Thus broke ambition's trumpet-note On Visions wild, Yet blithesome as this river On which the smiling moon-beams float, That thus have there for ages smiled, And will thus smile forever. And now no more the fresh green-wood, And leafy domes above them bent, So eloquent! Mocking the varied skill that's blent No more can soothe my soul to sleep Their verdant passes through, When fresh the dun-deer leaves his scent The game's afoot!-and let the chase And wave death's pageant o'er me— Is glancing bright before me! Which taught the haunter of EGERIA's grove And lower, for awhile, his conquering lance A voice whose influence all, at times, have felt Do clashing meet Around the land: It whispers me that soon-too soon Of fruitless toil, And ills alike by thousands shared, Of which each year some link is made To add to "mortal coil:" And yet its strange prophetic tone So faintly murmurs to my soul The fate to be my own, That all of these may be Reserved for me Ere manhood's early years can o'er me roll. Yet why, While Hope so jocund singeth And with her plumes the gray-beard's arrow wingeth, Should I Think only of the barb it bringeth? Though every dream deceive That to my youth is dearest, Until my heart they leave Like forest leaf when searest Yet still, mid forest leaves, Where now Its tissue thus my idle fancy weaves, Still with heart new-blossoming While leaves, and buds, and wild flowers spring, At Nature's shrine I'll bow; Nor seek in vain that truth in her Since that time Mr. HOFFMAN has devoted his attention almost constantly to literature. While connected with the 66 American," he published a series of brilliant articles in that paper, under the signature of a star (*), which attracted much attention. In 1833, for the benefit of his health, he left New York on a travelling tour for the "far west," and his letters, written during his absence, were also first published in that popular journal. They were afterward included in his "Winter in the West," of which the first impression appeared in New York, in 1834, and the second, soon after, in London. This work has passed through many editions, and it will continue to be popular so long as graphic descriptions of scenery and character, and richness and purity of style, are admired. His next work, entitled "Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie," was first printed in 1837, and, like its predecessor, it contains many admirable pictures of scenery, inwoven with legends of the western country, and descriptive poetry. This was followed by a romance, entitled Greyslaer," founded upon the famous criminal trial of BEAUCHAMP, for the murder of Colonel SHARPE, the Solicitor-General of Kentucky,-the particulars of which, softened away in the novel, are minutely detailed in the appendix to his "Winter in the West." Greyslaer" was a successful novel-two editions having appeared in the author's native city, one in Philadelphia, and a fourth in London, in the same year. It placed him in the front rank of American novelists. He describes in it, with remarkable felicity, American forest-life, and savage warfare, and gives a truer idea of the border contests of the Revolution than any formal history of the period that has been published. The Knickerbocker magazine was first issued under the editorial auspices of Mr. HOFFMAN. He subsequently became the proprietor of the American Monthly Magazine, (one of the ablest literary periodicals ever published in this country,) and during the long term of which he was the chief editor of this journal, he also, for one year, conducted the New York Mirror, for its proprietor, and wrote a series of zealous papers in favour of international copyright, for the New Yorker, the Corsair, and other journals. The poems which follow are but a small portion of those which Mr. HoFFMAN has written; but they are nearly all that I have been able to collect from the magazines and gazettes in my possession. He has permitted them to have their periodical career in the journals, under a variety of unique signatures of his own invention, and the names of popular foreign authors, unclaimed, and by himself unvalued. The poetry of Mr. HOFFMAN is graceful and fanciful. No American is comparable to him as a song-writer. Although some of his pieces are exquisitely finished, they have all evidently been thrown off without labour, in moments of feeling. A few of his pieces, in which he has copied the style of "the old and antique song," are equal to the richest melodies of the time of HERRICK and WALLER. MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDson. WRITTEN AT WEST POINT. I'm not romantic, but, upon my word, There are some moments when one can't help As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirr'd And even here, upon this settee lying, With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying, Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever? Bright Dian, who, Camilla-like, dost skim yon Tell me where'er thy silver bark be steering, Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands; Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover, A lovelier stream than this the wide world over? And sights and sounds at which the world have wonder'd Within these wild ravines have had their birth; Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thunder'd, And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth; And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary But treasures up within the glorious story. And yet not rich in high-soul'd memories only, Is every moon-kiss'd headland round gleaming, Each cavern'd glen and leafy valley lonely, me And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground. Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night— Thou that to love so oft has lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languish'd 'neath thy light, Or fiery ROMEO to his JULIET stoleWhere dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth? O, loiter not upon that fairy shore, To watch the lazy barks in distance glide, When sunset brightens on their sails no more, And stern-lights twinkle in the dusky tideLoiter not there, young heart, at that soft hour, What time the bird of night proclaims love's power. Even as I gaze upon my memory's track, Doth Achelöus or Araxes, flowing brothers 'Doth Tagus, o'er his golden pavement glowing, Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers, The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver-Match they in beauty my own glorious river? What though no cloister gray nor ivied column Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear? What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn Of despots tell and superstition hereWhat though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls Did ne'er enclose a baron's banner'd halls Its sinking arches once gave back as proud When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day Call'd forth chivalric host to battle-fray: For here amid these woods did he keep court, Before whose mighty soul the common crowd Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, Are like the patriarch's sheaves to Heaven's chosen bow'd He who his country's eagle taught to soar, The hour is his-and, while his hopes are soaring, Doubts he that maiden will become his bride? Can she resist that gush of wild adoring, Fresh from a heart full-volumed as the tide? Tremulous, but radiant is that peerless daughter Of loveliness-as is the star-paved water! The moist leaves glimmer as they glimmer'd thenAlas! how oft have they been since renew'd! How oft the whip-poor-will from yonder glen Each year has whistled to her callow brood! How oft have lovers by yon star's same beam Dream'd here of bliss-and waken'd from their dream! But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending, Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride. Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting: While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver, As of the good when heavenward hence departing, CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. THAW-KING'S VISIT TO NEW YORK. Then hies to the wharves, where the hawser binds Th' Idalian nymphs were wont to wear. With twinkling foot and ankle trim. And he practised many an idle freak, As he lounged the morning through; sprung the frozen gutters aleak, He For want of aught else to do, And left them black as the libeller's ink, He sees a beggar gaunt and grim Arouse a miser's choler, And he laughs while he melts the soul of him And he thinks how small a heaven 't would take, And now, as the night falls chill and gray, And left him alone to gas and gloom, Music and mirth were gayly mingled; And groups like hues in one bright flower, And thrusts at a dandy's heart; On a pedant, to try his art; y lore that envelopes the man of must. To melt the heart of a belle; And her queen-like step as she trod the floor, And his wits were put to rout, He thaw'd these verses out: They are mockery all-these skies, these skies- They are mockery all-those eyes, those eyes, The other's lashes through; They are mockery all, these flowers of spring, And the love to which we would madly cling, The winds are false which the perfume stir, WRITTEN IN A LADY'S PRAYER-BOOK. THY thoughts are heavenward! and thy heart, And owns the impress of a Saviour's love! Requite them now! not with an earthly love; But since with that his lot thou mayst not bless— TO A BELLE WHO TALKED OF GIVING UP THE WORLD. You give up the world! why, as well might the sun, When tired of drinking the dew from the flowers, While his rays, like young hopes, stealing off one by one, [towers, Die away with the Muezzin's last note from the Declare that he never would gladden again, With one rosy smile, the young morn in its birthBut leave weeping Day, with her sorrowful train Of hours, to grope o'er a pall-cover'd earth. The light of that soul, once so brilliant and steady, So far can the incense of flattery smother, That, at thought of the world of hearts conquer'd already : Like Macedon's madman, you weep for another? O! if sated with this, you would seek worlds untried, And, fresh as was ours, when first we began it, Let me know but the sphere where you next will abide, And, that instant, for one, I am off for that planet. THE BOB-O'LINKUM. THOU Vocal sprite! thou feather'd troubadour! And play in foppish trim the masquing stranger? Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature; But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, The schoolboy best hath fix'd thy nomenclature, And poets, too, must call thee Bob O'Linkum! Say! art thou, long mid forest glooms benighted, So glad to skim our laughing meadows over, With our gay orchards here so much delighted, It makes thee musical, thou airy rover ? Or are those buoyant notes the pilfer'd treasure Of fairy isles, which thou hast learn'd to ravish Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure, And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish? They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks; Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges; And even in a brace of wandering weeks, They say, alike thy song and plumage changes: Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth, And leafy June is shading rock and river, Thou art unmatch'd, blithe warbler of the north, When through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver. Joyous, yet tender, was that gush of song Caught from the brooks, where, mid its wildflowers smiling, The silent prairie listens all day long, The only captive to such sweet beguiling; Learn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals, Caught'st thou thy carol from Otawa maid, Where, through the liquid fields of wild rice plashing, Brushing the ears from off the burden'd blade, Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing? Or did the reeds of some savannah south Detain thee while thy northern flight pursuing, To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing? Unthrifty prodigal! is no thought of ill Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever? Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence stillThrob on in music till at rest forever? Yet, now in wilder'd maze of concord floating, "T would seem that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time, in hearing thee, might fall a doting, And pause to listen to thy rapturous song! THE FORESTER. THERE was an old hunter camp'd down by the rill, overhead; The branches of hemlock, piled deep on the floor, Was his bed, as he sung, when the daylight was o'er, "The world's wide enough, there is room for us all; Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall." Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room? That spring, half choked up by the dust of the road, Through a grove of tall maples once limpidly flow'd; By the rock whence it bubbles his kettle was hung, Which their sap often fill'd, while the hunter he sung, The world's wide enough, there is room for us all; Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall." Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room? And still sung the hunter-when one gloomy day He saw in the forest what sadden'd his lay, 'Twas the rut which a heavy-wheel'd wagon had [forest glade, made, Where the greensward grows thick in the broad "The world's wide enough, there is room for us all; Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall." Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room? He whistled his dog, and says he, "We can't stay; I must shoulder my rifle, up traps, and away." Next day, mid those maples, the settler's axe rung, While slowly the hunter trudged off, as he sung, "The world's wide enough, there is room for us all; Room enough in the greenwood, if not in the hall." Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon, For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room? CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. THE MYRTLE AND STEEL. ONE bumper yet, gallants, at parting, The entwining of myrtle and steel! Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, 'Tis in moments like this, when each bosom With its highest-toned feeling is warm, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Now mount, for our bugle is ringing When your sabres the death-blow would deal, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, EPITAPH UPON A DOG. AN ear that caught my slightest tone, Can such in endless sleep be chill'd, And mortal pride disdain to sorrow, Because the pulse that here was still'd May wake to no immortal morrow? Can faith, devotedness, and love, That seem to humbler creatures given To tell us what we owe above, The types of what is due to Heaven,Can these be with the things that were, Things cherish'd-but no more returning, And leave behind no trace of care, No shade that speaks a moment's mourning? Alas! my friend, of all of worth That years have stolen or years yet leave me, I've never known so much on earth, But that the loss of thine must grieve me. ANACREONTIC. BLAME not the bowl-the fruitful bowl, To bathe young Love's delighted wing. Makes rigid age so lithe of limb? And teaches drowning hope to swim? To earth another VENUS give, Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard, Brings all their hidden warmth to lightAre feelings bright, which, in the cup, Though graven deep, appear but dim, Till, fill'd with glowing BACCHUS up, They sparkle on the foaming brim. Each drop upon the first you pour Brings some new tender thought to life, And, as you fill it more and more, The last with fervid soul is rife. The island fount, that kept of old Its fabled path beneath the sea, And fresh, as first from earth it roll'd, From earth again rose joyously: Bore not beneath the bitter brine Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine Our hearts toward each other glide. Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, Truth beaming at the bottom lies. A HUNTER'S MATIN. The curlew's wing hath swept the lake, To drink from the limpid tide. Is rock'd on the swaying trees, And our stalwart hounds impatient wait |