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THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL.

AMONG our hills and valleys, I have known
Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent
hands

Tended or gather'd in the fruits of earth,
Were reverent learners in the solemn school
Of Nature. Not in vain to them were sent
Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower
That darken'd the brown tilth, or snow that beat
On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn,
Some truth; some lesson on the life of man,
Or recognition of the Eternal Mind,
Who veils his glory with the elements.

One such I knew long since, a white-hair'd man,
Pithy of speech, and merry when he would;
A genial optimist, who daily drew
From what he saw his quaint moralities.
Kindly he held communion, though so old,
With me, a dreaming boy, and taught me much,
That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget.

The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,
And steep'd the sprouting forests, the green hills,
And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.
Upon the apple tree, where rosy buds
Stood cluster'd, ready to burst forth in bloom,
The robin warbled forth his full, clear note
For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,
Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce

cast

A shade, gay circles of anemones

Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers,

Brighten'd the glens; the new-leaved butternut,
And quivering poplar, to the roving breeze
Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields,
I saw the pulses of the gentle wind

On the young grass. My heart was touch'd with joy,

At so much beauty, flushing every hour
Into a fuller beauty; but my friend,
The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side,
Gazed on it mildly sad. I ask'd him why.

"Well may'st thou join in gladness," he replied,

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With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers,

And this soft wind, the herald of the green,
Luxuriant summer. Thou art young, like them,
And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight
Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame,
It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims
These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be
quench'd

In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?"

I listen'd, and from midst the depth of woods Heard the low signal of the grouse, that wears A sable ruff around his mottled neck: Partridge they call him by our northern streams, And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 'Gainst his barr'd sides his speckled wings, and made

A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes

At first, then fast and faster, till at length
They pass'd into a murmur, and were still.

"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type
Of human life. "T is an old truth, I know,
But images like these will freshen truth.
Slow pass our days in childhood, every day
Seems like a century; rapidly they glide
In manhood, and in life's decline they fly;
Till days and seasons flit before the mind
As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm,
Seen rather than distinguish'd. Ah! I seem
As if I sat within a helpless bark,

By swiftly-running waters hurried on
To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks
Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock,
Bare sands, and pleasant homesteads; flowery
nooks,

And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear
Each after each; but the devoted skiff
Darts by so swiftly, that their images
Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell
In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep
By other banks, and the great gulf is near.

"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And this fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield-
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts,
And kind affections, reverence for thy Gon,
And for thy brethren; so, when thou shalt come
Into these barren years that fleet away
Before their fruits are ripe, thou mayst not bring
A mind unfurnish'd, and a wither'd heart."

Long since that white-hair'd ancient slept-but still,

When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough,

And the ruff'd grouse is drumming far within
The woods, his venerable form again
Is at my side, his voice is in my ear.

AN EVENING REVERIE.*

THE summer day has closed-the sun is set: Well have they done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out

In the red west. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropp'd it; the young

twig

Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun;

Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown,
And wither'd; seeds have fallen upon the soil
From bursting cells, and in their graves await
Their resurrection. Insects from the pools
Have fill'd the air a while with humming wings,
That now are still forever; painted moths
Have wander'd the blue sky, and died again;
The mother-bird hath broken, for her brood
Their prison-shells, or shoved them from the nest,

From an unfinished poem.

Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves,
In woodland cottages with barky walls,
In noisome cells of the tumultuous town,
Mothers have clasp'd with joy the new-born babe.
Graves, by the lonely forest, by the shore
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways
Of the throng'd city, have been hollow'd out,
And fill'd, and closed. This day hath parted friends,
That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit
New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight
Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long
Hath woo'd; and it hath heard, from lips which late
Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word,
That told the wedded one her peace was flown.
Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad day
Is added now to childhood's merry days,
And one calm day to those of quiet age.
Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit
By those who watch the dead, and those who twine
Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes
Of her sick infant shades the painful light,
And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath.

O thou great Movement of the universe,
Or Change, or Flight of Time-for ye are one!
That bearest, silently, this visible scene
Into Night's shadow, and the streaming rays
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me?
I feel the mighty current sweep me on,
Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar
The courses of the stars; the very hour
He knows when they shall darken or grow bright:
Yet doth the eclipse of sorrow and of death
Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love,
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall
From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife
With friends, or shame, and general scorn of

men

Which, who can bear?-or the fierce rack of pain,
Lie they within my path? Or shall the years
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace,
Into the stilly twilight of my age?

Or do the portals of another life,
Even now, while I am glorying in my strength,
Impend around me? O! beyond that bourne,
In the vast cycle of being, which begins

At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms
Shall the great law of change and progress clothe
Its workings? Gently-so have good men taught
Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide
Into the new, the eternal flow of things,
Like a bright river of the fields of heaven,
Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.

HYMN OF THE CITY.

Nor in the solitude

Alone, may man commune with Heaven, or see Only in savage wood

And sunny vale, the present Deity;

Or only hear his voice

Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

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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 WINDS.

YE winds, ye unseen currents of the air,

Softly ye play'd a few brief hours ago; Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye toss'd the hair O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow; Ye roll'd the round, white cloud through depths of blue;

Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew; Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew,

Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound, Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might; The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. The clouds before you sweep like eagles past; The homes of men are rocking in your blast; Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast,

Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, To scape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain;

The harvest field becomes a river's bed;
And torrents tumble from the hills around,
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drown'd,
And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound,
Rise, as the rushing floods close over head.

Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard
A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray;
Ye fling its waters round you, as a bird

Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's

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Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. O, ye wild winds! a mightier power than yours In chains upon the shores of Europe lies; The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes: And armed warriors all around him stand, And, as he struggles, tighten every band, And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. Yet, O, when that wrong'd spirit of our race, Shall break as soon he must, his long-worn chains, And leap in freedom from his prison-place,

Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, To waste the loveliness that time could spare, To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair Unconscious breast with blood from human veins.

But may he, like the spring-time, come abroad, Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, When in the genial breeze, the breath of Gon,

Come spouting up the unseal'd springs to light; Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.

AUTUMN WOODS.

ERE, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of autumn, all around our vale
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold,

In their wide sweep, the colour'd landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, Where the gay company of trees look down

On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-colour'd foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseat canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

O, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad?
Ah! 't were a lot too bless'd

Forever in thy colour'd shades to stray;

Amid the kisses of the soft southwest
To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife

That makes men mad; the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.

JOHN NEAL.

[Born about 1794.]

JOHN NEAL is now, probably, not far from fortyseven years old. He is a native of Portland, in Maine, where he passed his early years. In 1815, he went to Baltimore, and was there, for a time, associated with JoAN PIERPONT in mercantile transactions; but these resulting disastrously, he turned his attention to literature, commencing his career by writing for "The Portico," a monthly magazine, a series of critical essays, on the works of Lord BYRON. In 1818, he published "Keep Cool, a Novel," and in the following year "The Battle of Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other Poems, by Jehu O'Cataract,"* and "Otho, a Tragedy." He also wrote a large portion of "Allen's History of the American Revolution," which appeared early in 1821. In 1822, he published, in Philadelphia, "Logan, a Novel," which was reprinted soon after in London, in four volumes. This was followed, in 1823, by "Seventy-six," the most popular of his fictions; "Randolph," a story which attracted considerable attention at the time, from the fact that it contained notices of the most prominent politicians, authors, and artists then in this country; and "Errata, or the Works of Will Adams."

Near the close of 1823, Mr. NEAL went to England. Soon after his arrival in that country, he wrote for Blackwood's Magazine "Sketches of the five American Presidents, and the five Candidates for the Presidency," an article which was republished in many of the foreign and American periodicals. To correct the erroneous opinions which he found to be prevalent in regard to this country, he contributed to Blackwood's, and other British magazines, under the guise of an Englishman, numerous articles on the political and social condition of the United States, which attracted considerable attention, and led to his introduction

to many distinguished men, among whom was JEREMY BENTHAM. His acquaintance with this distinguished philosopher, it is said, had much influence on his subsequent conduct and opinions.

After passing four years in Great Britain and France, and publishing, besides his papers in the periodicals, the novel entitled "Brother Jonathan," Mr. NEAL returned to his native city of Portland, where he has since resided. The year after his return, he published "Rachel Dyer," a novel, and he has since that time given to the world "Authorship," "The Down Easters," and "Bentham's Morals and Legislation." He also conducted for two years "The Yankee," a weekly gazette, and he has written much in other periodicals.

Mr. NEAL is a man of uncommon natural abilities; and had he been thoroughly educated, he might have won an enduring and enviable reputation as an author. His works contain many brilliant passages, but they are written too carelessly, and with too little regard to the rules of art, to be long remembered.

I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the rapidity with which he throws off his compositions. When he lived in Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of PIERPONT, and read to him a poem which he had just completed. The author of "The Airs of Palestine" was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed out the faults of the performance. NEAL promised to revise it, and submit it again on the following morning. At the appointed time he repaired to the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new poem, of three or four hundred lines; he had tried to improve his first attempt, but failing to do so, had chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced an entirely new work, before he retired to sleep. True poetry is never so written.

THE SOLDIER'S VISIT TO HIS FAMILY.‡
AND there the stranger stays: beneath that oak,
Whose shatter'd majesty hath felt the stroke
Of heaven's own thunder-yet it proudly heaves
A giant sceptre, wreathed with blasted leaves,-

"JEHU O'CATARACT" was the name given to NEAL by the Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which PAUL ALLEN, Gen. BYND, the Rev. JOHN PIERPONT, Judge BRECKENRIDGE, NEAL, and other distinguished men, were then members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara was published in 1819, and for "JEHU O'CATARACT" was substituted "JOHN NEAL."

In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. NEAL says he wrote "Randolph" in thirty-six days, with an interval of about a week between the two volumes, in which he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine days; and "Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During this time he was engaged in professional business, and they were written in the leisure and idle hours of a lawyer. From "The Battle of Niagara."

As though it dared the elements, and stood
The guardian of that cot, the monarch of that wood.
Beneath its venerable vault he stands:

And one might think, who saw his outstretch'd hands,

That something more than soldiers e'er may feel,
Had touch'd him with its holy, calm appeal:
That yonder wave-the heaven-the earth-the air
Had call'd upon his spirit for her prayer.
His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene:
The oak-the cot-the wood-the faded green-
The moon-the sky-the distant moving light-
All, all are gathering on his dampen'd sight.
His warrior helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade
Beneath a window on the turf are laid;
The panes are ruddy through the clambering vines
And blushing leaves, that summer intertwines
In warmer tints than e'er luxuriant spring,
O'er flower-imbosom'd roof led wandering.

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