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THE OLD TREE.

AND is it gone, that venerable tree,
The old spectator of my infancy?-
It used to stand upon this very spot,
And now almost its absence is forgot.

I knew its mighty strength had known decay,
Its heart, like every old one, shrunk away,

But dreamt not that its frame would fall, ere mine
At all partook my weary soul's decline.

The great reformist, that each day removes
The old, yet never on the old improves,
The dotard, Time, that like a child destroys,

As sport or spleen may prompt, his ancient toys,
And shapes their ruins into something new-
Has planted other playthings where it grew.
The wind pursues an unobstructed course,
Which once among its leaves delay'd perforce;
The harmless Hamadryad, that of yore
Inhabited its bole, subsists no more;

Its roots have long since felt the ruthless plough-
There is no vestige of its glories now!

But in my mind, which doth not soon forget,
That venerable tree is growing yet;
Nourish'd, like those wild plants that feed on air,
By thoughts of years unconversant with care,
And visions such as pass ere man grows wholly
A fiendish thing, or mischief adds to folly.
I still behold it with my fancy's eye,
A vernant record of the days gone by:
I see not the sweet form and face more plain,
Whose memory was a weight upon my brain.
-Dear to my song, and dearer to my soul,
Who knew but half my heart, yet had the whole
Sun of my life, whose presence and whose flight
Its brief day caused, and never-ending night!
Must this delightless verse, which is indeed
The mere wild product of a worthless weed,
(But which, like sunflowers, turns a loving face
Towards the lost light, and scorns its birth and place,)
End with such cold allusion unto you,

It

To whom, in youth, my very dreams were true? must; I have no more of that soft kind, My age is not the same, nor is my mind.

ΤΟ

'Twas eve; the broadly shining sun
Its long, celestial course had run;
The twilight heaven, so soft and blue,
Met earth in tender interview,
E'en as the angel met of yore
His gifted mortal paramour,
Woman, a child of morning then,-
A spirit still,-compared with men.
Like happy islands of the sky,
The gleaming clouds reposed on high,
Each fix'd sublime, deprived of motion,
A Delos to the airy ocean.
Upon the stirless shore no breeze
Shook the green drapery of the trees,
Or, rebel to tranquillity,

Awoke a ripple on the sea.

Nor, in a more tumultuous sound,

Were the world's audible breathings drown'd;

The low, strange hum of herbage growing,
The voice of hidden waters flowing,
Made songs of nature, which the ear
Could scarcely be pronounced to hear;
But noise had furl'd its subtle wings,
And moved not through material things,
All which lay calm as they had been
Parts of the painter's mimic scene.
'Twas eve; my thoughts belong to thee,
Thou shape of separate memory!
When, like a stream to lands of flame,
Unto my mind a vision came.
Methought, from human haunts and strife
Remote, we lived a loving life;
Our wedded spirits seem'd to blend
In harmony too sweet to end,
Such concord as the echoes cherish
Fondly, but leave at length to perish.
Wet rain-stars are thy lucid eyes,
The Hyades of earthly skies,
But then upon my heart they shone,
As shines on snow the fervid sun.

And fast went by those moments bright,
Like meteors shooting through the night;
But faster fleeted the wild dream

That clothed them with their transient beam.
Yet love can years to days condense,
And long appear'd that life intense;
It was, to give a better measure
Than time,—a century of pleasure.

ELYSIUM.

SHE dwelleth in Elysium; there,
Like Echo, floating in the air;
Feeding on light as feed the flowers,
She fleets away uncounted hours,
Where halcyon Peace, among the bless'd,
Sits brooding o'er her tranquil nest.
She needs no impulse; one she is,
Whom thought supplies with ample bliss:
The fancies fashion'd in her mind
By Heaven, are after its own kind;
Like sky-reflections in a lake,
Whose calm no winds occur to break.

Her memory is purified,

And she seems never to have sigh'd:
She hath forgot the way to weep;
Her being is a joyous sleep;
The mere imagining of pain,
Hath pass'd, and cannot come again.

Except of pleasure most intense
And constant, she hath lost all sense;
Her life is day without a night,.
An endless, innocent delight;
No chance her happiness now mars,
Howe'er Fate twine her wreaths of stars,

And palpable and pure, the part
Which pleasure playeth with her heart;
For every joy that seeks the maid,
Foregoes its common painful shade
Like shapes that issue from the grove
Arcadian, dedicate to JoyE

TO H

EDWARD C. PINKNEY.

THE firstlings of my simple song
Were offer'd to thy name;
Again the altar, idle long,

In worship rears its flame.
My sacrifice of sullen years,
My many hecatombs of tears,

No happier hours recall—

Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore
To one who ever loved thee more

Than fickle Fortune's all.

And now, farewell!-and although here
Men hate the source of pain,
I hold thee and thy follies dear,

Nor of thy faults complain.
For my misused and blighted powers,
My waste of miserable hours,

I will accuse thee not:

The fool who could from self depart,
And take for fate one human heart,
Deserved no better lot.

I reck of mine the less, because
In wiser moods I feel

A doubtful question of its cause
And nature, on me steal-
An ancient notion, that time flings

Our pains and pleasures from his wings

With much equality

And that, in reason, happiness
Both of accession and decrease
Incapable must be.

UNWISE, or most unfortunate,
My way was; let the sign,
The proof of it, be simply this-

Thou art not, wert not mine!
For 'tis the wont of chance to bless
Pursuit, if patient, with success;

And envy may repine,
That, commonly, some triumph must
Be won by every lasting lust.

How I have lived imports not now;
I am about to die,

Else I might chide thee that my life
Has been a stifled sigh;

Yes, life; for times beyond the line
Our parting traced, appear not mine,
Or of a world gone by;
And often almost would evince,
My soul had transmigrated since.
Pass wasted flowers; alike the grave,
To which I fast go down,
Will give the joy of nothingness
To me, and to renown:
Unto its careless tenants, fame
Is idle as that gilded name,

Of vanity the crown,
Helvetian hands inscribe upon
'The forehead of a skeleton.
List the last cadence of a lay,
That, closing as begun,
Is govern'd by a note of pain,
O, lost and worshipp'd one!

None shall attend a sadder strain, Till MEMNON's statue stand again

To mourn the setting sun,Nor sweeter, if my numbers seem To share the nature of their theme.

SERENADE.

Look out upon the stars, my love,

And shame them with thine eyes, On which, than on the lights above, There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light;
Then, lady, up,-look out, and be
A sister to the night!-

Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast:
Sleep not!-from her soft sleep should fly,
Who robs all hearts of rest.
Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,
And make this darkness gay
With looks, whose brightness well might make
Of darker nights a day.

THE WIDOW'S SONG.

I BURN no incense, hang no wreath
O'er this, thine early tomb:
Such cannot cheer the place of death,

But only mock its gloom.

Here odorous smoke and breathing flower
No grateful influence shed;
They lose their perfume and their power,
When offer'd to the dead.

And if, as is the Afghaun's creed,

The spirit may return,
A disembodied sense, to feed

On fragrance, near its urn-
It is enough, that she, whom thou
Didst love in living years,
Sits desolate beside it now,
And falls these heavy tears.

SONG.

I NEED not name thy thrilling name, Though now I drink to thee, my dear, Since all sounds shape that magic word,

That fall upon my ear,-MARY; And silence, with a wakeful voice, Speaks it in accents loudly free, As darkness hath a light that shows Thy gentle face to me,-MARI. I pledge thee in the grape's pure soul, With scarce one hope, and many fears, Mix'd, were I of a melting mood,

With many bitter tears.--MARII pledge thee, and the empty cup Emblems this hollow life of mine, To which, a gone enchantment, thou No more wilt be the wine,-MARI.

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and has since been known as a lover of

FORTUNATUS COSBY, a son of Mr. Justice Cos- Mr. COSBY has sung with natural grace and BY, for many years one of the most eminent law-genuine feeling of domestic life, and of the charms yers of Louisville, Kentucky, was born at Harrod's of nature, as seen in the luxuriant west, where, in Creek, Jefferson county, in that state, on the his own time, forests of a thousand years have dissecond of May, 1802; graduated at Yale College appeared before the axe of the settler, and cities, in 1819; married a young lady of New England with all the institutions of cultivated society, have CA in 1825; taken the places of wigwams and hunting-camps. literature, and a poet, though too careless of his Among the longer effusions which he has printed fame as an author to collect the many waifs he anonymously, besides the following fine ode "To has from time to time contributed to the periodi- the Mocking Bird," (written about the year 1826,) cals, some of which have been widely published may be mentioned «The Traveler in the Desert," A Dream of Long Ago," "Fireside Fancies," and The Solitary Fountain."

under the names of other writers. In his later years he has resided in Washington.

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TO THE MOCKING BIRD.*

BIRD of the wild and wondrous song,
I hear thy rich and varied voice
Swelling the greenwood depths among,
Till hill and vale the while rejoice.
Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain,
I list to that inspiring strain;
I thread the forest's tangled maze

The thousand choristers to see,
Who, mingled thus, their voices raise
In that delicious minstrelsy;

I search in vain each pause between-
The choral band is still unseen.

"T is but the music of a dream,

An airy sound that mocks the ear;
But hark again! the eagle's scream-
It rose and fell, distinct and clear!
And list! in yonder hawthorn bush,
The red-bird, robin, and the thrush!
Lost in amaze I look around,
Nor thrush nor eagle there behold:
But still that rich ærial sound,

Like some forgotten song of old
That o'er the heart has held control,
Falls sweetly on the ravished soul.

And yet the woods are vocal still,

The air is musical with song;
O'er the near stream, above the hill,
The wildering notes are borne along;
But whence that gush of rare delight?
And what art thou, or bird, or sprite?—
Perched on yon maple's topmost bough,
With glancing wings and restless feet,
Bird of untiring throat, art thou

Sole songster in this concert sweet!

*In earlier editions of this volume erroneously attributed to Mr. ALFRED B. MEEK.

So perfect, full, and rich, each part,
It mocks the highest reach of art.

Once more, once more, that thrilling strain!-
Ill-omened owl, be mute, be mute!-
Thy native tones I hear again,

More sweet than harp or lover's lute;
Compared with thy impassioned tale,
How cold, how tame the nightingale.
Alas! capricious in thy power,

Thy "wood-note wild" again is fled:
The mimic rules the changeful hour,
And all the "soul of song" is dead!
But no-to every borrowed tone
He lends a sweetness all his own!

On glittering wing, erect and bright,

With arrowy speed he darts aloft,
As though his soul had ta'en its flight,
In that last strain, so sad and soft,
And he would call it back to life,
To mingle in the mimic strife!
And ever, to each fitful lay,

His frame in restless motion wheels,
As though he would indeed essay
To act the ecstacy he feels-
As though his very feet kept time
To that inimitable chime!

And ever, as the rising moon

Climbs with full orb the trees above,
He sings his most enchanting tune,

While echo wakes through all the grove;
His descant soothes, in care's despite,
The weary watches of the night;
The sleeper from his couch starts up,
To listen to that lay forlorn;
And he who quaffs the midnight cup
Looks out to see the purple morn!
Oh, ever in the merry spring,
Sweet mimic, let me hear thee sing!

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JAMES WILLIAM MILLER.

[Born about 1802. Died 1829.]

Mr.

in 1829, at the age of twenty-seven years. Monthly Magazine," for October, 1830, as having N. P. WILLIS describes him, in his "America been "a man of exceeding sensitiveness, and grea delicacy, both of native disposition and culture in common life, and which, at the same time tha and "of that kind of genius which is out of place pity." it interests and attracts you, excites your fear and

JAMES WILLIAM MILLER was a young man of | he died—his brain and heart and body overtaske! singular refinement, and most honorable character, "with the single defect of indecision," which, according to his biographer, " attended almost every action in his chequered existence," so that, young as he was when he died, "he had been engaged in as many as eight different pursuits, none of which was prosecuted with sufficient perseverance to command success. passed some time in the desultory study of the In 1828, after having law, at Middleborough, near Boston, he suddenly determined to make a desperate effort* to acquire fortune, or at least a competence, in the West Indies; and after visiting several of the islands, finally settled upon one of those which are subject to Spain, and though his health was feeble and precarious, was prosecuting his plans with great energy, and prospects of abundant success, when

with JOHN NEAL in the editorship of "The
Mr. MILLER was for a short time associated
Yankee," and he wrote for this and other perio
icals, many poems, simple and touching in sent
ment, for the most part, but with indications of his
constitutional carelessness, which after his death
appreciative memoir.
were collected and published, with a graceful and

A SHOWER.

THE pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
By fits it plashing falls

On twangling leaf and dimpling pool-
How sweet its warning calls!
They know it-all the bosomy vales,
High slopes, and verdant meads;
The queenly elms and princely oaks
Bow down their grateful heads.

The withering grass, and fading flowers,
And drooping shrubs look gay;
The bubbly brook, with gladlier song,
Hies on its endless way!

All things of earth, all grateful things!
Put on their robes of cheer;

They hear the sound of the warning burst,
And know the rain is near.

It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain!
I drink its cooler breath;

It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers,
And roses' fragrant death;

It hath kiss'd the tomb of the lilly pale,
The beds where violets die,

And it bears its life on its living wings-
I feel it wandering by.

"He left this country abruptly, to run a wild hazard of life for which his delicate habits unfitted him-for a reward most distant and visionary.... The country he was going to was rude and sickly; the pursuits he was to engage in were coarse and repulsive; the language, the people, new to him; the prospects of success too distant for any thing but desperation."-Notice by N. P. Willis.

294

And yet it comes! the lightning's flash
Hath torn the lowering cloud;
With a distant roar, and a nearer crash,
Out bursts the thunder loud;
It comes with the rush of a god's descent
On the hush'd and trembling earth,
To visit the shrines of the hallow'd groves
Where a poet's soul had birth.

With a rush as of a thousand steeds,
Is the mighty god's descent;
Beneath the weight of his passing tread,
The conscious groves are bent.
His heavy tread-it is lighter now-

And yet it passeth on;
And now it is up, with a sudden lift—

The pleasant rain hath gone.
The pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
It hath passed above the earth,
I see the smile of the opening cloud,
Like the parted lips of mirth.
The golden joy is spreading wide
Along the blushing west,
And the happy earth gives back her smiles,
Like the glow of a grateful breast.

As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart,
That knoweth all its need,
So came the good of the pleasant rain,

O'er hill and verdant mead.

It shall breathe this truth on the human ear,
In hall and cotter's home,

That to bring the gift of a bounteous Heaven,
The pleasant rain hath come.

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O'ER a low couch the setting sun
Had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony
A dying warrior lay,
The stern, old Baron RUDIGER,

Whose fame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil

Its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say
My days of life are o'er,
That I shall mount my noble steed

And lead my band no more;
They come, and to my beard they dare
To tell me now, that I,

Their own liege lord and master born,—
That I-ha! ha!-must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft

Before the Paynim spear,—
Think ye he's entered at my gate,
Has come to seek me here?
I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him,
When the fight was raging hot,—
I'll try his might-I'll brave his power;
Defy, and fear him not.

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,-
And fire the culverin,-

Bid each retainer arm with speed,—
Call every vassal in;
Up with my banner on the wall,-

The banquet board prepare,-
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armour there!"
A hundred hands were busy then,-
The banquet forth was spread,-
And rung the heavy oaken floor
With many a martial tread,
While from the rich, dark tracery
Along the vaulted wall,

Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear,
O'er the proud, old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate,
The mail'd retainers pour'd,
On through the portal's frowning arch,
And throng'd around the board.
While at its head, within his dark,
Carved oaken chair of state,
Arm'd cap-a-pie, stern RUDIGER,

With girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men,

Pour forth the cheering wine;
There's life and strength in every drop,―
Thanksgiving to the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true?—
Mine eyes are waxing dim ;-
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones,
Each goblet to the brim.

"Ye're there, but yet I see ye not.
Draw forth each trusty sword,-
And let me hear your faithful steel
Clash once around my board:

I hear it faintly-Louder yet!—
What clogs my heavy breath?
Up all, and shout for RUDIGER,
Defiance unto Death!"

Bowl rang to bowl,-steel clang'd to steel,
-And rose a deafening cry
That made the torches flare around,
And shook the flags on high :-
"Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?—
Slaves, traitors! have ye flown?
Ho! cowards, have ye left me
To meet him here alone!

But I defy him:-let him come !"
Down rang the massy cup,
While from its sheath the ready blade
Came flashing halfway up;

And, with the black and heavy plumes
Scarce trembling on his head,

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair,
Old RUDIGER sat, dead.

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