom that I learn'd so ill in this-
The wisdom which is love-till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

Tudu blossom, bright with autumn dew,
And colour'd with the heaven's own blue,
That openest, when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines in purple dress'd,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

OH, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS.

Он, fairest of the rural maids!
Thy birth was in the forest shades;
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
Were all that met thy infant eye.

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
Were ever in the sylvan wild;
And all the beauty of the place
Is in thy heart and on thy face.
The twilight of the trees and rocks
Is in the light shade of thy locks;
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
Its playful way among the leaves.
Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
And silent waters heaven is seen;
Their lashes are the herbs that look
On their young figures in the brook.
The forest depths, by foot unpress'd,
Are not more sinless than thy breast;
The holy peace that fills the air
Of those calm solitudes, is there.

THE MAIDEN'S SORROW.

SEVEN long years has the desert rain
Dropp'd on the clods that hide thy face;
Seven long years of sorrow and pain
I have thought of thy burial place.
Thought of thy fate in the distant west,

Dying with none that loved thee near; They who flung the earth on thy breast Turn'd from the spot without a tear. There, I think, on that lonely grave, Violets spring in the soft May shower; There in the summer breezes wave Crimson phlox and moccasin flower. There the turtles alight, and there

Feeds with her fawn the timid doe;
There, when the winter woods are bare,
Walks the wolf on the crackling snow.
Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away;
All my task upon earth is done;
My poor father, old and gray,
Slumbers beneath the church-yard stone.
In the dreams of my lonely bed,

Ever thy form before me seems;
All night long I talk with the dead,
All day long I think of my dreams.
This deep wound that bleeds and aches,
This long pain, a sleepless pain-
When the Father my spirit takes
I shall feel it no more again.

MR. PERCIVAL was born in Berlin, near Hartford, in Connecticut, on the fifteenth of September, 1795. His father, an intelligent physician, died in 1807, and he was committed to the care of a guardian. His instruction continued to be carefully attended to, however, and when fifteen years of age he entered Yale College. The condition of his health, which had been impaired by too close application to study, rendered necessary a temporary removal from New Haven, but after an absence of about a year he returned, and in 1815 graduated with the reputation of being the first scholar of his class. He subsequently entered the Yale Medical School, and in 1820 received the degree of Doctor of Medicine.

He began to write verses at an early age, and in his fourteenth year is said to have produced a satire in aim and execution not unlike Mr. BRYANT'S "Embargo." In the last year of his college life he composed a dramatic piece to be spoken by some of the students at the annual commencement, which was afterwards enlarged and printed under the title of «Zamor, a Tragedy." He did not appear as an author before the public, however, until 1821, when he published at New Haven, with some minor poems, the first part of his "Prometheus," which attracted considerable attention, and was favourably noticed in an article by Mr. EDWARD EVERETT, in the North American Review.

In 1822 he published two volumes of miscellaneous poems and prose writings under the title of "Clio," the first at Charleston, South Carolina, and the second at New Haven. They contain "Consumption," "The Coral Grove," and other pieces which have been regarded as among the finest of his works. In the same year they were followed by an oration, previously delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, "On Some of the Moral and Political truths Derivable from History," and the second part of "Prometheus." The whole of this poem contains nearly four hundred stanzas in the Spenserian measure. An edition of his principal poetical writings, embracing a few original pieces, appeared soon after in New York and was reprinted in London.

In 1824 Dr. PERCIVAL was appointed an assistant-surgeon in the army, and stationed at West Point with orders to act as Professor of Chemistry in the Military Academy. He had supposed that the duties of the office were so light as to allow him abundant leisure for the pursuit of his favourite studies, and when undeceived by the experience of a few months, he resigned his commission and went to Boston, where he passed in various literary avocations the greater portion of the year 1825. In this period he wrote his poem on the mind, in which

he intimates that its highest office is the creation of beauty, and that there are certain unchanging principles of taste, to which all works of art, all "linked sounds of most elaborate music," must-be conformable, to give more than a feeble and transient pleasure.

Early in 1827 he published in New York the third volume of "Clio," and was afterwards engaged nearly two years in superintending the printing of the first quarto edition of Dr. WEBSTER'S American Dictionary, a service for which he was eminently qualified by an extensive and critical acquaintance with ancient and modern languages. His next work was a new translation of MALTEBRUN's Geography, from the French, which was not completed until 1843.

From his boyhood Dr. PERCIVAL has been an earnest and constant student, and there are few branches of learning with which he is not familiar. Perhaps there is not in the country a man of more thorough and comprehensive scholarship. In 1835 he was employed by the government of Connecticut to make a geological survey of that state, which he had already very carefully explored on his own account. His Report on the subject, which is very able and elaborate, was printed in an octavo volume of nearly five hundred pages, in 1842. While engaged in these duties he published poetical translations from the Polish, Russian, Servian, Bohemian, German, Dutch, Danish, Swedish, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese languages, and wrote a considerable portion of "The Dream of Day and other Poems," which appeared at New Haven in 1843. This is his last volume; it embraces more than one hundred and fifty varieties of measure, and its contents generally show his familiar acquaintance with the poetical art, which in his preface he observes, "requires a mastery of the riches and niceties of a language; a full knowledge of the science of versification, not only in its own peculiar principles of rhythm and melody, but in its relation to elocution and music, with that delicate natural perception and that facile execution which render the composition of verse hardly less easy than that of prose; a deep and quick insight into the nature of man, in all his varied faculties, intellectual and émotive; a clear and full perception of the power and beauty of nature, and of all its various harmonies with our own thoughts and feelings; and, to gain a high rank in the present age, wide and exact attainments in literature and art in general. Nor is the possession of such faculties and attainments all that is necessary; but such a sustained and self-collected state of mind as gives one the mastery of his genius, and at the same time presents to him the ideal as an immediate reality, not as a remote conception."

There are few men who possess these high qualities in a more eminent degree than PERCIVAL; but with the natural qualities of a great poet, and his comprehensive and thorough learning, he lacks the executive skill, or declines the labour, without which few authors gain immortality. He has considerable imagination, remarkable command of language, and writes with a facility rarely equalled; but when his thoughts are once committed to the page, he shrinks from the labour of revising,

correcting, and condensing. He remarks in one of his prefaces, that his verse is "very far from bearing the marks of the file and the burnisher," and that he likes to see "poetry in the full ebullition of feeling and fancy, foaming up with the spirit of life, and glowing with the rainbows of a glad inspiration." If by this he means that a poet should reject the slow and laborious process by which a polished excellence is attained, very few who have acquired good reputations will agree with him.

CONCLUSION OF THE DREAM OF A DAY.

A SPIRIT stood before me, half unseen,
Majestic and severe; yet o'er him play'd
A genial light-subdued though high his mien,
As by a strong collected spirit sway'd—
In even balance justly poised between [stay'd-
Each wild extreme, proud strength by feeling
Dwelling in upper realms serenely bright,
Lifted above the shadowy sphere of night.
He stood before me, and I heard a tone,
Such as from mortal lips had never flow'd,
Soft yet commanding, gentle yet alone,

It bow'd the listener's heart-anon it glow'd
Intensely fervent, then like wood-notes thrown

On the chance winds, in airy lightness rodeNow swell'd like ocean surge, now pausing fell Like the last murmur of a muffled bell.

"Lone pilgrim through life's gloom," thus spake the shade,

"Hold on with steady will along thy way: Thou, by a kindly favouring hand wert madeHard though thy lot, yet thine what can repay Long years of bitter toil-the holy aid

Of spirit aye is thine, be that thy stay: Thine to behold the true, to feel the pure, To know the good and lovely-these endure. Hold on-thou hast in thee thy best reward; Poor are the largest stores of sordid gain, If from the heaven of thought thy soul is barr'd, If the high spirit's bliss is sought in vain : Think not thy lonely lot is cold or hard,

The world has never bound thee with its chain; Free as the birds of heaven thy heart can soar, Thou canst create new worlds-what wouldst thou more?

The future age will know thee-yea, even now
Hearts beat and tremble at thy bidding, tears
Flow as thou movest thy wand, thy word can bow
Even ruder natures, the dull soul uprears
As thou thy trumpet blast attunest-thou

Speakest, and each remotest valley hears:
Thou hast the gift of song-a wealth is thine,
Richer than all the treasures of the mine.

Hold on, glad spirits company thy path-
They minister to thee, though all unseen:
Even when the tempest lifts its voice in wrath,

Thou joyest in its strength; the orient sheen Gladdens thee with its beauty; winter hath

A holy charm that soothes thee, like the green Of infant May-all nature is thy friend, All seasons to thy life enchantment lend. Man, too, thou know'st and feelest-all the springs That wake his smile and tear, his joy and sorrow, All that uplifts him on emotion's wings,

Each longing for a fair and blest to-morrow, Each tone that soothes or saddens, all that rings Joyously to him, thou canst fitly borrow From thy own breast, and blend it in a strain, To which each human heart beats back again. Thine the unfetter'd thought, alone controll'd

By nature's truth; thine the wide-seeing eye, Catching the delicate shades, yet apt to hold

The whole in its embrace-before it lie Pictured in fairest light, as chart unroll'd,

Fields of the present and of destiny: The voice of truth amid the senseless throng May now be lost; 'tis heard and felt ere long. Hold on-live for the world-live for all timeRise in thy conscious power, but gently bear Thy form among thy fellows; sternly climb

The spirit's alpine peaks; mid snow towers there Nurse the pure thought, but yet accordant chime

With lowlier hearts in valleys green and fair,Sustain thyself-yield to no meaner hand, Even though he rule awhile thy own dear land. Brief is his power, oblivion waits the churl

Bound to his own poor self; his form decays, But sooner fades his name. Thou shalt unfurl Thy standard to the winds of future daysWell mayest thou in thy soul defiance hurl

On such who would subdue thee; thou shalt raise Thy name, when they are dust, and nothing more: Hold on-in earnest hope still look before.

Nerved to a stern resolve, fulfil thy lot

Reveal the secrets nature has unveil'd thee; All higher gifts by toil intense are bought— Has thy firm will in action ever fail'd thee? Only on distant summits fame is sought

Sorrow and gloom thy nature has entail'd thee, But bright thy present joys, and brighter far The hope that draws thee like a heavenly star."

The voice was still-its tone in distance dying Breathed in my ear, like harp faint heard at even.

Soft as the autumn wind through sere leaves s ighing When flaky clouds athwart the moon are driven Far through the viewless gloom the spirit flying,

Wing'd his high passage to his native heaven, But o'er me still he seem'd in kindness bending, Fresh hope and firmer purpose to me lending.

Spirit of life! rather aloft, where on the crest of the mountain,

Clear blow the winds, fresh from the north, sparkles and dashes the fountain,

Lead me along, hot in the chase, still 'mid the storm high glowing

Only we live-only, when life, like the wild torrent, is flowing.

THE POET.

DEEP sunk in thought, he sat beside the riverIts wave in liquid lapses glided by,

Nor watch'd, in crystal depth, his vacant eye The willow's high o'er-arching foliage quiver. From dream to shadowy dream returning ever, He sat, like statue, on the grassy verge; His thoughts, a phantom train, in airy surge Stream'd visionary onward, pausing never. As autumn wind, in mountain forest weaving Its wondrous tapestry of leaf and bower, O'ermastering the night's resplendent flower With tints, like hues of heaven, the eye deceivingSo, lost in labyrinthine maze, he wove A wreath of flowers; the golden thread was love.

NIGHT.

Am I not all alone?-The world is still

In passionless slumber-not a tree but feels The far-pervading hush, and softer steals The misty river by.-Yon broad bare hill Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars Seem eyes deep fix'd in silence, as if bound By some unearthly spell-no other sound But the owl's unfrequent moan.-Their airy cars The winds have station'd on the mountain peaks. Am I not all alone?-A spirit speaks

From the abyss of night, "Not all aloneNature is round thee with her banded powers, And ancient genius haunts thee in these hoursMind and its kingdom now are all thy own."

CHORIAMBIC MELODY.

BEAR me afar o'er the wave, far to the sacred islands,

Where ever bright blossoms the plain, where no cloud hangs on the highlands

There be my heart ever at rest, stirr'd by no wild emotion:

There on the earth only repose, halcyon calm on the

ocean.

Lay me along, pillow'd on flowers, where steals in silence for ever

Over its sands, still as at noon, far the oblivious river.

Scarce through the grass whispers it by; deep in

its wave you may number

Pebble and shell, and image of flower, folded and bent in slumber.

SAPPHO.

SHE stands in act to fall-her garland torn, Its wither'd rose-leaves round the rock are blowing; Loose to the winds her locks dishevell'd flowing Tell of the many sorrows she has borne.

Her eye, up-turn'd to heaven, has lost its fireOne hand is press'd to feel her bosom's beating, And mark her lingering pulses back retreatingThe other wanders o'er her silent lyre.

Clear rolls the midway sun-she knows it not; Vainly the winds waft by the flower's perfume; To her the sky is hung in deepest gloom

She only feels the noon-beam burning hot. What to the broken heart the dancing waves, The air all kindling-what a sounding name! O! what a mockery, to dream of fameIt only lures us on to make us slaves. And Love-O! what art thou with all thy light? Ineffable joy is round thee, till we know,

Thou art but as a vision of the nightAnd then the bursting heart, how deep its wo.