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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distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them.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
To musty volumes at my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude,”—

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 These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence of which he was for several years an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 passing, sunny gleam,
Many a bright tear in mine eye,

Many a wild and wandering dream,
Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes by my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude.

Oft, when the south wind's dancing free
Over the earth and in the sky,

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
Over the hills and vales a-Maying.

Then can I hear the earth rejoice,
Happier than man may ever be;
Every fountain hath then a voice,

That sings of its glad festivity;
For it hath burst the chains that bound
Its currents dead in the frozen ground,
And, flashing away in the sun, has gone
Singing, and singing, and singing on.
Autumn hath sunset hours, and then
Many a musing mood I cherish;

Many a hue of fancy, when

The hues of earth are about to perish;
Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween,
Hath real sunset never seen,
Sad as the faces of friends that die,
And beautiful as their memory.

Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep,
Visions the mind may not control,
Waking, as fancy does in sleep,

The secret transports of the soul;
Faces and forms are strangely mingled,
Till one by one they're slowly singled,
To the voice, and lip, and eye of her
I worship like an idolater.

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;
Then what a dismal, dreary gloom
Settles upon my loathed room,
Darker to every thought and sense
Than if they had never travell'd thence.
Yet, I have other thoughts, that cheer

The toilsome day and lonely night,
And many a scene and hope appear,

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
Is winging, love, to thee;

For each foaming leap of our gallant ship
Had barb'd a pang for me,

Had not thy form, through sun and storm,
Been my only memory.

O, the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast,
As he dips in the dancing spray;
But fleeter and faster the thoughts, I ween,
Of dear ones far away!

And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue,
As it lights the tinted sea,

Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams
Of the heart that throbs for thee.

And when moon and stars are asleep on the waves,
Their dancing tops among,

And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour
By the music of his song;

When our sail is white in the dark midnight,
And its shadow is on the sea,

O, never knew hall such festival
As my fond heart holds with thee!

LOOK ALOFT.

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each wo,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are
array'd,

"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,
The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And, O! when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and depart!

TO MAY.

COME, gentle May!

Come with thy robe of flowers,

Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers;
Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day,
From their imprisoning and mysterious night,
The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.

Come, wondrous May!

For, at the bidding of thy magic wand,
Quick from the caverns of the breathing land,

In all their green and glorious array
They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail
Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.

Come, vocal May!

Come with thy train, that high

On some fresh branch pour out their melody;
Or, carolling thy praise the livelong day,
Sit perch'd in some lone glen, on echo calling,
Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.

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
Deep steep'd in sin and blood! What seekest thou?
I have grown old in strife, and hast thou come,
With thy dark eyes and their soul-searching glance,
To look me into peace? It cannot be.

Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms!
He whose young love thou didst reject on earth,
May tremble at this visitation strange,
But never can know peace or virtue more!
Thou wert a Christian, and a Christian dog
Did win thy precious love. I have good cause
To hate and scorn the whole detested race;
And till I meet that man, whom most of all
My soul abhors, will I go on and slay!
Fade, vanish, shadow bright! In vain that look!
That sweet, sad look! My lot is cast in blood!
Miriam. O, say not so!

Piso. The voice that won me first!
O, what a tide of recollections rush
Upon my drowning soul! my own wild love-
Thy scorn-the long, long days of blood and guilt
That since have left their footprints on my fate!
The dark, dark nights of fever'd agony,
When, mid the strife and struggling of my dreams,
The gods sent thee at times to hover round,
Bringing the memory of those peaceful days
When I beheld thee first! But never yet
Before my waking eyes hast thou appear'd
Distinct and visible as now! Spirit!
What wouldst thou have?

Miriam. O, man of guilt and wo!
Thine own dark phantasies are busy now,
Lending unearthly seeming to a thing
Of earth, as thou art!

Piso. How! Art thou not she?

I know that face! I never yet beheld
One like to it among earth's loveliest.
Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art
A thing of mortal mould? O, better meet
The wailing ghosts of those whose blood doth clog
My midnight dreams, than that half-pitying eye!

Miriam. Thou art a wretched man! and I do feel
Pity even for the suffering guilt hath brought.
But from the quiet grave I have not come,
Nor from the shadowy confines of the world
Where spirits dwell, to haunt thy midnight hour.
The disembodied should be passionless,

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

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Thou darest not look upon-I know not why.
But I must speak to thee. Mid thy remorse,
And the unwonted terrors of thy soul,

I must be heard, for God hath sent me here.
Piso. Who, who hath sent thee here?
Miriam. The Christian's GOD,

The GoD thou knowest not.

Piso. Thou art of earth!

I see the rose-tint on thy pallid cheek,
Which was not there at first; it kindles fast!
Say on. Although I dare not meet that eye,
I hear thee.

Miriam. He hath given me strength,
And led me safely through the broad, lone streets,
Even at the midnight hour! My heart sunk not;
My noiseless foot paced on unfaltering
Through the long colonnades, where stood aloft
Pale gods and goddesses on either hand,
Bending their sightless eyes on me! by cool founts,
Waking with ceaseless plash the midnight air!
Through moonlit squares, where, ever and anon,
Flash'd from some dusky nook the red torchlight,
Flung on my path by passing reveller.

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
First glanced upon me mid the shining leaves
Of a green bower in sunny Palestine,
In my youth's prime! I knew the dust,
The grave's corroding dust, had soil'd
That spotless brow long since. A shadow fell
Upon the soul that never yet knew fear.
But it is past. Earth holds not what I dread;
And what the gods did make me, am I now.
What seekest thou?

Euphas. MIRIAM! go thou hence.
Why shouldst thou die?

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!
Miriam. Peace!

Name not, with tongue unhallow'd, love like ours.
Piso. Thou art her image; and the mystery
Confounds my purposes. Take other form,
Foul sorceress, and I will baffle thee!

Miriam. I have no other form than this God gave;
And he already hath stretch'd forth his hand,
And touch'd it for the grave.

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,
Although of earth; and he, alas! was earth's!
I strove, I pray'd in vain! In all things else
I might have stirr'd his soul's best purposes;
But for the pure and cheering faith of Christ,
There was no entrance in that iron soul.
And I-amid such hopes, despair arose,
And laid a withering hand upon my heart.
I feel it yet! We parted! Ay, this night
We met to meet no more.

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,
And on this ground ye parted?
Miriam. It is so.

Alas! that I rejoice to say it.
Piso. Nay,

Well thou mayst, for it hath wrought his pardon.
That he had loved thee would have been a sin
Too full of degradation-infamy,

Had not these cold and aged eyes themselves
Beheld thee in thy loveliness! And yet, bold girl!
Think not thy Jewish beauty is the spell
That works on one grown old in deeds of blood.
I have look'd calmly on when eyes as bright
Were drown'd in tears of bitter agony,
When forms as full of grace and pride, perchance,
Were writhing in the sharpness of their pain,
And cheeks as fair were mangled-

Euphas. Tyrant! cease.

Wert thou a fiend, such brutal boasts as these
Were not for ears like hers!

Miriam. I tremble not.

He spake of pardon for his guiltless son,
And that includeth life for those I love.
What need I more?

Euphas. Let us go hence. Piso !
Bid thou thy myrmidons unbar the gates,
That shut our friends from light and air.
Piso. Not yet,

My haughty boy, for we have much to say
Ere you two pretty birds go free. Chafe not!
Ye are caged close, and can but flutter here
Till I am satisfied.

Miriam. How! hast thou changed-
Piso. Nay; but I must detain ye till I ask-
Miriam. Detain us if thou wilt. But look-
Piso. At what?

Miriam. There, through yon western arch! the moon sinks low.

The mists already tinge her orb with blood.
Methinks I feel the breeze of morn e'en now.
Know'st thou the hour?

Piso. I do but one thing more

I fain would know; for, after this wild night,
Let me no more behold you. Why didst thon,
Bold, dark-hair'd boy, wear in those pleading eyes,
When thou didst name thy boon, an earnest look

That fell familiar on my soul! And thou,
The lofty calm, and, O! most beautiful!
Why are not only that soul-searching glance,
But e'en thy features and thy silver voice
So like to hers I loved long years ago,
Beneath Judea's palms? Whence do ye come?
Miriam. For me, I bear my own dear mother's
Her eye, her form, her very voice are mine. [brow;
So, in his tears, my father oft hath said.
We lived beneath Judea's shady palms,
Until that saint-like mother faded, droop'd,
And died. Then hither came we o'er the waves,
And till this night have worshipp'd faithfully
The one, true, living God, in secret peace.

Piso. Thou art her child! I could not harm thee now.

O wonderful! that things so long forgot-
A love I thought so crush'd and trodden down,
E'en by the iron tread of passion wild-
Ambition, pride, and, worst of all, revenge-
Revenge, that hath shed seas of Christian blood!
To think this heart was once so waxen soft,
And then congeal'd so hard, that naught of all
Which hath been since could ever have the power
To wear away the image of that girl—
That fair, young Christian girl! "T was a wild love!
But I was young, a soldier in strange lands,
And she, in very gentleness, said nay
So timidly, I hoped-until, ye gods!

She loved another! Yet I slew him not!
O, had I met him since!

I fled!

Euphas. Sister!

The hours wear on.

Piso. Ye shall go forth in joy

And take with you yon prisoners. Send my son,
Him whom she did not bear-home to these arms,
And go ye out of Rome with all your train.
I will shed blood no more; for I have known
What sort of peace deep-glutted vengeance brings.
My son is brave, but of a gentler mind
Than I have been. His eyes shall never more
Be grieved with sight of sinless blood pour'd forth
From tortured veins. Go forth, ye gentle two!
Children of her who might perhaps have pour'd
Her own meek spirit o'er my nature stern,
Since the bare image of her buried charms,
Soft gleaming from your youthful brows, hath power
To stir my spirit thus! But go ye forth!
Ye leave an alter'd and a milder man
Than him ye sought. Tell PAULUS this,
To quicken his young steps.

Miriam. Now may the peace

That follows just and worthy deeds be thine!
And may deep truths be born, mid thy remorse,
In the recesses of thy soul, to make
That soul e'en yet a shrine of holiness.

[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!
I guess too well. My brother, droop thou not.
Piso. Your father, did ye say? Was it his life
Ye came to beg?

Miriam. His life: but not alone
The life so dear to us; for he hath friends
Sharing his fetters and his final doom.
Piso. Little reck I of them. Tell me his name!
[A pause.
Speak, boy! or I will tear thee piecemeal!
Miriam. Stay!

Stern son of violence! the name thou askest
Is-THRASENO!

Piso. Did I not know it, girl?

Now, by the gods! had I not been entranced,
I sooner had conjectured this. Foul name!
Thus do I tear thee out--and even thus
Rend with my teeth. O, rage! she wedded him,
And ever since that hated name hath been
The voice of serpents in mine ear! But now-
Why go ye not? Here is your list! and all,
Ay, every one whose name is here set down,
Will my good guard release to you!

Miriam. Piso!

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He can but rend me where I stand. And here,
Living or dying, will I raise my voice

In a firm hope! The Gon that brought me here
Is round me in the silent air. On me
Falleth the influence of an unseen Eye!
And, in the strength of secret, earnest prayer,
This awful consciousness doth nerve my frame.
Thou man of evil and ungovern'd soul!
My father thou mayst slay! Flames will not fall
From heaven to scorch and wither thee! The earth
Will ope not underneath thy feet! and peace,
Mock, hollow, seeming peace, may shadow still
Thy home and hearth! But deep within thy breast
A fierce, consuming fire shall ever dwell.

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