JAMES DIXON.

[Born 1814.]

JAMES DIXON is a son of the late Judge WILLIAM DIXON, of Enfield, where he was born on the 5th of August, 1814. He pursued his preparatory studies at the " High School,” of Ellington, and at sixteen years of age entered Williams College, where he was graduated in 1834. After leaving college, he read law in the office of his father, at Enfield, and, after being admitted to the bar, commenced the practice of his profession in his native town, which, for two years, he represented in the state Legislature. Subsequently he removed to the city of Hartford, where he still resides. On the 1st of October, 1840, Mr. DIXON was married to ELIZABETH L. COGSWELL, daughter of the Rev. Dr. JONATHAN COGSWELL, Professor in the Theological Institute of East Windsor, and shortly afterward left the country, with his bride, for a European tour. He visited England, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, and returned to America early in the following summer.

Mr. Dixon has been a correspondent of the periodical press, and published many of his poems in the "New England Magazine," formerly printed at Boston. Subsequently he wrote for the "Connecticut Courant," of Hartford, in which appeared many of his best effusions. His articles display true poetical powers, and his Sonnets, in particular, are characterized by a chasteness of thought and style which entitle them to a high place amongst the poems of their order.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.

"A tradition prevailed among the natives of Puerto Rico, that in the Island of Bimini, one of the Lucayos, there was a fountain, of such wonderful virtue, as to renew the youth, and recall the vigor, of every one who bathed in its salutary waters. In hopes of finding this grand restorative, PONCE DE LEON and his followers ranged through the islands, searching, with fruitless solicitude and labor, for this wonderful fountain." ROBERTSON'S AMERICA.

Oh! where is that fountain of Youth!

To the far green land, where its waters flow,
Ere our last hopes fade in the light of truth,
With a fainting heart we go.
We have toiled for the mines of yellow gold
Till our eyes are dim and our blood is cold.

We have gained the glittering prize we sought,
But our wealth at the price of life is bought;
The light of our youth, like a dream, is past,
And the shadow of death is over us cast;
In our hearts the magic of Hope has died,
And what that can cheer us is left beside?
The gold we have heaped can ne'er restore
The wealth of the soul, that richer ore;

And the light of youth, that has ceased to burn,

To our cheerless age, may not return.

Oh, where is that fountain of Youth!

When our spirits were flushed with the glow of health, From our Childhood's home we were urged away

By the sordid lust of wealth.

We came from the castled hills of Spain,
From tented field and lady's bower,
In a slender bark o'er the heaving main,
To the land of sun and shower:

We came, and the sparkling rivers rolled,
In all their course, o'er a bed of gold;

And the earth gave up a richer spoil,

Than the wealth of kings, to our ceaseless toil;
But oh, for a single year, to recall

The flush of youth, we would give it all.

They left their treasures of gold, and sought

For that fountain of life, whose waters gave
The freshness of youth, to him who brought
His trembling limbs to its healing wave.
They roamed o'er mountain and desert plain,
For many a weary day, in vain,
Wherever a foaming stream might rush

O'er rock, or green hill-side,

Or hidden fountain gently gush,

Or noiseless river glide.

"T was vain! for the blessed Fount of Life,
Whose waters to men are given,

Flows not in this world of sin and strife,
But only is found in heaven!

And thus, in the brightness of youth, we seek
The thronging woes of later years,
Till care has blanched the blooming cheek,
And dimmed the eye with tears:

We dream not that the cloudless sun

That made our youthful pathway bright,
When Hope's most brilliant prize is won,
Will lose its morning light.

We dream not that the power and wealth
For which we give our life,
Will not repay the wasted health.

The bitterness, the strife,

The agony, with which we earn

The splendors that the soul must spurn,
In that inevitable day,

When glory's hues shall fade away,

And Gold's omnipotence shall be

A torturing, maddening mockery.

When the ebbing pulse and the gasping breath
Are weak and faint in the hour of death,

Oh! then could a fountain of Youth

In the desert of life break forth,

Which could bring us back to that blessed hour,
When the gilded visions of Hope had power
To cheer the gloom of this dreary earth,

How would we gladly, gladly fling

Our wealth away, in that hour of pain,

For a sight of that celestial spring,

Whose waters might make us young again'

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

When the Summer breezes have died away,
And the Autumn winds are drear,

And the forests have changed their green array,
For the hues of the dying year;

There comes a season, brief and bright,

When the zephyrs breathe with a gentler swell,

And the sunshine plays with a softer light,
Like the Summer's last farewell.

The brilliant dyes of the Autumn woods
Have gladdened the forest bowers,
And decked their pathless solitudes,

Like a blooming waste of flowers;
In the hidden depths no sound is heard,
Save a low and murmuring wail,
As the rustling leaves are gently stirred
By the breath of the dying gale.

The hazy clouds, in the mellow light,
Float with the breezes by,

Where the far-off mountain's misty height
Seems mingling with the sky;
And the dancing streams rejoice again

In the glow of the golden sun;
And the flocks are glad in the grassy plain
Where the sparkling waters run.

"T is a season of deep and quiet thought, And it brings a calm to the breast;

And the broken heart, and the mind o'erwrought,
May find, in its stillness, rest;

For the gentle voice of the dying year,
From forest, and sunny plain,

Is sweet as it falls on the mourner's ear,
And his spirit forgets its pain.

Yet over all is a mantling gloom,

That saddens the gazer's heart;

For soon shall the Autumn's varied bloom
From the forest trees depart :

The bright leaves whirl in the eddying air,
Their beautiful tints are fading fast,
And the mountain tops will soon be bare,
And the Indian Summer past.

SONNET TO MRS. SIGOURNEY,

With a "Forget-me-not" from the grave of KEATS, on whose tomb-stone are inscribed these words:

"Here lies one whose name was writ in water."

Wandering in Rome, for thee a gift I sought:
Around me were the wonders of the Past;
And modern art, on every side, had cast
Her gems of richest beauty. Yet methought

These were scarce worthy thee. At length I stood,
One Sabbath eve, beside the grave of KEATS;

The turf was bright with flowers, that gave their sweets
To the soft night air, as in mournful mood:
Sad thoughts came o'er me, and I could have wept
That all the hopes that in the Poet's heart,

As in a Sanctuary, had been kept,

Could fade so soon, and perish, and depart;

I plucked this flower for thee, the Muses' happiest daughter,

And joyed to think thy name should ne'er be "writ in water."

MOONLIGHT IN JUNE.

Thou hast a gentle ministry, oh, Moon!
Riding in solemn silence through the sky,
And gazing from thy trackless path on high
Upon the beauty of the leafy June:
On such a lovely night, I ween, as this,
ENDYMION felt thy pale lips' dewy kiss;
For far around on every plain and hill,

In the soft gleaming of the silver ray,
Flower, tree, and forest, breathless now and still,
Rest from the burning brightness of the day;

Silence is over all. Yon murmuring rill

Alone leaps gladly on its tireless way:

In thy soft rays how beautiful is night!

Like Man's cloud-covered path, by Woman's love made bright!