Be thine to pass through life, like those
Whose hearts, still fresh in Virtue's bloom,
Swell with new pleasure till its close,
And brighten onward to the tomb.

Sweet JULIA! thus, be ever thus
Thy promise of the morrow;
Thine be the day-spring of the heart
Without its night of sorrow;

And if a cloud of care should rest

One moment in the darkened air,

May Hope's bright sun but touch its breast, And leave the rainbow glittering there!

TO

Morn wakes, and waves her purple wing,
Bright-glancing over earth and sea,
And happy forms of beauty spring

To life, from rock, and stream, and tree.

Pure daughters of the Spring-the flowers
Are trembling with the drops of Even,
While sweetly from the dewy bowers
Glad music bursts away to heaven.

The sun-lit billow's glowing breast
Heaves like the bosom gushing o'er
With joy-and, shaking its proud crest,
Comes shouting onward to the shore.

Oh, at this hour-when, from above,
The light cloud o'er the mirrored deep,
Comes floating like a dream of Love

That hovers o'er the hour of sleep

When the glad sounds of Nature's mirth
Are swelling o'er the deep blue sea,

My heart from all the bliss of earth,

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE.

[Born 1802.]

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE, Son of the late RUFUS PRENTICE, is a native of Preston, in New London County, where he was born on the 18th of December, 1802. He was graduated at Brown University, in 1823, and read law with Judge JUDSON, of Canterbury. He has never practised his profession, however, but devoted himself chiefly to editorial labors. In the spring of 1828, he established the "New England Weekly Review," in Hartford, which he conducted until the summer of 1830. He then resigned his editorial chair to JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, and removed to the west, being engaged in preparing his "Life of HENRY CLAY," which was afterward published. The Review, under the charge of Mr. PRENTICE, was one of the most popular periodicals of the day. Many of the poems of its editor appeared in its columns; and he succeeded in drawing around him a band of correspondents, whose united contributions gave it a degree of literary interest rarely attained by a weekly newspaper.

Soon after Mr. PRENTICE's removal to the west, he fixed his residence at Louisville, in Kentucky, and assumed the charge of the "Louisville Journal," which he still retains. It is one of the most popular gazettes of the country, and has but one rival in the department of sarcastic wit. Indeed, to such an extent has this talent for wit distinguished its editor, that it has been common for many of the newspapers to appropriate a regular corner to these amusing trifles, under the head of "PRENTICE'S LAST."

The poetical compositions of Mr. PRENTICE were written several years since, and many of them while he was a member of college. They were published in the "Review," and various other periodicals, but have never been collected. They have been very generally circulated, and have gained for their author, in its widest sense, a "newspaper reputation." They are characterized, at times, by great strength of thought and expression, and at others by tender feeling and delicate fancy. If their author would devote more of his time to such composition, he might win for himself a high name among the sons of song.

LINES

On a distant view of the Ocean.

How beautiful! from his blue throne on high,
The sun looks downward with a face of love
Upon the silent waters! and a sky,

Lovelier than that which lifts its arch above,
Down the far depths of Ocean, like a sheet
Of flame, is trembling! the wild tempests cease
To wave their cloudy pinions. Oh, 't is sweet
To gaze on Ocean in his hour of peace.

Years have gone by since first my infant eyes
Rested upon those waters. Once again,

As here I muse, the hours of childhood rise

Faint o'er my memory, like some witching strain Of half-forgotten music. Yon blue wave

Still, still rolls on in beauty; but the tide Of years rolls darkling o'er the lonely grave

Of hopes that with my life's bright morning died. Look! look! the clouds' light shadows from above, Like fairy islands, o'er the waters sweep! Oh, I have dreamed my spirit thus could love To float for ever on the boundless deep, Communing with the elements; to hear,

At midnight hour, the death-winged tempest rave, Or gaze, admiring, on each starry sphere,

Glassing its glories in the mirror-wave;

To dream, deep-mingling with the shades of eve,
On Ocean's spirits, caves, and coral halls,
Where, cold and dark, the eternal billows heave,
No zephyr breathes, nor struggling sunbeam falls;
As round some far isle of the burning zone,

Where tropic groves perfume the breath of morn, List to the Ocean's melancholy tone,

Like a lone mourner's on the night winds borne ;

To see the infant wave on yon blue verge,
Like a young eagle, breast the sinking sun,
And twilight dying on the crimson surge,

Till, down the deep, dark zenith, one by one,

The lights of heaven were streaming; or to weep
The lost, the beautiful, that calmly rest
Beneath the eternal wave: then sink to sleep,
Hushed by the beating of the Ocean's breast.

Oh, it were joy to wander wild and free

Where southern billows in the sunlight flash, Or Night sits brooding o'er the northern sea,

And all is still, save the o'erwhelming dash Of that dark world of waters; there to view

The meteor hanging from its cloud on high, Or see the northern fires, with blood-red hue, Shake their wild tresses o'er the startled sky! 'T is sweet, 't is sweet to gaze upon the deep, And muse upon its mysteries. There it rolled, Ere yet that glorious sun had learned to sweep The blue profound, and bathe the heavens in gold; The morning stars, as up the skies they came,

Heard their first music o'er the Ocean rung, And saw the first flash of their new-born flame Back from its depths in softer brightness flung! has swept

And there it rolls! Age after age

Down, down the eternal cataract of Time;
Men after men on earth's cold bosom slept;

Still, there it rolls, unfading and sublime!
As bright those waves their sunny sparkles fling,
As sweetly now the bending heaven they kiss,
As when the HOLY SPIRIT'S brooding wing

Moved o'er the waters of the vast abyss!

There, there it rolls. I've seen the clouds unfurl
Their raven banner from the stormy west;
I've seen the wrathful Tempest Spirit hurl

His blue-forked lightnings at the Ocean's breast; The storm-cloud passed, the sinking wave was hushed, Those budding isles were glittering fresh and fair; Serenely bright the peaceful waters blushed,

And heaven seemed painting its own beauties there!

Ocean, farewell! Upon thy mighty shore,
I loved in childhood's fairy hours to dwell;
But I am wasting, life will soon be o'er,

And I shall cease to gaze on thee: farewell!
Thou still wilt glow as fair as now, the sky
Still arch as proudly o'er thee, evening steal
Along thy bosom with as soft a dye,

All be as now, but I shall cease to feel.

The evening mists are on their silent way,

And thou art fading; faint thy colors blend With the last tinges of the dying day,

And deeper shadows up the skies ascend.
Farewell! farewell! the night is coming fast;

In deeper tones thy wild notes seem to swell
Upon the cold wings of the rising blast;
I go, I go; dear Ocean, fare thee well!

THE CLOSING YEAR.

'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling: 't is the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past, yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand-

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter, with his aged locks-and breathe,

In mournful cadences, that come abroad

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year

Gone from the earth for ever.

For memory and for tears.

"T is a time Within the deep

Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,