THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY.

SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose
By the warm skies and winds of June forsaken;
Or like the sun, when dimm'd with clouds it goes
To its clear ocean-bed, by light winds shaken:
Or like the moon, when through its robes of snow
It smiles with angel meekness-or like sorrow
When it is soothed by resignation's glow,

Or like herself,-she will be dead to-morrow.

How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl! And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl

That floats around her; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam,

Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted!

O, bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye
To look upon so fair a type of heaven;
She could not dwell beneath a winter sky,

And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, And now she lies in ruins-look and weep!

How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow.

TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN.

GRAVE of waters gone to rest!
Jewel, dazzling all the main !
Father of the silver crest!

Wandering on the trackless plain,
Sleeping mid the wavy roar,

Sailing mid the angry storm, Ploughing ocean's oozy floor,

Piling to the clouds thy form! Wandering monument of rain,

Prison'd by the sullen north!
But to melt thy hated chain,

Is it that thou comest forth?
Wend thee to the sunny south,
To the glassy summer sea,
And the breathings of her mouth
Shall unchain and gladden thee!

Roamer in the hidden path,

'Neath the green and clouded wave! Trampling in thy reckless wrath,

On the lost, but cherish'd brave; Parting love's death-link'd embraceCrushing beauty's skeletonTell us what the hidden race

With our mourned lost have done!

Floating isle, which in the sun
Art an icy coronal;
And beneath the viewless dun,
Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall;
Shining death upon the sea!

Wend thee to the southern main; Warm skies wait to welcome thee! Mingle with the wave again!

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

WHEN the summer sun was in the west,
Its crimson radiance fell,

Some on the blue and changeful sea,

And some in the prisoner's cell. And then his eye with a smile would beam, And the blood would leave his brain, And the verdure of his soul return, Like sere grass after rain!

But when the tempest wreathed and spread A mantle o'er the sun,

He gather'd back his woes again,

And brooded thereupon;

And thus he lived, till Time one day
Led Death to break his chain:
And then the prisoner went away,
And he was free again!

TO A WAVE.

LIST! thou child of wind and sea,
Tell me of the far-off deep,
Where the tempest's breath is free,
And the waters never sleep!
Thou perchance the storm hast aided,
In its work of stern despair,
Or perchance thy hand hath braided,
In deep caves, the mermaid's hair.

Wave! now on the golden sands,
Silent as thou art, and broken,
Bear'st thou not from distant strands
To my heart some pleasant token?
Tales of mountains of the south,
Spangles of the ore of silver;
Which, with playful singing mouth,

Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer?
Mournful wave! I deem'd thy song

Was telling of a floating prison, Which, when tempests swept along, And the mighty winds were risen, Founder'd in the ocean's grasp.

While the brave and fair were dying, Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds, as thou wert flying?

Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock

Where the pride of kings reposes, Crown'd with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire, green, and roses!

Or with joyous, playful leap,

Hast thou been a tribute flinging,

Up that bold and jutty steep,

Pearls upon the south wind stringing?

Faded Wave! a joy to thee,
Now thy flight and toil are over!
O, may my departure be

Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover!
When this soul's last pain or mirth

On the shore of time is driven,
Be its lot like thine on earth,
To be lost away in heaven!

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

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

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 poems, are more distinguished for vigour than for melody, though he rarely violates the rules of metre.

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 spaceLook down upon the rolling stars, Look up to God'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 GoD.

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 GoD, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down:

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

JOHN HOWARD BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, on the twenty-second day of July, 1807. His youth was passed principally in rural occupations, and in attending the district and other schools, until he was nineteen years of age, when he began to study the Latin language, with a view of entering one of the colleges. In 1826, he wrote the first poem of which he retained any copy. This was entitled "My Native Village," and first appeared in the "United States Review and Literary Gazette," a periodical published simultaneously at New York and Boston, of which his brother, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, was one of the editors. It is included in the present collection. After this he gave up the idea of a university education, and placed himself for a while at the Rensselaer School at Troy, under the superintendance of Professor EATON. He subsequently applied himself to the study of the mathematical and natural sciences, under different instructors, and in his intervals of leisure produced several poems, which were published in the gazettes.

In April, 1831, he went to Jacksonville, in Illinois; and in September of the next year went to Princeton, in the same state, where he sat himself down as a squatter, or inhabitant of the public lands not yet ordered to be sold by the government. When the lands came into the market, he purchased a farm, bordering on one of the fine groves of that country. He was married in 1833. He accepted soon afterward two or three public offices, one of which was that of Recorder of Bureau county; but afterward resigned them, and devoted himself to agricultural pursuits. Of his poems, part were written in Massachusetts, and part in Illinois. They have the same general characteristics as those of his brother. He is a lover of nature, and describes minutely and effectively. To him the wind and the streams are ever musical, and the forests and the prairies clothed in beauty. His versification is easy and correct, and his writings show him to be a man of refined taste and kindly feelings, and to have a mind stored with the best learning.

THE NEW ENGLAND PILGRIM'S FUNERAL.

It was a wintry scene,

The hills were whiten'd o'er,

And the chill north winds were blowing keen
Along the rocky shore.

Gone was the wood-bird's lay,
That the summer forest fills,

And the voice of the stream has pass'd away
From its path among the hills.

And the low sun coldly smiled
Through the boughs of the ancient wood,
Where a hundred souls, sire, wife, and child,
Around a coffin stood.

They raised it gently up,
And, through the untrodden snow,

They bore it away, with a solemn step,
To a woody vale below.

And grief was in each eye,
As they moved towards the spot.
And brief, low speech, and tear and sigh
Told that a friend was not.

When they laid his cold corpse low
In its dark and narrow cell,
Heavy the mingled earth and snow
Upon his coffin fell.

Weeping, they pass'd away,
And left him there alone,

With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, But the mossy forest-stone.

When the winter storms were gone
And the strange birds sung around,
Green grass and violets sprung upon
That spot of holy ground.

And o'er him giant trees
Their proud arms toss'd on high,
And rustled music in the breeze
That wander'd through the sky.

When these were overspread
With the hues that Autumn gave,
They bow'd them in the wind, and shed
Their leaves upon his grave.

These woods are perish'd now,
And that humble grave forgot,

And the yeoman sings, as he drives his plough O'er that once sacred spot.

Two centuries are flown

Since they laid his cold corpse low,

And his bones are moulder'd to dust, and strown To the breezes long ago.

And they who laid him there,
That sad and suffering train,

Now sleep in dust,-to tell us where
No letter'd stones remain.

Their memory remains,

And ever shall remain,

More lasting than the aged fanes

Of Egypt's storied plain.

A RECOLLECTION.

HERE tread aside, where the descending brook Pays a scant tribute to the mightier stream, And all the summer long, on silver feet, Glides lightly o'er the pebbles, sending out A mellow murmur on the quiet air. Just up this narrow glen, in yonder glade Set, like a nest amid embowering trees, Where the green grass, fresh as in early spring, Spreads a bright carpet o'er the hidden soil, Lived, in my early days, an humble pair, A mother and her daughter. She, the dame, Had well nigh seen her threescore years and ten. Her step was tremulous; slight was her frame, And bow'd with time and toil; the lines of care Were deep upon her brow. At shut of day I've met her by the skirt of this old wood, Alone, and faintly murmuring to herself, Haply, the history of her better days.

I knew that history once, from youth to age:-
It was a sad one; he who wedded her

Had wrong'd her love, and thick the darts of death
Had fallen among her children and her friends.
One solace for her age remained,—a fair
And gentle daughter, with blue, pensive eyes,
And cheeks like summer roses. Her sweet songs
Rang like the thrasher's warble in these woods,
And up the rocky dells. At noon and eve,
Her walk was o'er the hills, and by the founts
Of the deep forest. Oft she gather'd flowers
In lone and desolate places, where the foot
Of other wanderers but seldom trod.
Once, in my boyhood, when my truant steps
Had led me forth among the pleasant hills,
I met her in a shaded path, that winds flow,
Far through the spreading groves. The sun was
The shadow of the hills stretch'd o'er the vale,
And the still waters of the river lay
Black in the early twilight. As we met,
She stoop'd and press'd her friendly lips to mine,
And, though I then was but a simple child,
Who ne'er had dream'd of love, nor knew its power,
I wonder'd at her beauty. Soon a sound
Of thunder, muttering low, along the west,
Foretold a coming storm; my homeward path
Lay through the woods, tangled with undergrowth.
A timid urchin then, I fear'd to go,
Which she observing, kindly led the way,
And left me when my dwelling was in sight.
I hasten'd on; but, ere I reach'd the gate,
The rain fell fast, and the drench'd fields around
Were glittering in the lightning's frequent flash.
But where was now ELIZA? When the morn
Blush'd on the summer hills, they found her dead,
Beneath an oak, rent by the thunderbolt.
Thick lay the splinters round, and one sharp shaft
Had pierced hersnow-white brow. And here she lies,
Where the green hill slopes toward the southern sky.
"Tis thirty summers since they laid her here;
The cottage where she dwelt is razed and gone;
Her kindred all are perish'd from the earth,
And this rude stone, that simply bears her name,
Is mouldering fast; and soon this quiet spot,
Held sacred now, will be like common ground.

Fit place is this for so much loveliness To find its rest. It is a hallow'd shrine, Where nature pays her tribute. Dewy spring Sets the gay wild flowers thick around her grave; The green boughs o'er her, in the summer-time, Sigh to the winds; the robin takes his perch Hard by, and warbles to his sitting mate; The brier-rose blossoms to the sky of June, And hangs above her in the winter days Its scarlet fruit. No rude foot ventures near; The noisy schoolboy keeps aloof, and he Who hunts the fox, when all the hills are white, Here treads aside. Not seldom have I found, Around the head-stone carefully entwined, Garlands of flowers, I never knew by whom. For two years past I've miss'd them; doubtless one Who held this dust most precious, placed them there, And, sorrowing in secret many a year,

At last hath left the earth to be with her.

MY NATIVE VILLAGE.

THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale,

With sloping hills and waving woods around, Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale

Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground; And planted shrubs are there, and cherish'd flowers, And a bright verdure, born of gentler showers.

"Twas there my young existence was begun,

My earliest sports were on its flowery green, And often, when my schoolboy task was done,

I climb'd its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height, the sweetest of the day.

There, when that hour of mellow light was come, And mountain shadows cool'd the ripen'd grain, I watch'd the weary yeoman plodding home,

In the lone path that winds across the plain, To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play, And tell him o'er the labours of the day.

And when the woods put on their autumn glow,
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathering in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountains by the breeze,
I wander'd till the starlight on the stream
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.

Ah! happy days, too happy to return,

Fled on the wings of youth's departed years, A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,

The truth of life, its labours, pains, and fears; Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay, A twilight of the brightness pass'd away.

My thoughts steal back to that sweet village still,
Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise;
The play-place, and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure, and autumnal dyes;
The present brings its storms; but, while they last,
I shelter me in the delightful past.