VISIONS OF ROMANCE. WHEN dark-brow'd midnight o'er the slumbering world Mysterious shadows and bewildering throws, The steel-clad champion on his vaulting steed, Fades in its glory on the spirit's eye, Sink into dust, when reason's searching glance Unmasks the age of knighthood and romance. Like lightning hurtled o'er the lurid skies, AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT. AVE MARIA! 't is the midnight hour, The starlight wedding of the earth and heaven, When music breathes its perfume from the flower, And high revealings to the heart are given; Soft o'er the meadows steals the dewy airLike dreams of bliss; the deep-blue ether glows, And the stream murmurs round its islets fair The tender night-song of a charm'd repose. Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love, The kiss of rapture, and the link'd embrace, The hallow'd converse in the dim, still grove, The elysium of a heart-revealing face, When all is beautiful-for we are bless'd, When all is lovely-for we are beloved, When all is silent-for our passions rest, When all is faithful-for our hopes are proved. Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer, Of hush'd communion with ourselves and Heaven, When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts declare, High, pure, far-searching, like the light of even; Ave Maria! soft the vesper hymn Ave Maria! let our prayers ascend As bright, as pure, as gentle, Heaven! as this! DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.* [here! A ROAR, as if a myriad thunders burst, Now hurtled o'er the heavens, and the deep earth Shudder'd, and a thick storm of lava hail Rush'd into air, to fall upon the world. And low the lion cower'd, with fearful moans And upturn'd eyes, and quivering limbs, and clutch'd The gory sand instinctively in fear. The very soul of silence died, and breath Through the ten thousand pallid lips, unfelt, Stole from the stricken bosoms; and there stood, With face uplifted, and eyes fix'd on air, (Which unto him was throng'd with angel forms,) The Christian-waiting the high will of Heaven. A wandering sound of wailing agony, A cry of coming horror, o'er the street Of tombs arose, and all the lurid air Echo'd the shrieks of hopelessness and death. "Hear ye not now?" said PANSA. Death is Ye saw the avalanche of fire descend Vesuvian steeps, and, in its giant strength Sweep on to Herculaneum; and ye cried, It threats not us: why should we lose the sport? Though thousands perish, why should we refrain?' Your sister city-the most beautifulGasps in the burning ocean-from her domes Fly the survivors of her people, driven Before the torrent-floods of molten earth, With desolation red-and o'er her grave Unearthly voices raise the heart's last criesFly, fly! O, horror! O, my son! my sire!' The hoarse shouts multiply; without the mount Are agony and death-within, such rage Of fossil fire as man may not behold! Hark! the destroyer slumbers not—and now, Be your theologies but true, your Jove, Mid all his thunders, would shrink back aghast, Listening the horrors of the Titan's strife. The lion trembles; will ye have my blood, Or flee, ere Herculaneum's fate is yours?" Vesuvius answer'd: from its pinnacles Clouds of far-flashing cinders, lava showers, And seas, drank up by the abyss of fire, To be hurl'd forth in boiling cataracts, Like midnight mountains, wrapp'd in lightnings, fell. O, then, the love of life! the struggling rush, The crushing conflict of escape! few, brief, And dire the words delirious fear spake now,— One thought, one action sway'd the tossing crowd. All through the vomitories madly sprung, And mass on mass of trembling beings press'd, Gasping and goading, with the savageness That is the child of danger, like the waves Charybdis from his jagged rocks throws down, Mingled in madness-warring in their wrath. Some swoon'd, and were trod down by legion feet; Some cried for mercy to the unanswering gods; Some shriek'd for parted friends, forever lost; And some, in passion's chaos, with the yells Of desperation, did blaspheme the heavens; From "The Last Night of Pompeii." This scene follows the destruction of Herculaneum. PANSA, a Christian, condemned by DIOMEDE, is brought into the gladiatorial arena, when a new eruption from Vesuvius causes a suspension of the proceedings. And some were still in utterness of wo. Nature's quick instinct, in most savage beasts, From every cell shrieks burst; hyenas cried, Like lost child, wandering o'er the wilderness, That, in deep loneliness, mingles its voice With wailing winds and stunning waterfalls; The giant elephant, with matchless strength, Struggled against the portal of his tomb, And groan'd and panted; and the leopard's yell, And tiger's growl, with all surrounding cries Of human horror mingled; and in air, Spotting the lurid heavens and waiting prey, The evil birds of carnage hung and watch'd, As ravening heirs watch o'er the miser's couch. All awful sounds of heaven and earth met now; Darkness behind the sun-god's chariot roll'd, Shrouding destruction, save when volcan fires Lifted the folds, to glare on agony; And, when a moment's terrible repose Fell on the deep convulsions, all could hear The toppling cliff's explode and crash below,While multitudinous waters from the sea In whirlpools through the channel'd mountain rocks Rush'd, and, with hisses like the damned's speech, Fell in the mighty furnace of the mount. 1 VISIONS OF ROMANCE. WHEN dark-brow'd midnight o'er the slumbering world Mysterious shadows and bewildering throws, The steel-clad champion on his vaulting steed, No more the drawbridge echoes to the tread Sink into dust, when reason's searching glance Unmasks the age of knighthood and romance. Like lightning hurtled o'er the lurid skies, lance! AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT. AVE MARIA! 't is the midnight hour, The starlight wedding of the earth and heaven, When music breathes its perfume from the flower, And high revealings to the heart are given; Soft o'er the meadows steals the dewy airLike dreams of bliss; the deep-blue ether glows, And the stream murmurs round its islets fair The tender night-song of a charm'd repose. Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love, The kiss of rapture, and the link'd embrace, The hallow'd converse in the dim, still grove, The elysium of a heart-revealing face, When all is beautiful-for we are bless'd, When all is lovely-for we are beloved, When all is silent-for our passions rest, When all is faithful-for our hopes are proved. Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer, Of hush'd communion with ourselves and Heaven, When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts declare, High, pure, far-searching, like the light of even; That bids our pride before the Omniscient kneel, Ave Maria! soft the vesper hymn Floats through the cloisters of yon holy pile, And, mid the stillness of the night-watch dim, Attendant spirits seem to hear and smile! Hark! hath it ceased? The vestal seeks her cell, And reads her heart-a melancholy tale! A song of happier years, whose echoes swell O'er her lost love, like pale bereavement's wail. Ave Maria! let our prayers ascend From them whose holy offices afford No joy in heaven-on earth without a friendThat true, though faded image of the LORD! For them in vain the face of nature glows, For them in vain the sun in glory burns, The hollow breast consumes in fiery woes, O'er mouldering gates and crumbling archways And meets despair and death where'er it turns. [spread, Dark ivy waves in many a mazy fold, Where chiefs flash'd vengeance from their lightning glance, [lance. And grasp'd the brand, and couch'd the conquering The gorgeous pageantry of times gone by, The tilt, the tournament, the vaulted hall, Fades in its glory on the spirit's eye, And fancy's bright and gay creations-all Ave Maria! in the deep pine wood, On the clear stream, and o'er the azure sky Bland midnight smiles, and starry solitude Breathes hope in every breeze that wanders by. Ave Maria! may our last hour come As bright, as pure, as gentle, Heaven! as this! Let faith attend us smiling to the tomb, And life and death are both the heirs of bliss! setts. RUFUS DAWES. [Born, 1803.] THE family of the author of "Geraldine" is one of the most ancient and respectable in MassachuHis ancestors were among the earliest settlers of Boston; and his grandfather, as president of the Council, was for a time acting governor of the state, on the death of the elected chief magistrate. His father, THOMAS DAWES, was for ten years one of the associate judges of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, and was distinguished among the advocates of the Federal Constitution, in the state convention called for its consideration. He was a sound lawyer, a man of great independ ence of character, and was distinguished for the brilliancy of his wit, and for many useful qualities.* RUFUS DAWES was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth of January, 1803, and was the youngest but one of sixteen children. He entered Harvard College in 1820; but in consequence of class disturbances, and insubordination, of which it was afterward shown he was falsely accused, he was compelled to leave that institution without a degree. This indignity he retaliated by a severe satire on the most prominent members of the faculty-the first poem he ever published. He then entered the office of General WILLIAM SULLIVAN, as a law-student, and was subsequently admitted a member of the Suffolk county bar. He has however never pursued the practice of the legal profession, having been attracted by other pursuits more congenial with his feelings. In 1829 he was married to the third daughter of Chief Justice CRANCH, of Washington. In 1830 he published "The Valley of the Nashaway, and other Poems," some of which had appeared originally in the Cambridge "United States Literary Gazette ;" and in 1839, "Athenia of Damascus," "Geraldine," and his miscellaneous poetical writings. His last work, "Nix's Mate," an histo‐ rical romance, appeared in the following year. With Mr. DAWES poetry seems to have been a passion, which is fast subsiding and giving place to a love of philosophy. He has been said to be a disciple of COLERIDGE, but in reality is a devoted follower of SWEDENBORG; and to this influence must be ascribed the air of mysticism which pervades his later productions. He has from time to time edited several legal, literary, and political works, and in the last has shown himself to be an adherent to the principles of the old Federal party. As a poet, his standing is yet unsettled, there being a wide difference of opinion respecting his writings. His versification is generally easy and correct, and in some pieces he exhibits considerable imagination. In the winter of 1840-41, he delivered a course of lectures in the city of New York, before the American Institute, in which he combated the principles of the French eclectics and the Transcendentalists, contending that their philosophy is only a sublimated natural one, and very far removed from the true system of causes, and genuine spirituality. LANCASTER. THE Queen of May has bound her virgin brow, And hung with blossoms every fruit-tree bough; The sweet Southwest, among the early flowers, Whispers the coming of delighted hours, While birds within the heaping foliage, sing Their music-welcome to returning Spring. O, Nature! loveliest in thy green attireDear mother of the passion-kindling lyre; Thou who, in early days, upled'st me where The mountains freeze above the summer air; Or luredst my wandering way beside the streams, To watch the bubbles as they mock'd my dreams, Lead me again thy flowery paths among, To sing of native scenes as yet unsung! Dear Lancaster! thy fond remembrance brings Thoughts, like the music of Eolian strings, *He is classed by Mr. KETTELL among the American poets; and in the Book of "Specimens" published by him are given some passages of his "Law given on Sinai," published in Boston in 1777. When the hush'd wind breathes only as it sleeps, In life's dull dream, when want of sordid gain Clings to our being with its cankering chain, When lofty thoughts are cramp'd to stoop below The vile, rank weeds that in their pathway grow, Who would not turn amidst the darken'd scene, To memoried spots where sunbeams intervene; And dwell with fondness on the joyous hours, When youth built up his pleasure-dome of flowers? Now, while the music of the feather'd choir Rings where the sheltering blossoms wake desire. When dew-eyed Love looks tenderness, and speaks A silent language with his mantling cheeks; I think of those delicious moments past, Which joyless age shall dream of to the last; As now, though far removed, the Muse would tell, Lo! I am with you now, the sloping green, O thou who journeyest through that Eden-clime, The wood-nymphs sport and naiads plash thy wave, Far down the silent stream, where arching trees 'Tis night! the stars are kindled in the sky, 66 breaks; For mercy! spare my child, forbear the blow!" In vain ;-the warm blood crimsons on the snow. O'er the cold earth the captive mother sighs, Her ears still tortured by her infant's cries; She cannot weep, but deep resolve, unmoved, Plots vengeance for the victims so beloved; Lo! by their fire the glutted warriors lie, Locked in the death-sleep of ebriety, When from her bed of snow, whence slumber flew, The frenzied woman rose the deed to do;Firmly beside the senseless men of blood, With vengeful arm, the wretched mother stood; She hears her groaning, dying lord expire, Her woman's heart nerves up with maddening fire, She sees her infant dashed against the tree,"Tis done!-the red men sleep eternally. [now, Such were thy wrongs, sweet Lancaster! but No spot so peaceful and serene as thou; Thy hills and fields in checker'd richness stand, The glory and the beauty of the land. From calm repose, while glow'd the eastern sky, And the fresh breeze went fraught with fragrance by, Waked by the noisy woodbird, free from care, What joy was mine to drink the morning air! Not all the bliss maturer life can bring, When ripen'd manhood soars with strengthen'd wing, Not all the rapture Fancy ever wove, [grow, Nor less than that which springs from mutual love, Ye who can slumber when the starlight fades, And clouds break purpling through the eastern shades, Whose care-worn spirits cannot wake at morn, I will not ask the meed of fortune's smile, |