JONATHAN LAWRENCE. [Born, 1807. Died, 1833.] FEW persons in private life, who have died so young, have been mourned by so many warm friends as was JONATHAN LAWRENCE. Devoted to a profession which engaged nearly all his time, and regardless of literary distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them. He was born in New York, in November, 1807, and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered Columbia College, at which he was graduated before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after became a student in the office of Mr. W. SLOSSON, an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, and the undeviating purity and honourableness of his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered into a partnership with Mr. SLOSSON, and daily added confirmation to the promise of his probational career, until he was suddenly called to a better life, in April, 1833. The industry with which he attended to his professional duties did not prevent him from giving considerable attention to general literature; and in moments-to use his own language "Stolen from hours I should have tied he produced many poems and prose sketches of considerable merit. These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence of which he was for several years an active member. After his death, in compliance with a request by this society, his brother made a collection of his writings, of which a very small edition was printed, for private circulation. Their character is essentially meditative. Many of them are devotional, and all are distinguished for the purity of thought which guided the life of the man. THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT. MANY a sad, sweet thought have I, Many a wild and wandering dream, Oft, when the south wind's dancing free And the flowers peep softly out to see The frolic Spring as she wantons by; When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin To slight their voice, and away I'm straying Then can I hear the earth rejoice, That sings of its glad festivity; Many a hue of fancy, when The hues of earth are about to perish; Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, The secret transports of the soul; Many a big, proud tear have I, When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky, And spring, and love, I hurry back; The toilsome day and lonely night, And almost make me gay and bright. Honour and fame that I would win, Though every toil that yet hath been Were doubly borne, and not an hour Were brightly hued by Fancy's power. JONATHAN LAWRENCE. And, though I sometimes sigh to think Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimm'd by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine, That toil, and study, and care are mine. SEA-SONG. OVER the far blue ocean-wave, On the wild winds I flee, Yet every thought of my constant heart For each foaming leap of our gallant ship Had not thy form, through sun and storm, O, the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast, And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue, Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams And when moon and stars are asleep on the waves, And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour When our sail is white in the dark midnight, O, never knew hall such festival LOOK ALOFT. In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, And, O! when death comes in his terrors, to cast TO MAY. COME, gentle May! Come with thy robe of flowers, Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; Come, wondrous May! For, at the bidding of thy magic wand, In all their green and glorious array Come, vocal May! Come with thy train, that high On some fresh branch pour out their melody; Come, sunny May! Come with thy laughing beam, What time the lazy mist melts on the stream, Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power. Come, holy May! When, sunk behind the cold and western hill, His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay; Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be Like a pure temple consecrate to thee. Come, beautiful May! Like youth and loveliness, Like her I love; O, come in thy full dress, The drapery of dark winter cast away; To the bright eye and the glad heart appear Queen of the spring, and mistress of the year. Yet, lovely May! Teach her whose eyes shall rest upon this rhyme To spurn the gilded mockeries of time, The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear. And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see, As fade thy beauties, all the vanity Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay In his short winter bury beauty's frame, In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another spring shall bloom, eternal and the same. 2 D LOUISA J. HALL. [Born about 1807.] Or the life of LOUISA J. PARK, now Mrs. HALL, I have been able to learn but few particulars. I believe she was born and educated in Boston, and that she belongs to a highly respectable family. In 1841 she was married to Mr. HALL, a clergyman of Providence, and now resides in that city. Her reputation as an author rests principally on "Miriam," a dramatic poem, published in 1837. The story of "Miriam" is simple, the characters well drawn and sustained, and the incidents happily invented, though not always in keeping with the situations and qualities of the actors. THRASENO, a Christian exile from Judea, dwells with his family in Rome. He has two children, EUPHAS, and a daughter of remarkable beauty and a heart and mind in which are blended the highest attributes of her sex and her religion. She is seen and loved by PAULUS, a young nobleman, whose father, Piso, had in his youth served in the armies in Palestine. The passion is mutual, but secret; and having failed to win the Roman to her faith, the Christian maiden resolves to part from him forever. While THRASENO and her brother are attending the funeral of an aged friend, the lovers meet; and as MIRIAM is declaring to PAULUS her determination, they are interrupted by EUPHAS, who suddenly returns to inform his sister that the funeral party had been surprised by a band of Roman soldiers, some slain, and others, among whom was their father, borne to prison. The indignation of EUPHAS is excited by finding PAULUS with MIRIAM, and, by the aid of a body of Christians, armed for the emergency, he seizes him as a hostage, and goes to the palace of Piso to claim the liberation of THRASENO. MIRIAM, who had fainted during this scene, on her recovery follows him on his hopeless errand; and we are next introduced to the palace, where the young Christian is urging, on the ground of humanity, the release of his father, in a manner finely contrasted with the contemptuous fierceness of the hardhearted magistrate. The scene which follows, is that in which MIRIAM first meets Piso. The tyrant promises to restore THRASENO to his children, but they receive at their home only his dead body. PAULUS rejects his parent and his religion; and while a dirge is sung over the martyr, the soul of his lamented and suffering daughter ascends to heaven. A SCENE FROM "MIRIAM." EUPHAS AND PISO, IN THE HALL OF A ROMAN PALACE. Euphas. LET me but die First of thy victims Piso. Would that among them— Where is the sorceress? I fain would see The beauty that hath witch'd Rome's noblest youth. Euphas. Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. Piso. I will: on her shall fall my worst revenge; And I will know what foul and magic arts [Miriam glides in. A pause. Beautiful shadow! in this hour of wrath, What dost thou here? In life thou wert too meek, Too gentle for a lover stern as I. And, since I saw thee last, my days have been Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms! Piso. The voice that won me first! Miriam. O, man of guilt and wo! Piso. How! Art thou not she? I know that face! I never yet beheld Miriam. Thou art a wretched man! and I do feel And wear not eyes that swim in earth-born tears, As mine do now. Look up, thou conscience-struck! Piso. Off! off! She touch'd me with her damp, Thy son hath seen me, loved me, and hath won Thou darest not look upon-I know not why. I must be heard, for God hath sent me here. The GoD thou knowest not. Piso. Thou art of earth! I see the rose-tint on thy pallid cheek, Miriam. He hath given me strength, And He hath brought me here before thy face; And it was HE who smote thee even now With a strange, nameless fear. Piso. Girl! name it not. I deem'd I look'd on one whose bright young face Euphas. MIRIAM! go thou hence. Miriam. Brother! Piso. Ha! is this so? Now, by the gods!-Bar, bar the gates, ye slaves! If they escape me now— -Why, this is good! I had not dream'd of hap so glorious. His sister! she that beguiled my son! Name not, with tongue unhallow'd, love like ours. Miriam. I have no other form than this God gave; Piso. It is most strange. Is not the air around her full of spells? Give me the son thou hast seduced! Miriam. PISO! A heart too prone to worship noble things, Euphas. Sister! my tears They choke my words-else Miriam. EUPHAS, thou wert wroth When there was little cause; I loved thee more. Thy very frowns in such a holy cause Were beautiful. The scorn of virtuous youth, Looking on fancied sin, is noble. Piso. Maid! Hath then my son withstood thy witchery, Alas! that I rejoice to say it. Well thou mayst, for it hath wrought his pardon. Had not these cold and aged eyes themselves Euphas. Tyrant! cease. Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these Miriam. I tremble not. He spake of pardon for his guiltless son, Euphas. Let us go hence. Piso ! My haughty boy, for we have much to say Miriam. How! hast thou changed- Miriam. There, through yon western arch! the moon sinks low. The mists already tinge her orb with blood. Piso. I do but one thing more I fain would know; for, after this wild night, That fell familiar on my soul! And thou, Piso. Thou art her child! I could not harm thee now. O wonderful! that things so long forgot- She loved another! Yet I slew him not! I fled! Euphas. Sister! The hours wear on. Piso. Ye shall go forth in joy And take with you yon prisoners. Send my son, Miriam. Now may the peace That follows just and worthy deeds be thine! [men, Euphas. Piso! how shall we pass yon steelclad Keeping stern vigil round the dungeon-gate! Piso. Take ye my well-known ring--and herethe list- Ay, this is it, methinks: show these--great gods! Euphas. What is there on yon scroll which shakes him thus ? Miriam. A name at which he points with stiffening hand, And eyeballs full of wrath! Alas! alas! Miriam. His life: but not alone Stern son of violence! the name thou askest Piso. Did I not know it, girl? Now, by the gods! had I not been entranced, Miriam. Piso! He can but rend me where I stand. And here, In a firm hope! The Gon that brought me here |