THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. AMONG our hills and valleys, I have known Tended or gather'd in the fruits of earth, One such I knew long since, a white-hair'd man, The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, 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, On the young grass. My heart was touch'd with joy, At so much beauty, flushing every hour "Well may'st thou join in gladness," he replied, 66 With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers, And this soft wind, the herald of the green, 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 "There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type By swiftly-running waters hurried on And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear "Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, 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 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, From an unfinished poem. Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, O thou great Movement of the universe, men Which, who can bear?-or the fierce rack of pain, Or do the portals of another life, At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms 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. 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; 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 A friendless warfare! lingering long 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, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, And to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, And from the shrubs the jay, Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, In brighter light and softer airs, With the fair and good of ours. But the cold November rain The wind-flower and the violet, They perish'd long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died, But on the hill the golden-rod, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, And the brightness of their smile was gone, And now, when comes the calm, mild day, To call the squirrel and the bee From out their winter home; 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, In the cold, moist earth we laid her, 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; Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's 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 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, 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, 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 Forever in thy colour'd shades to stray; Amid the kisses of the soft southwest And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad; the tug for wealth and power, 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.‡ "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 And one might think, who saw his outstretch'd hands, That something more than soldiers e'er may feel, |