JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL is a son of Doctor LOWELL, an eminent Unitarian clergyman of Boston. He was educated at Harvard College, where he was graduated when twenty years of age, and I believe he is now engaged in the study of the law. In 1839 he published anonymously a class poem, delivered at Cambridge, and two years afterward a volume entitled "A Year's Life;" and he is now a frequent contributor to the literary magazines. "Rosaline," included in this volume, is one of his most recent compositions.

Sometimes, in hours of slumberous, melancholy musing, strange, sweet harmonies seem to pervade

ROSALINE.

THOU look'dst on me all yesternight, Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright As when we murmur'd our trothplight

Beneath the thick stars, ROSALINE! Thy hair was braided on thy head As on the day we two were wed, Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert deadBut my shrunk heart knew, ROSALINE! The deathwatch tick'd behind the wall, The blackness rustled like a pall, The moaning wind did rise and fall

Among the bleak pines, ROSALINE!
My heart beat thickly in mine ears!
The lids may shut out fleshly fears,
But still the spirit sees and hears,

Its eyes are lidless, ROSALINE!
A wildness rushing suddenly,
A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,-

Is not this vengeance, ROSALINE?
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite wither'd up and gone,
A strong soul trampled from its throne,-
What wouldst thou further, ROSALINE?
"Tis lone such moonless nights as these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,

And then thou comest, ROSALINE!
I seem to hear the mourners go,
With long, black garments trailing slow,
And plumes a-nodding to and fro,

As once I heard them, ROSALINE!
Thy shroud it is of snowy white,
And, in the middle of the night,
Thou standest moveless and upright,
Gazing upon me, ROSALINE!
There is no sorrow in thine eyes,
But evermore that meek surprise,-
O, Gon! her gentle spirit tries

To deem me guiltless, ROSALINE!

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the air; impalpable forms, with garments trailing like shadows of summer clouds, glide above us; and wild and beautiful thoughts, ill-defined as the shapes we see, fill the mind. To echo these harmonies, to paint these ethereal forms, to imbody in language these thoughts, would be as difficult as to bind the rainbows in the skies. Mr. LowELL is still a dreamer, and he strives in vain to make his readers partners in his dreamy, spiritual fancies. Yet he has written some true poetry, and as his later writings are his best, he may be classed among those who give promise of the highest excellence in the maturity of their powers.

Above thy grave the robin sings,
And swarms of bright and happy things
Flit all about with sunlit wings,—

But I am cheerless, ROSALINE!
The violets on the hillock toss,
The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss,
For Nature feels not any loss,—

But I am cheerless, ROSALINE! Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred? Why was my pride gall'd on to wed Her who brought lands and gold instead Of thy heart's treasure, ROSALINE? Why did I fear to let thee stay To look on me and pass away Forgivingly, as in its May,

A broken flower, ROSALINE?

I thought not, when my dagger strook,
Of thy blue eyes; I could not brook
The past all pleading in one look

Of utter sorrow, ROSALINE!

I did not know when thou wert dead:

A blackbird whistling overhead
Thrill'd through my brain; I would have fled,
But dared not leave thee, ROSALINE!

A low, low moan, a light twig stirr'd
By the upspringing of a bird,
A drip of blood,-were all I heard-

Then deathly stillness, ROSALINE!
The sun roll'd down, and very soon,
Like a great fire, the awful moon
Rose, stain'd with blood, and then a swoon
Crept chilly o'er me, ROSALINE!

The stars came out; and, one by one,
Each angel from his silver throne
Look'd down and saw what I had done:
I dared not hide me, ROSALINE!

I crouch'd; I fear'd thy corpse would cry
Against me to God's quiet sky,

I thought I saw the blue lips try
To utter something, ROSALINE.

I waited with a madden'd grin

To hear that voice all icy thin
Slide forth and tell my deadly sin

To hell and heaven, ROSALINE!
But no voice came, and then it seem'd
That if the very corpse had scream'd,
The sound like sunshine glad had stream'd
Through that dark stillness, ROSALINE!

Dreams of old quiet glimmer'd by,
And faces loved in infancy
Came and look'd on me mournfully,

Till my heart melted, ROSALINE!
I saw my mother's dying bed,
I heard her bless me, and I shed
Cool tears-but lo! the ghastly dead
Stared me to madness, ROSALINE!

And then, amid the silent night,
I scream'd with horrible delight,
And in my brain an awful light

Did seem to crackle, ROSALINE!
It is my curse! sweet mem'ries fall
From me like snow-and only all
Of that one night, like cold worms crawl
My doom'd heart over, ROSALINE!

Thine eyes are shut, they never more
Will leap thy gentle words before
To tell the secret o'er and o'er

Thou couldst not smother, ROSALINE! Thine eyes are shut: they will not shine With happy tears, or, through the vine That hid thy casement, beam on mine Sunful with gladness, ROSALINE!

Thy voice I never more shall hear,
Which in old times did seem so dear,

That, ere it trembled in mine ear,

My quick heart heard it, ROSALINE!
Would I might die! I were as well,
Ay, better, at my home in hell,
To set for ay a burning spell

"Twixt me and memory, ROSALINE!

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,
Wherein such blessed memories,
Such pitying forgiveness lies,

Than hate more bitter, ROSALINE!
Woe's me! I know that love so high
As thine, true soul, could never die,
And with mean clay in church-yard lie-
Would GoD it were so,
ROSALINE!

And I yield gently to and fro,
While my stout-hearted trunk below
And firm-set roots unmoved be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might,
Enduring still through day and night
Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,—
That I may keep at bay

The changeful April sky of chance
And the strong tide of circumstance,—
Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy mournfulness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,
Put in this scrip of mine,-

That grief may fall like snowflakes light,
And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright,-
O sweetly-mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,-
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prison'd me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-bye, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,

That flowers here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou'dst been,
O give, to strengthen me.

SONG.

I.

LIFT up the curtains of thine eyes And let their light out shine! Let me adore the mysteries

Of those mild orbs of thine, Which ever queenly calm do roll, Attuned to an order'd soul!

II.

Open thy lips yet once again,
And, while my soul doth hush
With awe, pour forth that holy strain
Which seemeth me to gush,

A fount of music, running o'er
From thy deep spirit's inmost core !

III.

The melody that dwells in thee Begets in me as well

A spiritual harmony,

A mild and blessed spell; Far, far above earth's atmosphere

I rise, whene'er thy voice I hear.

ANNE.

THERE is a pensiveness in quiet ANNE,
A mournful drooping of the full, gray eye,
As if she had shook hands with Misery,
And known some care since her short life began;
Her cheek is seriously pale, nigh wan,

And, though of cheerfulness there is no lack,
You feel as if she must be dress'd in black;
Yet is she not of those who, all they can,
Strive to be gay, and, striving, seem most sad,—
Hers is not grief, but silent soberness;
You would be startled if you saw her glad,
And startled if you saw her weep, no less;
She walks through life, as, on the Sabbath-day,
She decorously glides to church to pray.

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THE WAY OF LIFE.

I saw a gate: a harsh voice spake and said,
This is the gate of Life;" above was writ,
"Leave hope behind, all ye who enter it;"
Then shrank my heart within itself for dread;
But, softer than the summer rain is shed,
Words dropp'd upon my soul and they did say,
"Fear nothing, Faith shall save thee, watch and
So, without fear I lifted up my head,
And lo! that writing was not, one fair word
Was carven in its stead, and it was "Love.”
Then rain'd once more those sweet tones from above
With healing on their wings: I humbly heard,
"I am the Life, ask and it shall be given!
I am the Way, by me ye enter Heaven!"

TO A FRIEND.

[pray!"

My friend, adown life's valley, hand in hand,
With grateful change of grave and merry speech,
Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each,
We'll journey onward to the silent land;
And when stern Death shall loose that loving band,
Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours,
The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers,
Nor shall his heart a moment be unmann'd.
My friend and brother! if thou goest first,
Wilt thou no more revisit me below?
Yea, when my heart seems happy causelessly
And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst
With joy unspeakable,—my soul shall know
That thou, unseen, art bending over me.

THE POET.

POET! Who sittest in thy pleasant room,
Warming thy heart with idle thoughts of love,
And of a holy life that leads above,

Striving to keep life's spring-flowers still in bloom,
And lingering to snuff their fresh perfume,-
O, there were other duties meant for thee
Than to sit down in peacefulness and Be!
O, there are brother-hearts that dwell in gloom,
Souls loathsome, foul, and black with daily sin,
So crusted o'er with baseness, that no ray
Of Heaven's blessed light may enter in!
Come down, then, to the hot and dusty way, '
And lead them back to hope and peace again,-
For, save in act, thy love is all in vain.

GREEN MOUNTAINS.

YE mountains, that far off lift up your heads,
Seen dimly through their canopies of blue,
The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds
Distance-created beauty over you;

I am not well content with this far view;
How may I know what foot of loved one treads
Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds?
We should love all things better, if we knew
What claims the meanest have upon our hearts;
Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright
To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms;
Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts
To souls that have encircled mine with light,-
O, brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms!

THE DEAD.

To the dark, narrow house when loved ones go,
Whence no steps outward turn, whose silent door
None but the sexton knocks at any more,
Are they not sometimes with us yet below?
The longings of the soul would tell us so;
Although, so pure and fine their being's essence,
Our bodily eyes are witless of their presence;
Yet not within the tomb their spirits glow,
Like wizard lamps pent up, but whensoever
With great thoughts worthy of their high behests
Our souls are fill'd, those bright ones with us be,
As, in the patriarch's tent, his angel guests:-
O, let us live so worthily, that never
We may be far from that blest company!

LOVE.

MUCH had I mused of love, and in my soul
There was one chamber where I dared not look,
So much its dark and dreary voidness shook
My spirit, feeling that I was not whole:
All my deep longings flow'd toward one goal
For long, long years, but were not answered,
Till hope was drooping, faith wellnigh stone-dead,
And I was still a blind, earth-delving mole:
Yet did I know that Gon was wise and good,
And would fulfil my being late or soon;
Nor was such thought in vain, for, seeing thee,
Great Love rose up, as, o'er a black pine-wood,
Round, bright, and clear, upstarteth the full moon,
Filling my soul with glory utterly.

CAROLINE.

A STAIDNESS Sobers o'er her pretty face,
Which something but ill-hidden in her eyes,
And a quaint look about her lips denies;
A lingering love of girlhood you can trace
In her check'd laugh and half-restrained pace;
And, when she bears herself most womanly,
It seems as if a watchful mother's eye
Kept down with sobering glance her childish grace:
Yet oftentimes her nature gushes free
As water, long held back by little hands
Within a pump, and let forth suddenly;
Until, her task remembering, she stands
A moment silent, smiling doubtfully,
Then laughs aloud, and scorns her hated bands.

AMELIA B. COPPUCK, now Mrs. WELBY, was born in the small town of St. Michaels, in Maryland. When she was about fourteen years of age, her father, who is a respectable mechanic, removed to Lexington, and afterward to Louisville, in Kentucky, where, in 1838, she was married to Mr. GEORGE B. WELBY.

Most of her poetry has been published during the last four years, under the signature of "AMELIA,"

in the "Louisville Journal," edited by GEORGE D. PRENTICE. It has a musical flow and harmony, and the ideas are often poetical; but occasionally unmeaning epithets, lengthening out a line or a verse, remind us that the writer is not a scholarlike artist. She has feeling, and fancy, and pure sentiment-the highest qualities that ever distinguish the poetry of women. She is now but about twenty years of age.

THE PRESENCE OF GOD.

O, THOU who flingst so fair a robe

Of clouds around the hills untrod― Those mountain-pillars of the globe Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O GOD! All glittering round the sunset skies,

Their fleecy wings are lightly furl'd,
As if to shade from mortal eyes

The glories of yon upper world;
There, while the evening star upholds
In one bright spot, their purple folds,
My spirit lifts its silent prayer,
For Thou, O God of love, art there.

The summer-flowers, the fair, the sweet
Up-springing freely from the sod,
In whose soft looks we seem to meet
At every step, thy smiles, O GOD!
The humblest soul their sweetness shares,
They bloom in palace-hall, or cot,-
Give me, O LORD, a heart like theirs,
Contented with my lowly lot;
Within their pure, ambrosial bells
In odours sweet thy spirit dwells.
Their breath may seem to scent the air-
"Tis thine, O GOD! for Thou art there.

Hark! from yon casement, low and dim,
What sounds are these that fill the breeze?
It is the peasant's evening hymn

Arrests the fisher on the seas;
The old man leans his silver hairs
Upon his light suspended oar,
Until those soft, delicious airs

Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is fill'd with peace and prayer,
For Thou, O God, art with him there.

The birds among the summer blooms

Pour forth to Thee their hymns of love, When, trembling on uplifted plumes,

They leave the earth and soar above;

We hear their sweet, familiar airs
Where'er a sunny spot is found:
How lovely is a life like theirs,

Diffusing sweetness all around!
From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
Their sweetest anthems softly roll;
Till, melting on the realms of air,
They reach thy throne in grateful prayer.
The stars-those floating isles of light,
Round which the clouds unfurl their sails,
Pure as a woman's robe of white

That trembles round the form it veils,They touch the heart as with a spell,

Yet set the soaring fancy free:
And, O! how sweet the tales they tell

Of faith, of peace, of love, and Thee.
Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy breeze that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair-
They speak of thee, for Thou art there.
The spirit, oft oppress'd with doubt,

May strive to cast thee from its thought;
But who can shut thy presence out,
Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought!
In spite of all our cold resolves,

Magnetic-like, where'er we be,
Still, still the thoughtful heart revolves,
And points, all trembling, up to thee.
We cannot shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blest-
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For Thou, the living Gon, art there.
Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,

Where soaring fancy oft hath been,
There is a land where Thou hast said
The pure in heart shall enter in;
There, in those realms so calmly bright,

How many a loved and gentle one Bathe their soft plumes in living light,

That sparkles from thy radiant throne! There, souls once soft and sad as ours Look up and sing mid fadeless flowers; They dream no more of grief and care, For Thou, the GoD of peace, art there.

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

WHEN shines the star, by thee loved best,
Upon these soft, delicious eves,
Lighting the ring-dove to her nest,

Where trembling stir the darkling leaves; When flings the wave its crest of foam

Above the shadowy-mantled seas: A softness o'er my heart doth come, Linking thy memory with these; For if, amid those orbs that roll,

Thou hast at times a thought of me, For every one that stirs thy soul

A thousand stir my own of thee. Even now thy dear remember'd eyes,

Fill'd up with floods of radiant light, Seem bending from the twilight skies, Outshining all the stars of night: And thy young face, divinely fair,

Like a bright cloud, seems melting through, While low, sweet whispers fill the air,

Making my own lips whisper too; For never does the soft south wind

Steal o'er the hush'd and lonely sea, But it awakens in my mind

A thousand memories of thee.

O! could I, while these hours of dreams
Are gathering o'er the silent hills,
While every breeze a minstrel seems,
And every leaf a heart that thrills,
Steal all unseen to some hush'd place,

And, kneeling 'neath those burning orbs, Forever gaze on thy sweet face,

Till seeing every sense absorbs;
And singling out, each blessed even,
The star that earliest lights the sea,
Forget another shines in heaven
While shines the one beloved by thee.

Lost one! companion of the blest,

Thou, who in purer air dost dwell,
Ere froze the life-drops in thy breast,
Or fled thy soul its mystic cell,
We pass'd on earth such hours of bliss
As none but kindred hearts can know,
And, happy in a world like this,

But dream'd of that to which we go,
Till thou wert call'd in thy young years
To wander o'er that shoreless sea,
Where, like a mist, time disappears,
Melting into eternity.

I'm thinking of some sunny hours,

That shone out goldenly in June, When birds were singing 'mong the flowers, With wild, sweet voices all in tune When o'er thy locks of paly gold

Flow'd thy transparent veil away, Till 'neath each snow-white trembling fold The Eden of thy bosom lay; And, shelter'd 'neath its dark-fringed lid Till raised from thence in girlish glee, How modestly thy glance lay hid

From the fond glances bent on thee.

There are some hours that pass so soon

Our spell-touch'd hearts scarce know they end; And so it was with that sweet June,

Ere thou wert lost, my gentle friend!
O! how I'll watch each flower that closes
Through autumn's soft and breezy reign,
Till summer-blooms restore the roses,

And merry June shall come again!
But, ah! while float its sunny hours
O'er fragrant shore and trembling sea,
Missing thy face among the flowers,
How my full heart will mourn for thee!

TO A SEA-SHELL.

SHELL of the bright sea-waves!

What is it that we hear in thy sad moan?
Is this unceasing music all thine own,
Lute of the ocean-caves!

Or, does some spirit dwell

In the deep windings of thy chamber dim,
Breathing forever, in its mournful hymn,
Of ocean's anthem swell?

Wert thou a murmurer long

In crystal palaces beneath the seas,
Ere, on the bright air, thou hadst heard the breeze
Pour its full tide of song?

Another thing with thee

Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep,
Buried with flashing gems that darkly sleep,

Hid by the mighty sea?

And say, O lone sea-shell,

Are there not costly things, and sweet perfumes, Scatter'd in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs ?

Hush thy low moan, and tell.

But yet, and more than all

Has not each foaming wave in fury toss'd
O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost,
Like a dark funeral pall?

"Tis vain-thou answerest not!
Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead-
'Tis ours alone, with sighs, like odours shed,
To hold them unforgot!

Thine is as sad a strain

As if the spirit in thy hidden cell
Pined to be with the many things that dwell
In the wild, restless main.

And yet, there is no sound

Upon the waters, whisper'd by the waves,
But seemeth like a wail from many graves,
Thrilling the air around.

The earth, O moaning shell!
The earth hath melodies more sweet than these,
The music-gush of rills, the hum of bees,
Heard in each blossom's bell.

Are not these tones of earth, The rustling foliage with its shivering leaves, Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlight eves Upon the seas have birth?

Alas! thou still wilt moanThou'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs, E'en when amid bewildering melodies,

If parted from its own.