EDWARD SANFORD, a son of the late Chancellor. SANFORD, is a native of the city of New York. He was graduated at the Union College in 1824, and in the following year became a law student in the office of BENJAMIN F. BUTLER, afterward Attorney-General of the United States. He subsequently practised several years in the courts of

New York, but finally abandoned his profession to conduct the " Standard," an able democratic journal, with which he was connected during the political contest which resulted in the election of Mr. VAN BUREN to the Presidency, after which he was for a time one of the editors of "The Globe," at Washington. He now resides in New York.

ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK. THERE'S beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full, dark eye Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of time; Ambition, that survives the battle-rout. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds, that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapp'd in fierce hate, and high, unconquer'd pride. Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yetVanquish'd and captive-dost thou deem that here The glowing day-star of thy glory set

Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest-lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the lifeblood flowing fast

Of thy crush'd victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, [thers? And kill, old Turk! thy harmless, pale-faced broFor it was cruel, BLACK HAWK, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, To let thy tribe commit such fierce and utter Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. Though thine be old, hereditary hate,

Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until It had become a madness, 'tis too late

[will

To crush the hordes who have the power and To rob thee of thy hunting-grounds and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains. Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, [wonder; There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense

The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and widespread wings, That sweep the waters as birds sweep the sky; Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or, if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion? Thou'st seen our museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces?

Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away,
To the deep bosom of thy forest-home?
The hill-side, where thy young pappooses play,
And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come?
Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws

For their lost warrior loud upon thine ear,
Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,

That, yell'd at every corner, meet thee here? The wife who made that shell-deck'd wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her-and melt.

Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast
Of the caged bird against his prison-bars,
That thou, the crowned warrior of the West,
The victor of a hundred forest-wars,
Shouldst in thy age become a raree-show,

Led, like a walking bear, about the town,
A new-caught monster, who is all the go,

And stared at, gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?

Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came,

Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun,

And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral-pile Of a bound warrior in his agony,

Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's; Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.

Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree

Is blanch'd, and bare, and scar'd, and leafless I'll not insult its fallen majesty, [now. Nor drive,with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould,

Rich, warm, and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold,

New, barren earth; no life sustains it there, But, even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."

Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,

Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy; The best of blood glows in thy every feature, And thy curl'd lip speaks scorn for our democracy. Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;

Let him who doubts them meet thine eagle-eye, He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow

All question of thy noble family;

For thou mayst here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society.

TO A MUSQUITO.

His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.-King Lear.

THOU Sweet musician, that around my bed

Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, By what unseen and secret influence led,

Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn?
The wind-harp's tones are not more soft than thine,
The hum of falling waters not more sweet:
I own, indeed, I own thy song divine, [meet,
And when next year's warm summer nights we
(Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be
A patient listener to thy minstrelsy.

Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse
Such eloquent music? was't thy tuneful sire?
Some old musician? or didst take a course

Of lessons from some master of the lyre? Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump? Did NORTON form thy notes so clear and full? Art a phrenologist, and is the bump

Of song developed in thy little skull?
At NIBLO's hast thou been when crowds stood mute,
Drinking the birdlike tones of CUDDY's flute?

Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song.
Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer,
Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long,
Still night! With song dost drive away dull care?
Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver,

A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer,

Who thy advance with halfway shyness meets? Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, In maiden meditation, fancy free?"

Thou little siren, when the nymphs of yore

Charm'd with their songs till men forgot to dine, And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore, Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine. They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing As if to lull our senses to repose, That thou mayst use, unharm'd, thy little sting, The very moment we begin to doze; Thou worse than siren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper, Thou living vampire, and thou gallinipper!

Nature is full of music, sweetly sings

The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,) Through the wide circuit of created things,

Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. Nature is full of thee; on every shore,

'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, From warm Peru to icy Labrador,

The world's free citizen, thou roamest wild. Wherever" mountains rise or oceans roll," Thy voice is heard, from "Indus to the Pole."

The incarnation of Queen MAB art thou,

"The fairies' midwife;"-thou dost nightly sip, With amorous proboscis bending low,

The honey-dew from many a lady's lip(Though that they "straight on kisses dream," I doubt-)

On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout" "Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep; And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, "On the forefinger of an alderman."

Yet thou canst glory in a noble birth.

As rose the sea-born VENUS from the wave,
So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth,
The living water and the fresh air gave
A portion of their elements to create

Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there. So lean and gaunt, that economic fate

Meant thee to feed on music or on air.
Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee,
Thou living, singing, stinging atomy.

The hues of dying sunset are most fair,

And twilight's tints just fading into night, Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are

By far the sweetest when thou takest thy flight. The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; Sweet are the wind-harp's tones at distance heard; 'Tis sweet at distance, at the day's decline,

To hear the opening song of evening's bird. But notes of harp or bird at distance float Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note.

The autumn-winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge; Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom. Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge Whelms the toss'd mariner in its watery tomb: Then soar, and sing thy little life away!

Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. "Tis well to end in music life's last day,

Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou: For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, And pass away with autumn's dying flowers.

DOCTOR WARD was born at Newark, in New Jersey, on the eighth of June, 1807. His father, General THOMAS WARD, is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respectable citizens of that town; and has held various offices of public trust in his native state, and represented his district in the national Congress.

Doctor WARD received his classical education at the academies in Bloomfield and Newark, and the college at Princeton. He chose the profession of physic, and, after the usual preparation, obtained his degree of Doctor of Medicine in the spring of 1829, at the Rutgers Medical College, in New York. In the autumn of the same year he went to Paris, to avail himself of the facilities afforded in that capital for the prosecution of every branch of medical inquiry; and, after two years' absence, during which he accomplished the usual tour through Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and Great Britain, he returned to New York, and commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the course

of two or three years, however, he gradually withdrew from business, his circumstances permitting him to exchange devotion to his profession for the more congenial pursuits of literature and general knowledge. He is married, and still resides in New York; spending his summers, however, in his native city, and among the more romantic and beautiful scenes of New Jersey. His first literary efforts were brief satirical pieces, in verse and prose, published in a country gazette, in 1825 and 1826. It was not until after his return from Europe, when he adopted the signature of "FLACCUS," and began to write for the "New York American," that he attracted much attention. His principal work, "Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that River," appeared in 1841. It contains some fine descriptive passages, and its versification is generally correct and musical. "The Monomania of Money-getting," a satire, and many of his minor pieces, are more distinguished for vigour and sprightliness, than for mere poetical qualities.

MUSINGS ON RIVERS.

BEAUTIFUL rivers! that adown the vale With graceful passage journey to the deep, Let me along your grassy marge recline At ease, and musing, meditate the strange Bright history of your life; yes, from your birth, Has beauty's shadow chased your every step; The blue sea was your mother, and the sun Your glorious sire: clouds your voluptuous cradle, Roof'd with o'erarching rainbows; and your fall To earth was cheer'd with shout of happy birds, With brighten'd faces of reviving flowers And meadows, while the sympathising west Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. From deep, mysterious wanderings your springs Break bubbling into beauty; where they lie In infant helplessness a while, but soon Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks; Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood Rings with the boisterous glee; whileo'er their heads, Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, The frolic children of the wanton sun.

Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, Though calm, unlovely; still, where'er ye move, Your train is beauty; trees stand grouping by To mark your graceful progress: giddy flowers, And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge To greet their faces in your flattering glass; The thirsty herd are following at your side; And water-birds, in clustering fleets, convoy

40

Your sea-bound tides; and jaded man, released
From worldly thraldom, here his dwelling plants,
Here pauses in your pleasant neighbourhood,
Sure of repose along your tranquil shores.
And when your end approaches, and ye blend
With the eternal ocean, ye shall fade
As placidly as when an infant dies;
And the death-angel shall your powers withdraw
Gently as twilight takes the parting day,
And, with a soft and gradual decline
That cheats the senses, lets it down to night.
Bountiful rivers! not upon the earth

Is record traced of Gon's exuberant grace
So deeply graven as the channels worn
By ever-flowing streams: arteries of earth,
That, widely branching, circulate its blood:
Whose ever-throbbing pulses are the tides.
The whole vast enginery of Nature, all
The roused and labouring elements combine
In their production; for the mighty end
Is growth, is life to every living thing.
The sun himself is charter'd for the work:
His arm uplifts the main, and at his smile
The fluttering vapours take their flight for heaven,
Shaking the briny sea-dregs from their wings;
Here, wrought by unseen fingers, soon is wove
The cloudy tissue, till a mighty fleet,

Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores,
Floats waiting for the breeze; loosed on the sky
Rush the strong tempests, that, with sweeping
Impel the vast flotilla to its port; [breath
Where, overhanging wide the arid plain,
Drops the rich mercy down; and oft, when summer
Withers the harvest, and the lazy clouds
Drag idly at the bidding of the breeze,

New riders spur them, and enraged they rush, Bestrode by thunders, that, with hideous shouts And crackling thongs of fire, urge them along.

As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth
And all her race shed grateful smiles!-not here
The bounty ceases: when the drenching streams
Have, inly sinking, quench'd the greedy thirst
Of plants, of woods, some kind, invisible hand
In bright, perennial springs draws up again
For needy man and beast; and, as the brooks
Grow strong, apprenticed to the use of man,
The ponderous wheel they turn, the web to weave,
The stubborn metal forge; and, when advanced
To sober age at last, ye seek the sea,

Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs,
Ye seem the unpaid carriers of the sky
Vouchsafed to earth for burden; and your host
Of shining branches, linking land to land,
Seem bands of friendship-silver chains of love,
To bind the world in brotherhood and peace.

Back to the primal chaos fancy sweeps
To trace your dim beginning; when dull earth
Lay sunken low, one level, plashy marsh,
Girdled with mists; while saurian reptiles, strange,
Measureless monsters, through the cloggy plain
Paddled and flounder'd; and the Almighty voice,
Like silver trumpet, from their hidden dens
Summon'd the central and resistless fires,
That with a groan from pole to pole upheave
The mountain-masses, and, with dreadful rent,
Fracture the rocky crust; then Andes rose,
And Alps their granite pyramids shot up,
Barren of soil; but gathering vapours round
Their stony scalps, condensed to drops, from drops
To brooks, from brooks to rivers, which set out
Over that rugged and untravell❜d land,
The first exploring pilgrims, to the sea.
Tedious their route, precipitous and vague,
Seeking with humbleness the lowliest paths:
Oft shut in valleys deep, forlorn they turn
And find no vent; till, gather'd into lakes,
Topping the basin's brimming lip, they plunge
Headlong, and hurry to the level main,
Rejoicing: misty ages did they run,
And, with unceasing friction, all the while
Fritter'd to granular atoms the dense rock,
And ground it into soil-then dropp'd (O! sure
From heaven) the precious seed: first mosses, lichens
Seized on the sterile flint, and from their dust
Sprang herbs and flowers: last from the deepening

mould

Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree, And earth was fitted for her coming lord.

TO THE MAGNOLIA.

WHEN roaming o'er the marshy field,

Through tangled brake and treacherous slough, We start, that spot so foul should yield,

Chaste blossom! such a balm as thou. Such lavish fragrance there we meet, That all the dismal waste is sweet.

So, in the dreary path of life,

Through clogging toil and thorny care, Love rears his blossom o'er the strife,

Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there: Which pours such incense round the spot, His pains, his cares, are all forgot.

TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN.

THOU bright and star-like spirit!
That, in my visions wild,

I see mid heaven's seraphic host-
O! canst thou be my child?
My grief is quench'd in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.
Our hopes of thee were lofty,

But have we cause to grieve?
O! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper, tearless,

The sinner, snatch'd from sin;
The babe, to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin.

And I, thy earthly teacher,
Would blush thy powers to see;
Thou art to me a parent now,

And I, a child to thee!

Thy brain, so uninstructed

While in this lowly state, Now threads the mazy track of spheres, Or reads the book of fate.

Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision,

Now range the realms of space— Look down upon the rolling stars, Look up to Gon's own face.

Thy little hand, so helpless,

That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,
Or twangs a harp of gold.
Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That totter'd as they trod,
With angels walk the heavenly paths,
Or stand before their Gon.

Nor is thy tongue less skilful,
Before the throne divine

"T is pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she pray'd for thine.
What bliss is born of sorrow!
"T is never sent in vain-
The heavenly surgeon maims to save,
He gives no useless pain.
Our Gon, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down:

And now, still more to tempt our hearts,
Has taken up our own.

MR. LONGFELLOW was born in the city of Portland, in Maine, on the twenty-seventh of February, 1807. When fourteen years of age he entered Bowdoin College, where he was graduated in 1825. He soon after commenced the study of the law, but being appointed Professor of Modern Languages in the college in which he was educated, he in 1826 sailed for Europe to prepare himself for the duties of his office, and passed three years and a half visiting or residing in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland and England. When he returned he entered upon the labours of instruction, and in 1831 was married. The professorship of Modern Languages and Literatures in Harvard College was made vacant, in 1835, by the resignation of Mr. TICKNOR. Mr. LONGFELLOW, being elected his successor, resigned his place in Brunswick, and went a second time to Europe to make himself more thoroughly acquainted with the subjects of his studies in the northern nations. He passed the summer in Denmark and Sweden; the autumn and winter in Germany-losing in that period his wife, who died suddenly at Heidelberg-and the following spring and summer in the Tyrol and Switzerland. He returned to the United States in October, 1836, and immediately entered upon his duties at Cambridge, where he has resided ever since, except during a visit to Europe for the restoration of his health, in 1843.

The earliest of LONGFELLOW's metrical compositions were written for "The United States Literary Gazette," printed in Boston, while he was an under-graduate; and from that period he has been known as a poet, and his effusions, improving as each year added to his scholarship and taste, have been extensively read and adinired. During his subsequent residence in Brunswick he wrote several of the most elegant and judicious papers that have appeared in the "North American Review;" made a translation of Coplas de Manrique; and published "Outre Mer, or a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea," a collection of agreeable tales and sketches, chiefly written during his first residence abroad. In 1839 appeared his "Hyperion," a romance, which contains passages of remarkable beauty, but has little dramatic or narrative interest.

The first collection of his poems was published in 1839, under the title of " Voices of the Night." His "Ballads and other Poems" followed in 1841; "The Spanish Student, a Play," in 1843; "Poems on Slavery," in 1844, and a complete edition of his poetical writings, excepting some early effusions and the lyrical pieces on slavery, in a large octavo volume, illustrated with engravings by J. CHENEY, from original pictures by HUNGTINGTON, in 1845.

LONGFELLOW's most considerable poem is the "Children of the Lord's Supper," translated from the Swedish of ESAIAS TEGNER, a venerable bishop of

the Lutheran church, and the most illustrious poet of northern Europe. The genius of TEGNER had already been made known in this country by a learned and elaborate criticism, illustrated by translated passages of great beauty, from his "Frithiof's Saga," contributed by LONGFELLOW to the "North American Review," soon after he returned from his second visit to Europe. The "Children of the Lord's Supper" is little less celebrated than the author's great epic, and the English version is a singularly exact reproduction of it, in form and spirit. No translations from the continental languages into the English surpass those of LONGFELLOW, and it is questionable whether some of his versions from the Spanish, German and Swedish, have been equalled. The rendition of the "Children of the Lord's Supper" was among the most difficult tasks to be undertaken, as spondaic words, necessary in the construction of hexameters, and common in the Greek, Latin and Swedish, are so rare in the English language. "The Skeleton in Armour" is the longest and most unique of his original poems. The Copenhagen antiquaries attribute the erection of a round tower at Newport, in Rhode Island, to the Scandinavians of the twelfth century. A few years ago a skeleton in complete armour was exhumed in the vicinity of the tower. These facts are the groundwork of the story.

Soon after the appearance of the first edition of this work, I suggested to the late Mr. CAREY, the publisher, widely known for his taste in art and literature, that a series of such volumes, embracing surveys and specimens of the poetry and prose of different countries, would be valuable and popular; and among the results of various conversations on the subject, was a request to Mr. LONGFELLOW to prepare 66 The Poets and Poetry of Europe." He acceded, and in the summer of 1845 finished and gave to the press the most comprehensive, complete, and accurate review of the poetry of the continental nations that has ever appeared in any language.

Of all our poets LONGFELLOW best deserves the title of artist. He has studied the principles of verbal melody, and rendered himself master of the mysterious affinities which exist between sound and sense, word and thought, feeling and expression. This tact in the use of language is probably the chief cause of his success. There is an aptitude, a gracefulness, and vivid beauty, in many of his stanzas, which at once impress the memory and win the ear and heart. There is in the tone of his poetry little passion, but much quiet earnestness. It is not so much the power of the instrument, as the skill with which it is managed, that excites our sympathy. His acquaintance with foreign literature has been of great advantage, by rendering him familiar with all the delicate capacities of lan