TO THE CANARY-BIRD.

I CANNOT hear thy voice with others' ears, Who make of thy lost liberty a gain; And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears Feel not that every note is born with pain. Alas! that with thy music's gentle swell [throng, Past days of joy should through thy memory And each to thee their words of sorrow tell, While ravish'd sense forgets thee in thy song. The heart that on the past and future feeds, And pours in human words its thoughts divine, Though at each birth the spirit inly bleeds, Its song may charm the listening ear like thine, And men with gilded cage and praise will try To make the bard, like thee, forget his native sky.

THY BEAUTY FADES.

THY beauty fades, and with it too my love,
For 't was the selfsame stalk that bore its flower;
Soft fell the rain, and breaking from above
The sun look'd out upon our nuptial hour;
And I had thought forever by thy side
With bursting buds of hope in youth to dwell;
But one by one Time strew'd thy petals wide,
And every hope's wan look a grief can tell :
For I had thoughtless lived beneath his sway,
Who like a tyrant dealeth with us all,

Crowning each rose, though rooted on decay, With charms that shall the spirit's love enthrall, And for a season turn the soul's pure eyes [defies. From virtue's changeless bloom, that time and death

THE WIND-FLOWER.

THOU lookest up with meek, confiding eye Upon the clouded smile of April's face, Unharm'd though Winter stands uncertain by, Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace. Thou trustest wisely! in thy faith array'd, More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king; Such faith was His whom men to death betray'd, As thine who hearest the timid voice of Spring, While other flowers still hide them from her call Along the river's brink and meadow bare. Thee will I seek beside the stony wall, And in thy trust with childlike heart would share, O'erjoy'd that in thy early leaves I find A lesson taught by Him who loved all human kind.

ENOCH.

I LOOK'D to find a man who walk'd with God,
Like the translated patriarch of old ;-
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yet none like DAVID turn'd a willing ear;
GOD walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
For him no heart-built temple open stood,
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.

MORNING.

THE light will never open sightless eyes, It comes to those who willingly would see; And every object,-hill, and stream, and skies, Rejoice within the encircling line to be; "Tis day, the field is fill'd with busy hands, The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din, The traveller with his staff already stands His yet unmeasured journey to begin; The light breaks gently too within the breast,Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,-it is no day To those who find on earth their place to stay.

NIGHT.

I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near When I this conscious being may resign; Whose only task thy words of love to hear, And in thy acts to find each act of mine; A task too great to give a child like me, The myriad-handed labours of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say; Yet when thou seest me burden'd by thy love, Each other gift more lovely then appears, For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darken'd couch I sleep, Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep.

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd; In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound, And to our eyes the vision is denied ; We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewilder'd falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

THE TREES OF LIFE.

For those who worship THEE there is no death,
For all they do is but with THEE to dwell;
Now, while I take from THEE this passing breath,
It is but of THY glorious name to tell;
Nor words nor measured sounds have I to find,
But in them both my soul doth ever flow;
They come as viewless as the unseen wind,
And tell thy noiseless steps where'er I go;
The trees that grow along thy living stream,
And from its springs refreshment ever drink,
Forever glittering in thy morning beam,
They bend them o'er the river's grassy brink;
And as more high and wide their branches grow,
They look more fair within the depths below.

THE ARK.

THERE is no change of time and place with THEE; Where'er I go, with me 'tis still the same; Within thy presence I rejoice to be, And always hallow thy most holy name; The world doth ever change; there is no peace Among the shadows of its storm-vex'd breast; With every breath the frothy waves increase, They toss up mire and dirt, they cannot rest; I thank THEE that within thy strong-built ark My soul across the uncertain sea can sail, And, though the night of death be long and dark, My hopes in CHRIST shall reach within the veil; And to the promised haven steady steer, Whose rest to those who love is ever near.

NATURE.

THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
Because my feet find measure with its call;
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,
For I am known to them, both great and small;
The flower that on the lovely hill-side grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as ADAM was before;

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

THE TREE.

I LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear,
And one by one their tender leaves unfold,
As if they knew that warmer suns were near,
Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold;
And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen
To veil from view the early robin's nest,
I love to lie beneath thy waving screen,
With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppress'd;
And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare,
And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow,
When naught is thine that made thee once so fair,
I love to watch thy shadowy form below,
And through thy leafless arms to look above
On stars that brighter beam when most we need
their love.

THE SON.

FATHER, I wait thy word. The sun doth stand
Beneath the mingling line of night and day,
A listening servant, waiting thy command
To roll rejoicing on its silent way;

The tongue of time abides the appointed hour,
Till on our ear its solemn warnings fall;

The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower, Then every drop speeds onward at thy call; The bird reposes on the yielding bough, With breast unswollen by the tide of song; So does my spirit wait thy presence now To pour thy praise in quickening life along, Chiding with voice divine man's lengthen'd sleep, While round the unutter'd word and love their vigils keep.

THE ROBIN.

THOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest, Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by, Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, Or he thy young unfinish'd cottage spy; All will not heed thee on that swinging bough, Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves, Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now, For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves; All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy, That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song, For over-anxious cares their souls employ, That else upon thy music borne along And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer Had learn'd that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to share.

THE RAIL-ROAD.

THOU great proclaimer to the outward eye Of what the spirit too would seek to tell, Onward thou goest, appointed from on high The other warnings of the Lord to swell; Thou art the voice of one that through the world Proclaims in startling tones, "Prepare the way;" The lofty mountain from its seat is hurl'd, The flinty rocks thine onward march obey; The valleys, lifted from their lowly bed, O'ertop the hills that on them frown'd before, Thou passest where the living seldom tread, Through forests dark, where tides beneath thee roar, And bidd'st man's dwelling from thy track remove, And would with warning voice his crooked paths reprove.

THE LATTER RAIN.

THE latter rain,-it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste, As if it would each root's lost strength repair; But not a blade grows green as in the spring, No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves. The rain falls still,-the fruit all ripen'd drops, It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell, The furrow'd fields disclose the yellow crops, Each bursting pod of talents used can tell, And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

MR. STREET is a native of Poughkeepsie, in Duchess county, New York. His father, RANDALL S. STREET, was a counsellor at law, and for several years a representative in the national Congress; and his grandfather, CALEB STREET, of Connecticut, was a direct and lineal descendant of the Reverend NICHOLAS STREET, who came to this country soon after the landing of JOHN CARVER, at Plymouth, and was ordained minister of the first church in New Haven, in 1659. His mother, a daughter of ANDREW BILLINGS, of Duchess county, was descended from the LIVINGSTON family, and his maternal grandfather was a major in the revolutionary army.

When the subject of this notice was about thirteen years of age, his father removed into the county of Sullivan. He had previously written verses, but the earliest of his compositions that I have seen appeared in the New York "Evening Post," in his fifteenth year. These are "A Winter Scene" and "A Day in March," and they evidence the possession at that age of much of the skill in description which is shown in his more recent productions. Sullivan is what is called a "wild county," though it is extremely fertile where well cultivated. Its scenery is magnificent, and its deep forests, streams as clear as dew-drops, gorges of piled rock and black shade, mountains and valleys, could hardly fail to waken into life all the faculties that slumbered in a youthful poet's bosom.

Mr. STREET studied law in the office of his father, and, for a few years after his admission to the bar, practised in the courts of Sullivan county. In the winter of 1839 he removed to Albany, and he has since resided in that city. He was married in the autumn of 1841.

The longest of his poems is entitled "Nature." It was pronounced before the literary societies of the college at Geneva, in the summer of 1840. After a few retrospective passages, he describes the scenery of England, Italy, Switzerland, and India, and last, of America, in the summer-time, when

In the moist hollows, and by streamlet-sides,
The grass shoots thick and deep; the pigeon-tribes
Dotting the air, stream o'er in countless throngs;
The robin whistles, and the noisy swamp
Has deepen'd in its tones.

In the page following that from which the above lines are taken, is this fine description of a shower in June:

But now the wind stirs fresher; darting round
The spider tightens his frail web; dead leaves
Whirl in quick eddies from the mounds; the snail
Creeps to its twisted fortress, and the bird
Crouches amid its feathers. Wafted up,
The stealing cloud with soft gray blinds the sky,
And, in its vapoury mantle, onward steps
The summer shower; over the shivering grass

Blighting the pageant-leaves, had left them pale,
Shrunken, and sear; and the strong, howling blasts
Had whirl'd them from their branches, darkening air
And strewing them o'er earth. Now, sweet and calm,
Like music gliding o'er discordant sounds,
Or moonlight smiling on a troubled sea,
Summer, unrobed of all her glowing charms
That graced her prime, but mild and matron-like,
For a brief while returns to greet those scenes
O'er which she reign'd in queenly loveliness.
A purple haze is trembling in the air,
Softening all near in veils of glimmering gauze,
And steeping far-off masses in thick mist,
Blending their outlines with the shaded sky.
So still the atmosphere, the thistle's star
Drops motionless on the moss. Such quiet reigns,
The low, faint crackling of the dry, fallen leaves,
Stirr'd by the squirrel's bounding foot, is heard.
The beech-nut, falling from its open'd burr,
Gives a sharp rattle, and the locust's song,
Rising and swelling shrill, then pausing short,
Rings like a trumpet. Distant woods and hills
Are full of echoes, and each sound that strikes
Upon the hollow air, lets loose their tongues.
The ripples, creeping through the matted grass,
Drip on the ear, and the far partridge-drum
Rolls like low thunder. The last butterfly,
Like a wing'd violet, floating in the meek,
Pink-colour'd sunshine, sinks his yelvet feet
Within the pillar'd mullein's delicate down,
And shuts and opens his unruffled fans.
Lazily wings the crow with solemn croak
From tree-top on to tree-top. Feebly chirps
The grasshopper, and the spider's tiny clock
Ticks from his crevice.

A morning after a snow-storm, in winter:
The morning sunshine glows upon a waste
Sparkling with diamonds; bare the mountain's brow,
But the low vale is level with the hill-
The hemlock stands an ivory pyramid,
And the link'd branches gleam like silvery webs
Traced on the glittering azure of the sky.

These are characteristic passages. Mr. STREET describes with remarkable fidelity and minuteness, and while reading his poems one may easily fancy himself in the forests, on the open plain, or by the side of the shining river. In a few pieces he has also shown considerable skill in narration, but it is as a descriptive poet that he is most worthy of our regard. His contributions to the literary journals have been numerous, but no collection of them has yet been published.

THE GRAY FOREST-EAGLE.

WITH storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye,
The gray forest-eagle is king of the sky!
O, little he loves the green valley of flowers,
Where sunshine and song cheer the bright sum-
mer hours,

For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees
Only rippling of waters and waving of trees;
There the red robin warbles, the honey-bee hums,
The timid quail whistles, the sly partridge drums;
And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along,
There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song;
The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss,
And there's naught but his shadow black gliding

the flood,

And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood;

From the crag-grasping fir-top, where morn hangs its wreath,

He views the mad waters white writhing beneath: On a limb of that moss-bearded hemlock far down, With bright azure mantle and gay mottled crown, The kingfisher watches, where o'er him his foe, The fierce hawk, sails circling, each moment more low:

Now poised are those pinions and pointed that beak, His dread swoop is ready, when, hark! with a shriek, His eye-balls red-blazing, high bristling his crest, His snake-like neck arch'd, talons drawn to his breast,

With the rush of the wind-gust, the glancing of light, The gray forest-eagle shoots down in his flight; One blow of those talons, one plunge of that neck, The strong hawk hangs lifeless, a blood-dripping wreck;

And as dives the free kingfisher, dart-like on high
With his prey soars the eagle, and melts in the sky.

A fitful red glaring, a low, rumbling jar,
Proclaim the storm demon yet raging afar: [red,
The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more
And the roll of the thunder more deep and more
A thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air, [dread;
And on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair:
The lightning darts zig-zag and fork'd through the
gloom,

And the bolt launches o'er with crash, rattle, and

boom;

The gray forest-eagle, where, where has he sped?
Does he shrink to his eyrie, and shiver with dread?
Does the glare blind his eye? Has the terrible blast
On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast?
No, no, the brave eagle! he thinks not of fright;
The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight;
To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam,
To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream,
And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray,
And a clapping of pinions, he's up and away!

Away, O, away, soars the fearless and free!
What recks he the sky's strife?-its monarch is he!
The lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight;
The blast sweeps against him, unwaver'd his flight;
High upward, still upward, he wheels, till his form
Is lost in the black, scowling gloom of the storm.

The tempest sweeps o'er with its terrible train,
And the splendour of sunshine is glowing again;
Again smiles the soft, tender blue of the sky,
Waked bird-voices warble, fann'd leaf-voices sigh;
On the green grass dance shadows, streams sparkle
and run,

The breeze bears the odour its flower-kiss has won,
And full on the form of the demon in flight
The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight!
The gray forest-eagle! O, where is he now,
While the sky wears the smile of its GoD on its
brow?

There's a dark, floating spot by yon cloud's pearly wreath,

With the speed of the arrow 't is shooting beneath! Down, nearer and nearer it draws to the gaze, Now over the rainbow, now blent with its blaze, To a shape it expands, still it plunges through air, A proud crest, a fierce eye, a broad wing are there; 'Tis the eagle-the gray forest-eagle-once more He sweeps to his eyrie: his journey is o'er!

Time whirls round his circle, his years roll away, But the gray forest-eagle minds little his sway; The child spurns its buds for youth's thorn-hidden bloom,

Seeks manhood's bright phantoms, finds age and a tomb;

But the eagle's eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd, Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud! The green, tiny pine-shrub points up from the moss, The wren's foot would cover it, tripping across; The beech-nut down dropping would crush it beneath,

But 'tis warm'd with heaven's sunshine, and fann'd by its breath;

The seasons fly past it, its head is on high,
Its thick branches challenge each mood of the sky;
On its rough bark the moss a green mantle creates,
And the deer from his antlers the velvet-down grates;
Time withers its roots, it lifts sadly in air
A trunk dry and wasted, a top jagg'd and bare,
Till it rocks in the soft breeze, and crashes to earth,
Its blown fragments strewing the place of its birth.
The eagle has seen it up-struggling to sight,
He has seen it defying the storm in its might,
Then prostrate, soil-blended, with plants sprouting
But the gray forest-eagle is still as of yore. [o'er,
His flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud!
He has seen from his eyrie the forest below
In bud and in leaf, robed with crimson and snow.
The thickets,deep wolf-lairs, the high crag his throne,
And the shriek of the panther has answer'd his own.
He has seen the wild red man the lord of the shades,
And the smoke of his wigwams curl thick in the

glades;

He has seen the proud forest melt breath-like away, And the breast of the earth lying bare to the day;

He sees the green meadow-grass hiding the lair, And his crag-throne spread naked to sun and to air; And his shriek is now answer'd, while sweeping along,

By the low of the herd and the husbandman's song; He has seen the wild red man off-swept by his foes, And he sees dome and roof where those smokes

once arose ;

But his flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud!

An emblem of Freedom, stern, haughty, and high,
Is the gray forest-eagle, that king of the sky!
It scorns the bright scenes, the gay places of earth-
By the mountain and torrent it springs into birth;
There rock'd by the wild wind, baptized in the foam,
It is guarded and cherish'd, and there is its home!
When its shadow steals black o'er the empires of
kings,

Deep terror, deep heart-shaking terror it brings;
Where wicked Oppression is arm'd for the weak,
Then rustles its pinion, then echoes its shriek;
Its eye flames with vengeance, it sweeps on its way,
And its talons are bathed in the blood of its prey.
O, that eagle of Freedom! when cloud upon cloud
Swathed the sky of my own native land with a
shroud,

When lightnings gleam'd fiercely, and thunderbolts rung,

How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung! Though the wild blast of battle swept fierce through the air

With darkness and dread, still the eagle was there; Unquailing, still speeding, his swift flight was on, Till the rainbow of Peace crown'd the victory won. O, that eagle of Freedom! age dims not his eye, He has seen Earth's mortality spring, bloom,and die! He has seen the strong nations rise, flourish, and fall, He mocks at Time's changes, he triumphs o'er all: He has seen our own land with wild forests o'er

spread,

He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head; And his presence will bless this, his own, chosen Till the archangel's fiat is set upon time. [clime,

FOWLING.

A MORN in September, the east is yet gray; Come, Carlo! come, Jupe! we'll try fowling to-day: The fresh sky is bright as the bright face of one, A sweeter than whom the sun shines not upon; And those wreathed clouds that melt to the breath

of the south,

Are white as the pearls of her beautiful mouth: My hunting-piece glitters, and quick is my task In slinging around me my pouch and my flask; Cease, dogs, your loud yelpings, you'll deafen my brain!

Desist from your rambles, and follow my train. Here, leave the geese, Carlo, to nibble their grass, Though they do stretch their long necks, and hiss

as we pass;

And the fierce little bantam, that flies your attack, Then struts, flaps, and crows, with such airs, at your back;

And the turkey, too, smoothing his plumes in your face,

Then ruffling so proud, as you bound from the place; Ha! ha! that old hen, bristling up mid her brood, Has taught you a lesson, I hope, for your good; By the wink of your eye, and the droop of your crest, I see your maraudings are now put at rest.

The rail-fence is leap'd, and the wood-boughs are round,

And a moss-couch is spread for my foot on the ground: A shadow has dimm'd the leaves' amethyst glow, The first glance of Autumn, his presence to show: The beech-nut is ripening above in its sheath, Which will burst with the black frost, and drop it beneath.

The hickory hardens, snow-white, in its burr, [fir; And the cones are full grown on the hemlock and The hopple's red berries are tinging with brown, And the tips of the sumach have darken'd their down; The white, brittle Indian-pipe lifts up its bowl, And the wild turnip's leaf curls out broad like a scroll;

The cohosh displays its white balls and red stems, And the braid of the mullen is yellow with gems; While its rich, spangled plumage the golden-rod shows,

And the thistle yields stars to each air-breath that

And the robin comes warbling, then flutters away, For I harm not God's creatures so tiny as they; But the quail, whose quick whistle has lured me along,

No more will recall his stray'd mate with his song,
And the hawk that is circling so proud in the blue,
Let him keep a look-out, or he'll tumble down too!
He stoops-the gun echoes-he flutters beneath,
His yellow claws curl'd, and fierce eyes glazed in
death:

Lie there, cruel Arab! the mocking-bird now
Can rear her young brood, without fear of thy blow;
And the brown wren can warble his sweet little lay,
Nor dread more thy talons to rend and to slay;
And, with luck, an example I'll make of that crow,
For my green,sprouting wheat knew no hungrier foe;
But the rascal seems down from his summit to scoff,
And as I creep near him, he croaks, and is off.