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TO SPRING.

O THOU delicious Spring!

Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers,
Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing
From odorous beds of light-enfolded flowers,
And from enmassed bowers,

That over grassy walks their greenness fling,
Come, gentle Spring!

Thou lover of young wind,
That cometh from the invisible upper sea [bind,
Beneath the sky, which clouds, its white foam,
And, settling in the trees deliciously,

Makes young leaves dance with glee, Even in the teeth of that old, sober hind, Winter unkind,

Come to us; for thou art

Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring!
Touching the sacred feeling of the heart,
Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming;

And thou dost ever bring

A tide of gentle but resistless art
Upon the heart.

Red Autumn from the south

Contends with thee; alas! what may he show? What are his purple-stain'd and rosy mouth, And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow, And timid, pleasant glow,

Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth, And greenest youth?

Gay Summer conquers thee;

And yet he has no beauty such as thine;
What is his ever-streaming, fiery sea,

To the pure glory that with thee doth shine?
Thou season most divine,

What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy
Compare with thee?

Come, sit upon the hills,

And bid the waking streams leap down their side,
And green the vales with their slight-sounding
And when the stars upon the sky shall glide, [rills;
And crescent Dian ride,

I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills,
On grassy hills.

Alas! bright Spring, not long

Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence;

For thou shalt die the summer heat among,

Sublimed to vapour in his fire intense,

And, gone forever hence,

Exist no more: no more to earth belong,
Except in song.

So I who sing shall die:

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LINES WRITTEN ON THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

THE deep, transparent sky is full

Of many thousand glittering lights-
Unnumber'd stars that calmly rule

The dark dominions of the night.
The mild, bright moon has upward risen,
Out of the gray and boundless plain,
And all around the white snows glisten,

Where frost, and ice, and silence reign,While ages roll away, and they unchanged remain. These mountains, piercing the blue sky

With their eternal cones of ice;
The torrents dashing from on high,
O'er rock and crag and precipice;
Change not, but still remain as ever,
Unwasting, deathless, and sublime,
And will remain while lightnings quiver,
Or stars the hoary summits climb,

Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal Time.
It is not so with all-I change,

And waste as with a living death,
Like one that hath become a strange,
Unwelcome guest, and lingereth
Among the memories of the past,
Where he is a forgotten name;
For Time hath greater power to blast

The hopes, the feelings, and the fame,
To make the passions fierce, or their first strength

to tame.

The wind comes rushing swift by me,

Pouring its coolness on my brow; Such was I once-as proudly free, And yet, alas! how alter'd now! Yet, while I gaze upon yon plain,

These mountains, this eternal sky, The scenes of boyhood come again, And pass before the vacant eye, Still wearing something of their ancient brilliancy. Yet why complain?-for what is wrong, False friends, cold-heartedness, deceit, And life already made too long,

To one who walks with bleeding feet

Over its paths?--it will but make

Death sweeter when it comes at last

And though the trampled heart may ache,
Its agony of pain is past,

And calmness gathers there, while life is ebbing fast.

Perhaps, when I have pass'd away,

Like the sad echo of a dream, There may be some one found to say

A word that might like sorrow seem. That I would have-one sadden'd tear, One kindly and regretting thoughtGrant me but that!-and even here,

Here, in this lone, unpeopled spot,

To breathe away this life of pain, I murmur not.

PARK BENJAMIN.

[Born, 1809.]

THE paternal ancestors of Mr. BENJAMIN came to New England at an early period from Wales. His father, who was a merchant, resided many years at Demerara, in British Guiana, where he acquired a large fortune. There the subject of this notice was born in the year 1809. When he was about three years old, in consequence of a severe illness he was brought to this country, under the care of a faithful female guardian, and here, except during a few brief periods, he has since resided. The improper medical treatment to which he had been subjected in Demerara prevented his complete restoration under the more skilful physicians of New England, and he has been lame from his childhood; but I believe his general health has been uniformly good for many years.

While a boy he was sent to an excellent school | in the rural village of Colchester, in Connecticut. At twelve he was removed to New Haven, where he resided three years in his father's family, after which he was sent to a private boarding school near Boston, in which he remained until he entered Harvard College, in 1825. He left this venerable institution before the close of his second academic year, in consequence of a protracted and painful illness, and on his recovery entered Washington College, at Hartford, then under the presidency of the Right Reverend THOMAS C. BROWNELL, now Bishop of Connecticut. He was graduated in 1829, with the highest honours of his class.

In 1830, Mr. BENJAMIN entered the Law School at Cambridge, at that time conducted by Mr. Justice STORY and Professor ASHMUN. He pursued his legal studies with much industry for a considerable period at this seminary, but finished the acquirement of his profession at New Haven, under Chief Justice DAGGETT and Professor HITCHCOCK. He was admitted to the Connecticut bar in 1833, and removing soon after to Boston, the residence of his relatives and friends, he was admitted to the courts of Massachusetts, as attorney and counsellor at law and solicitor in chancery.

His disposition to devote his time to literature prevented his entering upon the practice of his profession, and on the death of EDWIN BUCKINGHAM, one of its original editors, I believe he became connected with the "New England Magazine." In 1836 that periodical was joined to the "American Monthly Magazine," published in New York, and edited by CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, and Mr. BENJAMIN was soon after induced to go to reside permanently in that city. By unfortunate investments, and the calamities in which so many were involved in that period, he had lost most of his patrimonial property, and the remainder

of it he now invested in a publishing establishment; but the commercial distress of the time, by which many of the wealthiest houses were overthrown, prevented the realization of his expectations, and the business was abandoned. He purchased, I believe, near the close of the year 1837, the "American Monthly Magazine," and for about two years conducted it with much ability; but by giving to some of the later numbers of it a political character, its prosperity was destroyed, and he relinquished it to become associated with Mr. HORACE GREELEY in the editorship of the New Yorker," a popular weekly periodical, devoted to literature and politics. In 1840, he and the writer of this sketch established in New York "The New World," a literary gazette of the largest class, of which he is now the sole editor. Its popularity and the ability with which it is conducted may be inferred from the fact that twenty thousand copies are sold of each number.

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Mr. BENJAMIN's metrical compositions are very numerous. His longest work is a “ Poem on the Meditation of Nature," which, I believe, was delivered on the day of his graduation at Washington College. Its character and style may be inferred from the following invocation:

Let us go forth and hold communion sweet
With the invisible spirit that surrounds
Earth's silent altars-let us go forth to greet
The woven strain of most enchanting sounds
That stir the clear waves of the golden air;
Let us go forth and mutely worship there!
From life's unvarying round, O let us steal

Some fleeting moments we may call our own,
When, unrestrain'd, the heart can deeply feel
The quiet happiness to be alone.
Alone with Nature in some voiceless glen,
Or by some forest brook, or on the height
Of some uprising hill-away from men,

The city's busy tumult and the sight
Of all the sons of pleasure and of pain,
Where the free soul must feel its human chain.
Then, if within our hearts reflected lie
The perfect glories of the earth and sky,
If every feeling they inspire be fraught
With the pure essence of exalted thought,
Well may we deem that round each bosom's throne
Float the white robes of Innocence alone!

Some of his sonnets are equal to any in this collection, and many of his other pieces are distinguished for poetical simplicity of thought and elegance of diction. Most of his poems have been written hastily, and they are not without the usual faults of unstudied verse; but they evidence the possession of a fertile fancy and good taste. His keen perception of the ludicrous is shown in the sonnet entitled "Sport," and in some of his other pieces. His tales, sketches, reviews, and other prose writings, are ingenious and spirited, and if collected would form many volumes.

GOLD.

"Gold is, in its last analysis, the sweat of the poor and
the blood of the brave."-JOSEPH NAPOLEON.
WASTE treasure like water, ye noble and great!
Spend the wealth of the world to increase your es-
Pile up your temples of marble, and raise [tate;
Columns and domes, that the people may gaze
And wonder at beauty, so gorgeously shown
By subjects more rich than the king on his throne.
Lavish and squander--for why should ye save
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave?"
Pour wine into goblets, all crusted with gems--
Wear pearls on your collars and pearls on your
Let diamonds in splendid profusion outvie [hems;
The myriad stars of a tropical sky!

Though from the night of the fathomless mine
These may be dug at your banquet to shine,
Little care ye for the chains of the slave,
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."
Behold, at your gates stand the feeble and old,
Let them burn in the sunshine and freeze in the cold;
Let them starve: though a morsel, a drop will impart
New vigour and warmth to the limb and the heart:
You taste not their anguish, you feel not their pain,
Your heads are not bare to the wind and the rain--
Must wretches like these of your charity crave
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave?"
An army goes out in the morn's early light,
Ten thousand gay soldiers equipp'd for the fight;
An army comes home at the closing of day;
O, where are their banners, their goodly array?
Ye widows and orphans, bewail not so loud-
Your groans may imbitter the feast of the proud;
To win for their store, did the wild battle rave,
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."
Gold! gold! in all ages the curse of mankind,
Thy fetters are forged for the soul and the mind:
The limbs may be free as the wings of a bird,
And the mind be the slave of a look and a word.
To gain thee, men barter eternity's crown,
Yield honour, affection, and lasting renown,
And mingle like foam with life's swift-rushing wave
"The sweat of the poor and the blood of the brave."

UPON SEEING A PORTRAIT

OF A LADY, PAINTED BY GIOVANNI C. THOMPSON.

THERE is a sweetness in those upturn'd eyes,
A tearful lustre-such as fancy lends
To the Madonna-and a soft surprise,

As if they saw strange beauty in the air;
Perchance a bird, whose little pinion bends

To the same breeze that lifts that flowing hair. And, O, that lip, and cheek, and forehead fair, Reposing on the canvass !-that bright smile,

Casting a mellow radiance over all! Say, didst thou strive, young artist, to beguile The gazer of his reason, and to thrall His every sense in meshes of delightWhen thou, unconscious,mad'st this phantom bright? Sure nothing real lives, which thus can charm the sight!

THE STORMY PETREL.

THIS is the bird that sweeps o'er the sea-
Fearless and rapid and strong is he;
He never forsakes the billowy roar,
To dwell in calm on the tranquil shore,
Save when his mate from the tempest's shocks
Protects her young in the splinter'd rocks.
Birds of the sea, they rejoice in storms;
On the top of the wave you may see their forms;
They run and dive, and they whirl and fly,
Where the glittering foam spray breaks on high;
And against the force of the strongest gale,
Like phantom ships they soar and sail.
All over the ocean, far from land,
When the storm-king rises dark and grand,
The mariner sees the petrel meet
The fathomless waves with steady feet,
And a tireless wing and a dauntless breast,
Without a home or a hope of rest.

So, mid the contest and toil of life,
My soul! when the billows of rage and strife
Are tossing high, and the heavenly blue
Is shrouded by vapours of sombre hue-
Like the petrel wheeling o'er foam and spray,
Onward and upward pursue thy way!

THE NAUTILUS.

THE Nautilus ever loves to glide
Upon the crest of the radiant tide.
When the sky is clear and the wave is bright,
Look over the sea for a lovely sight!
You may watch, and watch for many a mile,
And never see Nautilus all the while,
Till, just as your patience is nearly lost,
Lo! there is a bark in the sunlight toss'd!
"Sail ho! and whither away so fast?"
What a curious thing she has rigg'd for a mast!
Ahoy! ahoy! don't you hear our hail ?"
How the breeze is swelling her gossamer sail!
The good ship Nautilus-yes, 'tis she!
Sailing over the gold of the placid sea;
And though she will never deign reply,

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I could tell her hull with the glance of an eye.
Now, I wonder where Nautilus can be bound;
Or does she always sail round and round,
With the fairy queen and her court on board,
And mariner-sprites, a glittering horde?
Does she roam and roam till the evening light?
And where does she go in the deep midnight?
So crazy a vessel could hardly sail,
Or weather the blow of "a fine, stiff gale."
O, the selfsame hand that holds the chain
Which the ocean binds to the rocky main-
Which guards from the wreck when the tempest

raves,

And the stout ship reels on the surging waves-
Directs the course of thy little bark,
And in the light or the shadow dark,
And near the shore or far at sea,
Makes safe a billowy path for thee!

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And when the moon, of fairy stars the queen, Waves her transparent wand o'er all the scene; I seek the vale,

And, while inhaling the moss-rose's breath,—
(Less sweet than thine, unmatch'd ELIZABETH!)
A vision, pale

As the far robes of seraphs in the night,
Rises before me with supernal light.

I seek the mount,

And there, in closest commune with the blue, Thy spiritual glances meet my view.

I seek the fount:

And thou art my EGERIA, and the glade Encircling it around is holier made.

I seek the brook :

And, in the silver shout of waters, hear
Thy merry, melting tones salute mine ear:
And, in the look

Of lilies floating from the flowery land,
See something soft and stainless as thy hand.
All things convey

A likeness of my early, only love-
All fairest things around, below, above:
The foamy spray

Over the billow, and the bedded pearls,
And the light flag the lighter breeze unfurls.
For, in the grace

As well as in the beauty of the sea,
I find a true similitude to thee;
And I can trace

Thine image in the loveliness that dwells
Mid inland forests and sequester'd dells.

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REST thee, old hunter! the evening cool Will sweetly breathe on thy heated brow, •Thy dogs will lap of the shady pool;

Thou art very weary-O, rest thee now! Thou hast wander'd far through mazy woods, Thou hast trodden the bright-plumed birds' retreat, Thou hast broken in on their solitudes,

O, give some rest to thy tired feet!
There's not a nook in the forest wide

Nor a leafy dell unknown to thee;
Thy step has been where no sounds, beside
The rustle of wings in the sheltering tree,
The sharp, clear cry of the startled game,

The wind's low murmur, the tempest's roar,
The bay that follow'd thy gun's sure aim,

Or thy whistle shrill, were heard before. Then rest thee!-thy wife in her cottage-door, Shading her eyes from the sun's keen ray, Peers into the forest beyond the moor,

To hail thy coming ere fall of day;But thou art a score of miles from home,

And the hues of the kindling autumn leaves Grow brown in the shadow of evening's dome, And swing to the rush of the freshening breeze. Thou must even rest! for thou canst not tread Till yon star in the zenith of midnight glows, And a sapphire light over earth is spread,

The place where thy wife and babes repose. Rest thee a while-and then journey on

Through the wide forest, and over the moor: Then call to thy dogs, and fire thy gun,

And a taper will gleam from thy cottage-door!

THE DEPARTED.

THE departed! the departed!

They visit us in dreams,

And they glide above our memories
Like shadows over streams;

But where the cheerful lights of home

In constant lustre burn,

The departed, the departed

Can never more return!

The good, the brave, the beautiful,
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep!

Or where the hurrying night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above their narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

I look around and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;
I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress trees,
For the voice of the departed

Is borne upon the breeze.

That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;

I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.
The melody of summer waves,
The thrilling notes of birds,
Can never be so dear to me

As their remember'd words.

I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles
Still on me sweetly fall,
Their tones of love I faintly hear
My name in sadness call.

I know that they are happy,
With their angel-plumage on,
But my heart is very desolate
To think that they are gone.

I AM NOT OLD.

I AM not old--though years have cast
Their shadows on my way;

I am not old--though youth has pass'd
On rapid wings away.

For in my heart a fountain flows,
And round it pleasant thoughts repose;
And sympathies and feelings high,
Spring like the stars on evening's sky.

I am not old--Time may have set
"His signet on my brow,"
And some faint furrows there have met,
Which care may deepen now:
Yet love, fond love, a chaplet weaves

Of fresh, young buds and verdant leaves;
And still in fancy I can twine

Thoughts, sweet as flowers, that once were mine.

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