With a despotic sway, all giant minds.
We are not impotent, we pallid stones;
Not all our power is gone, not all our fame,
Not all the magic of our high renown,
Not all the wonder that encircles us,
Not all the mysteries that in us lie,
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

THE HAUNTED PALACE.

In the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace
(Snow-white palace) rear'd its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion
It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
Banners, yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This, all this, was in the olden
Time, long ago.)

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A winged odour went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley

Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law; Round about a throne, where, sitting (Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well-befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace-door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,

A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assail'd the monarch's high estate;
(Ah! let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blush'd and bloom'd,
Is but a dim-remember'd story
Of the old time entomb'd.

And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid, ghastly river,
Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out for ever,
And laugh-but smile no more.

THE SLEEPER.

Ar midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain-top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the mist about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see, the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not for the world awake.
All beauty sleeps!-and, lo! where lies,
With casement open to the skies,
Irene and her destinies !

O, lady bright, can it be right,
This lattice open to the night?
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,

Flit through thy chamber, in and out,
And wave the curtain-canopy

So fitfully, so fearfully,

Above the closed and fringéd lid

'Neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid, That o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts, the shadows rise and fall.

O, lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to our garden-trees!
Strange is thy pallor-strange thy dress-
Stranger thy glorious length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps. O, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
This bed, being changed for one more holy,
This room for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unclosed eye!
My love she sleeps. O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall tomb unfold—
Some tomb that oft hath flung its black
And wing-like pannels, fluttering back,
Triumphant o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals,-
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone,-
Some vault from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Nor thrill to think, poor child of sin,

It was the dead who groan'd within.

MR. MCLELLAN is a native of the city of Portland. He was educated at Bowdoin College, in Maine, where he was graduated in 1826. He subsequently studied the law, and for a few years practised his profession in Boston. He has recently resided in the country, and devoted his

attention principally to agricultural pursuits. In the spring of 1830 he published "The Fall of the Indian," and, in 1832, "The Year, and other Poems;" and he is the author of many metrical compositions, which have appeared in the literary magazines.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead! On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle pour'd
Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword

With slaughter deeply dyed.

Their bones are on the northern hill,

And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,

The land they loved so well.

Then glory to that valiant band,
The honour'd saviours of the land!

O, few and weak their numbers were-
A handful of brave men;

But to their GoD they gave their prayer,
And rush'd to battle then.
The GoD of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.
They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garner'd, on the plain,
And muster'd, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,

To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?

And where are ye to-day?

I call:-the hills reply again
That ye have pass'd away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright
Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have pass'd away.

THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.*

WILD was the night; yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by,

The few that his stern heart cherish'd;
They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perish'd.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,

By the order hastily spoken,

That he dream'd of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumph'd the Frenchman's " eagle;"
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain,
His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,
At the pyramids, at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows,
And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,

He led again, in his dying dreams,
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,

Made pale at his cannons' rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day,
A day that shall live in story:
In the rocky land they placed his clay,
"And left him alone with his glory."

"The 5th of May came amid wind and rain. NAPOLEON's passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than the elements around. The words 'tête d'armée,' (head of the army,) the last which escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were watching the current of a heady fight. About eleven minutes before six in the evening, NAPOLEON expired." -SCOTT's Life of Napoleon. 2K 2

389

THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS.

WELL do I love those various harmonies
That ring so gayly in spring's budding woods,
And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts,
And lonely copses of the summer-time,
And in red autumn's ancient solitudes.

If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd down With any of the ills of human life;

If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss
Of brethren gone to that far distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike;—
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest-birds.

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half-hid
Amid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers,
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.

With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes; And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig, That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.

In the last days of autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field, And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves,-then peals abroad The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge.

Lone whip-poor-will, There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still: And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush And the green, roving linnet are at rest,

And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.

Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines

The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green marge

Is seldom visited by human foot,
The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks
The Sabbath-silence of the wilderness :
And you may find her by some reedy pool,

Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock,
Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.

Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,
Gray watcher of the waters! Thou art king
Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.
How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down
And seest the shining fishes as they glide;
And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist,
Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.
And now,
wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations! Then pass forth,
And find them midst those many-colour'd birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute,
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush
So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.

LINES,

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down To slumber by the darken'd woods-the herds Have left their pastures, where the sward grows

green

And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,
And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar
Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade
And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound;
While answering Echo, from the distant hill,
Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.
How tenderly the trembling light yet plays
O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves,
With a strange beauty-like the yellow flush
That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by.
Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass
Like winter shadows o'er the peaceful mind,
"Twere sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad,
With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast
And happy palaces, and lead a life

Of peace in some green paradise like this.

The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum Ne'er startled these green woods:-the raging sword

Hath never gather'd its red harvest here!
The peaceful summer-day hath never closed
Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam
Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller here
Hath never left his sickle in the field,
To slay his fellow with unholy hand;
The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
The thrilling murmuring of the dying man,
And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,
Have never broke its Sabbath-solitude.

JONES VERY is a native of the city of Salem. In his youth he accompanied his father, who was a sea-captain, on several voyages to Europe; and he wrote his "Essay on Hamlet" with the more interest from having twice seen Elsineur. After his father's death, he prepared himself to enter college, and in 1832 became a student at Cambridge. He was graduated in 1836, and in the same year was appointed Greek tutor in the university. While he held this office, a religious enthusiasm took possession of his mind, which gradually produced so great a change in him, that his

friends withdrew him from Cambridge, and he returned to Salem, where he wrote most of the poems in the small collection of his writings published in 1839. His essays entitled "Epic Poetry," "Shakspeare," and "Hamlet," are fine specimens of learned and sympathetic criticism; and his sonnets, and other pieces of verse, are chaste, simple, and poetical, though they have little range of subjects and illustration. They are religious, and some of them are mystical, but they will be recognised by the true poet as the overflowings of a brother's soul.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BRIGHT image of the early years

When glow'd my cheek as red as thou,
And life's dark throng of cares and fears
Were swift-wing'd shadows o'er my sunny brow!
Thou blushest from the painter's page,

Robed in the mimic tints of art;
But Nature's hand in youth's green age
With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

The morning's blush, she made it thine,

The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee;
And in thy look, my Columbine !
Each fond-remember'd spot she bade me see.

I see the hill's far-gazing head,

Where gay thou noddest in the gale;
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread
The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song

Break from each bush and well-known tree, And, on light pinions borne along,

Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again,
And, hastening to each flowery nook,
Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,

Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom

Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;
And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,
Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee
That echoed on thy native hill;
And when, loved flower! I think of thee,
My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

LINES TO A WITHERED LEAF SEEN ON A POET'S TABLE.

POET's hand has placed thee there,
Autumn's brown and wither'd scroll!
Though to outward eye not fair,
Thou hast beauty for the soul;
Though no human pen has traced
On that leaf its learned lore,
Love divine the page has graced,--
What can words discover more?

Not alone dim autumn's blast
Echoes from yon tablet sear,--
Distant music of the past
Steals upon the poet's ear.

Voices sweet of summer-hours,
Spring's soft whispers murmur by;
Feather'd songs from leafy bowers
Draw his listening soul on high.

THE HEART.

THERE is a cup of sweet or bitter drink,
Whose waters ever o'er the brim must well,
Whence flow pure thoughts of love as angels

think,

Or of its demon depths the tongue will tell; That cup can ne'er be cleansed from outward stains

While from within the tide forever flows; And soon it wearies out the fruitless pains The treacherous hand on such a task bestows; But ever bright its crystal sides appear, While runs the current from its outlet pure; And pilgrims hail its sparkling waters near, And stoop to drink the healing fountain sure, And bless the cup that cheers their fainting soul While through this parching waste they seek their heavenly goal.