He caught within his crimson bell Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won- And haste away to the elfin shore. XXIII. He turns, and, lo! on either side And the track o'er which his boat must pass Toward the beach of speckled sand; Then gayly kiss'd each little hand, And dropp'd in the crystal deep below. XXIV. A moment stay'd the fairy there; He kiss'd the beach and breathed a prayer; And shine with a thousand changing dyes, And gleams with blendings soft and bright, Up, Fairy! quit thy chick-weed bower, XXV. He put his acorn helmet on; It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down: He bared his blade of the bent grass blue; And away like a glance of thought he flew XXVI. The moth-fly, as he shot in air, The prowling gnat fled fast away, For they had felt the blue-bent blade, And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear; Many a time, on a summer's night, When the sky was clear and the moon was Up to the vaulted firmament Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. But the shapes of air have begun their work, And a drizzly mist is round him cast, He cannot see through the mantle murk, He shivers with cold, but he urges fast; Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade, He lashes his steed and spurs amain, For shadowy hands have twitch'd the rein, And flame-shot tongues around him play'd, And near him many a fiendish eye Glared with a fell malignity, And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, XXVIII. His wings are wet around his breast, He thrust before and he struck behind, They rend the air with frightful cries, For he has gain'd the welkin blue, And the land of clouds beneath him lies, 208 XXIX. Up to the cope careering swift, On a sheet of azure cast. O! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, And feel the cooling breath of heaven! And watch'd for the glimpse of the planet-shoot. Xxx. Sudden along the snowy tide That swell'd to meet their footsteps' fall, The palace of the sylphid queen. XXXI. But, O! how fair the shape that lay The loveliest of the forms of light; At twilight in the west afar; "T was tied with threads of dawning gold, And button'd with a sparkling star. Her face was like the lily roon That veils the vestal planet's hue; Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon, Set floating in the welkin blue. Her hair is like the sunny beam, And the diamond gems which round it gleam Are the pure drops of dewy even That ne'er have left their native heaven. And as he told in accents low She felt new pains in her bosom rise, 66 Return no more to your woodland height, But ever here with me abide In the land of everlasting light! Around thy brow shall brig tly beam! We'll rest on Orion's starry belt, And I will bid my sylphs to sing The song that makes the dew-mist melt; Their harps are of the umber shade, That hides the blush of waking day, And every gleamy string is made Of silvery moonshine's lengthen'd ray; While heavenly breathings float around, XXXIII. She was lovely and fair to see On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye, To think upon his virgin bride, Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. XXXIV. "Lady," he cried, "I have sworn to-night, On the word of a fairy-knight, To do my sentence-task aright; I may not soil its snows again; Its mandate must be answer'd now." And call'd the sylphs who hover'd there, For by its wane and wavering light There was a star would fall to-night. XXXV. Borne afar on the wings of the blast, The leaf harp sounds our roundelay, The owlet's eyes our lanterns be; But, hark! from tower on tree-top high, Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade! XXXVI. The star is yet in the vault of heaven, And now 'tis deadly pale; And now 't is wrapp'd in sulphur-smoke, It bursts in flash and flame. As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance As it fell from the sheeted say. As swift as the wind in its trail behind The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud, While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze; But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed, Ouphe and Goblin! Imp and Sprite! Sing and trip it merrily, Hail the wanderer again With dance and song, and lute and lyre, Pure his wing and strong his chain, And doubly bright his fairy fire. Twine ye in an airy round, Brush the dew and print the lea; Skip and gambol, hop and bound, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. The beetle guards our holy ground, And if mortal there be found, He hums in his ears and flaps his face; BRONX. I sat me down upon a green bank-side, Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow. Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around, Where lichens made a carpet for his feet; Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his ed fin's tiny twinkle. There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, White-powder'd dog trees, and stiff hollies flaunting Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of lic wedding. The breeze fresh springing from the lips of mort, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form' for a poet' dwelling And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remember'd form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy THE AMERICAN FLAG. I. WHEN Freedom from her mountain height And set the stars of glory there. II. Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, III. Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreathes the battle-shroud And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Each gallant arm that strikes below IV. Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. V. Flag of the free heart's hope and home! And all thy hues were born in heaven. Where breathes the foe but falls before us With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! TO SARAH. I. ONE happy year has fled, SALL, Since you were all my own; The leaves have felt the autumn blight, The wintry storm has blown. We heeded not the cold blast, Nor the winter's icy air; For we found our climate in the heart, And it was summer there. 11. The summer sun is bright, SALL, But clouds will sometimes sadden them, And dim their lovely blue; And clouds may come to us, SALL, But sure they will not stay; For there's a spell in fond hearts To chase their gloom away. III. J sickness and in sorrow l'hine eyes were on me still, And there was comfort in each glance To charm the sense of ill; And were they absent now, SALL, And bless each pang that gave me back IV. O, pleasant is the welcome kiss, When day's dull round is o'er, And sweet the music of the step That meets me at the door. Though worldly cares may visit us, I reck not when they fall, While I have thy kind lips, my SALL To smile away them all. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. [Born 1795. Died 1887.] THE author of "Red Jacket, and Peter Castaly's Epistle to Recorder Riker," is a son of IsBAEL HALLECK, of Dutchess county, New York, and MARY ELIOT, his wife, of Guilford, Connecti- | cut, a descendant of JOHN ELIOT, the celebrated "Apostle of the Indians." He was born at Guilford, in August, 1795, and when about eighteen years of age became a clerk in one of the principal banking-houses in New York. He evinced a taste for poetry, and wrote verses, at a very early period, but until he came to New York never published any thing which in the maturity of his years he has deemed worthy of preservation. The "Evening Post," then edited by WILLIAM COLEMAN, was the leading paper of the city, and the only one in which much attention was given to literature. It had a large number of contributors, and youthful wits who gained admission to its columns regarded themselves as fairly started in a career of successful authorship. HALLECK'S first offering to the "Evening Post" was that piece of exquisite versification and refined sentiment of which the first line is "There is an evening twilight of the heart." BRYANT, who was nearly a year older, about the same time published in the " North American Review" his noble poem of "Thanatopsis." COLEMAN gave HALLECK's lines to the printer as soon as he had read them, which was a great compliment for so fastidious an editor. He did not ascertain who wrote them for several months, and the author in the mean while had become so much of a literary lion that he then reprinted them with a preface asserting their merits. One evening in the spring of 1819, as HALLECK was on the way home from his place of business, he stopped at a coffee-house then much frequented by young men, in the vicinity of Columbia College. A shower has just fallen, and a brilliant sunset was distinguished by a rainbow of unusual magnificence. In the group about the door, half a dozen had told what they would wish could their wishes be realized, when HALLECK, said, looking at the glorious spectacle above the horizon, "If I could have my wish, it should be to lie in the lap of that rainbow, and read Tom Campbell." A handsome young fellow, standing near, suddenly turned to him and exclaimed, "You and I must be acquainted: my name is DRAKE;" and from that hour till his death JoSEPH RODMAN DRAKE and FITZ-GREENE HALLECK were united in a most fraternal intimacy. DRAKE had already written the first four of the once-celebrated series of humorous and satirical odes known as the "Croaker Pieces," and they had been published in the Evening Post." H now made HALLECK a partner, and the remain ing numbers were signed " Croaker & Co." The last one written by DRAKE was "The American Flag," printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and the last of the series, "Curtain Conversations," was furnished by HALLECK, on the twenty-fourth of the following July. These pieces related to scenes and events with which most readers in New York were familiar; they were written with great spirit and good-humour, and the curiosity of the town was excited to learn who were their authors; but the young poets kept their secret, and were unsuspected, while their clever performances were from time to time attributed to various well-known literary men. Near the close of the year HALLECK wrote in the same vein his longest poem, "Fanny," a playful satire of the fashions, follies, and public characters of the day. It contains from twelve to fifteen hundred lines, and was completed and printed within three weeks from its commencement. The next year DRAKE died, of consumption, and HALLECK mourned his loss in those beautiful tributary verses which appeared soon after in the "Scientific Repository and Critical Review," beginning"Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days; None named thee but to praise." In 1822 and 1823 our author visited Great Britain and the continent of Europe. Among the souvenirs of his travels are two of his finest poems, "Burns," and "Alnwick Castle," which, with a few other pieces, he gave to the public in a small volume in 1827. His fame was now established, and he has ever since been regarded as one of the truest of our poets, and in New York, where his personal qualities, are best known, and his poems, from their local allusions, are read by everybody, he has enjoyed perpetual and almost unexampled popularity. He was once, as he informs us in one of his witty and graceful epistles, "in the cotton trade and sugar line," but for many years before the death of the late JOHN JACOB ASTOR, he was the principal superintendent of the extensive affairs of that great capitalist. Since then he has resided chiefly in his native town, in Connecticut. He frequently visits New York, however, and the fondness and enthusiasm with which his name is cherished by his old associates was happily illus trated in the beginning of 1854 by a complimentary dinner which was then given him by mein bers of the Century Club. It was Lord BYRON's opinion that a poet is al ways to be ranked according to his execution, and |