MY HERMITAGE.

WITHIN a wood, one summer's day,
And in a hollow, ancient trunk,
I shut me from the world away,
To live as lives a hermit monk.

My cell was a ghostly sycamore,

The roots and limbs were dead with age;
Decay had carved the gothic door
Which looked into my hermitage.

My library was large and full,

Where, ever as a hermit plods,

I read until my eyes are dull

With tears; for all those tomes were God's.

The vine that at my doorway swung
Had verses writ on every leaf,
The very songs the bright bees sung
In honey-seeking visits brief-

Not brief-though each stayed never long-
So rapidly they came and went
No pause was left in all their song,

For while they borrowed still they lent.
All day the woodland minstrels sang—
Small feet were in the leaves astir-
And often o'er my doorway rang

The tap of a blue-winged visiter.

Afar the stately river swayed,

And poured itself in giant swells,
While here the brooklet danced and played,
And gayly rung its liquid bells.

The springs gave me their crystal flood,
And my contentment made it wine-
And oft I found what kingly food

Grew on the world-forgotten vine
The moss, or weed, or running flower,
Too humble in their hope to climb,
Had in themselves the lovely power

To make me happier for the time.
And when the starry night came by,
And stooping looked into my cell,
Then all between the earth and sky
Was circled in a holier spell.

A height and depth, and breadth sublime
O'erspread the scene, and reached the stars,
Until Eternity and Time

Seemed drowning their dividing bars.
And voices which the day ne'er hears,

And visions which the sun ne'er sees,
From earth and from the distant spheres,
Came on the moonlight and the breeze.
Thus day and night my spirit grew

In love with that which round me shone,
Until my calm heart fully knew

The joy it is to be alone.

The time went by-till one fair dawn
I saw against the eastern fires

A visionary city drawn,

With dusky lines of domes and spires.

My wakened heart for utterance yearned― The clamorous wind had broke the spellI heeds must teach what I had learned Within my simple woodland cell.

PASSING THE ICEBERGS.

A FEARLESS shape of brave device,
Our vessel drives through mist and rain.
Between the floating fleets of ice-

The navies of the northern main.

These arctic ventures, blindly hurled

The proofs of Nature's olden force,— Like fragments of a crystal world

Long shattered from its skiey course. These are the buccaneers that fright

The middle sea with dream of wrecks, And freeze the south winds in their flight, And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks. At every dragon prow and helm

There stands some Viking as of yore; Grim heroes from the boreal realm Where Odin rules the spectral shore. And oft beneath the sun or moon

Their swift and eager falchions glowWhile, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune Comes chafing through some beard of snow

And when the far north flashes up

With fires of mingled red and gold,
They know that many a blazing cup
Is brimming to the absent bold.
Up signal there, and let us hail

Yon looming phantom as we pass!
Note all her fashion, hull, and sail,

Within the compass of your glass.
See at her mast the steadfast glow

Of that one star of Odin's throne,
Up with our flag, and let us show

The Constellation on our own.
And speak her well; for she might say.

If from her heart the words could thaw,
Great news from some far frozen bay,
Or the remotest Esquimaux.
Might tell of channels yet untold,

That sweep the pole from sea to sea
Of lands which God designs to hold
A mighty people yet to be:-
Of wonders which alone prevail

Where day and darkness dimly meet,
Of all which spreads the arctic sail;
Of FRANKLIN and his venturous deet:

How, haply, at some glorious goal

His anchor holds-his sails are furled; That Fame has named himn on her scroll, "Columbus of the Polar World." Or how his ploughing barques wedge on Thro' splintering fields, with battered shares, Lit only by that spectral dawn,

The mask that mocking darkness wears;

Or how, o'er embers black and few,

The last of shivered masts and spars,

He sits amid his frozen crew

In council with the norland stars.

No answer but the sullen flow

Of ocean heaving long and vast ;

An argosy of ice and snow,

The voiceless North swings proudly past.

A DIRGE FOR A DEAD BIRD.

THE cage hangs at the window,

There's the sunshine on the sill; But where the form and where the voice That never till now were still? The sweet voice hath departed

From its feathery home of gold, The little form of yellow dust

Lies motionless and cold!

Oh, where amid the azure

Hath thy sweet spirit fled?

I hold my breath and think I hear
Its music overhead.

Death has not hushed thy spirit,

Its joy shall vanish never;
The slightest thrill of pleasure born
Lives on and lives forever!

Throughout the gloomy winter
Thy soul shed joy in ours,
As it told us of the summer-time
Amid the land of flowers.

But now thy songs are silent,

Except what memory brings; For thou hast folded death within

The glory of thy wings!

And here thy resting-place shall be
Beneath the garden bower;
A bush shall be thy monument,
Thy epitaph a flower!

MIDNIGHT.

THE moon looks down on a world of snow, And the midnight lamp is burning low, And the fading embers mildly glow

In their bed of ashes soft and deep; All, all is still as the hour of death; I only hear what the old clock saith, And the mother and infant's easy breath, That flows from the holy land of Sleep.

Say on, old clock—I love you well,

For your silver chime, and the truths you tell, Your every stroke is but the knell

Of hope, or sorrow, buried deep;
Say on--but only let me hear

The sound most sweet to my listening ear,
The child and the mother breathing clear
Within the harvest-fields of Sleep.
Thou watchman, on thy lonely round,
I thank thee for that warning sound;
The clarion cock and the baying hound
Not less their dreary vigils keep;
Still hearkening, I will love you all,
While in each silent interval

I hear those dear breasts rise and fall
Upon the airy tide of Sleep.

Old world, on time's benighted stream
Sweep down till the stars of morning beam
From orient shores-nor break the dream

That calms my love to pleasure deep;
Roll on, and give my Bud and Rose
The fulness of thy best repose,
The blessedness which only flows
Along the silent realms of Sleep.

THE NAMELESS.

COME fill, my merry friends, to-night,
And let the winds unheeded blow,
And we will wake the deep delight
Which true hearts only know.
And ere the passing wine be done,
Come drink to those most fair and dear,
And I will pledge a cup to one

Who shall be nameless here.

Come fil, nor let the flagon stand,

Till pleasure's voice shall drown the wind, Nor heed old Winter's stormy hand

Which shakes the window-blind. And down the midnight hour shall run

The brightest moments of the year; While I will fill, my friends, to one Who shall be nameless here.

Pledge you to lips that smile in sleep,

Whose dreams have strewed your path with And to those sacred eyes that weep [flowers, Whene'er your fortune lowers;

And charm the night, ere it be done,
With names that are forever dear,
While I must pour and quaff to one
Who shall be nameless here.

To her I proudly poured the first
Inspiring beaker of the Rhine,
And still it floods my veins as erst
It filled the German vine.
And when her memory, like the sun,
Shall widen down my dying year,
My latest cup will be to one

Who st all be nameless here.

GEORGE HENRY BOKER was born in Philadelphia in 1823, and was graduated bachelor of arts at Nassau Hall, Princeton, when nineteen years of age. After travelling some time in Europe, and making himself familiar with contemporaneous literatures among their creators, he settled in his native city, to devote a life of opulent leisure to the cultivation of letters and to the enjoyment of the liberal arts and of society.

His first appearance as an author was in a small volume published in 1847, under the title of "The Lesson of Life, and other Poems." In this were indications of a manly temper and a cultivated taste, but it had the customary faults of youthful compositions in occasional feebleness of epithet, indistinctness, diffuseness, and a certain kind of romanticism that betrays a want of experience of the world. Its reception however by judicious critics, who saw amid its faults the signs of a fine under? standing, justified new efforts; and turning his attention to the drama, he produced in the following year" Calaynos, a Tragedy," which gave him large increase of reputation in the best audience of this country. The plot of this play illustrates the hatred of the Moors by the Castilians. CaLAYNOS, a nobleman of a sincere and generous nature, whose youth has been passed in the study of philosophy and in acts of kindness, and whose Saracen taint of blood is concealed from his wife, Donna ALDA, until made known in the progress of the history, proposes to leave his retirement for a journey to Seville. There is a superstition among the neighbouring peasants that a visit to Seville is dangerous to the race of CALAYNOS, and OLIVER, his secretary, whose practical sagacity alone is necessary to the perfection of the master's character, has also a presentiment of evil on this occasion, and endeavours to dissuade him from his purpose; upon which CALAY NOS discloses that the principal object of his journey is to see an early friend, Don LUIS, who has become involved in difficulties and whose estates will be sacrificed unless he receives by a certain day considerable assistance in money. Arriving in Seville with OLIVER, CALAYNOS discharges the obligations of Don Luis, who so wins upon his affection that he persuades him to become his guest. The party in the next act are at the castle of CALAYNOS, where Don Luis discovers that CALAYNOS is of Moorish origin, and having fallen in love with the wife of his benefactor, in a secret interview he informs her of her disgrace. It is difficult to appreciate the intensity of the prejudice which made this revelation so important; and it is an objection to the play for acting purposes, that out of Spain and Portugal few audiences could sympathize with it, though the historial student will perceive that Mr. BOKER has not

at all exaggerated it. Donna ALDA, struggling between love and pride, calls upon her husband, faints, and is borne from the scene in the arms of Don Luis; and the act closes with CALAYNOS'S discovery of his friend's ingratitude and his wife's perfidy. In the month which passes before the opening of the last act, CALAY NOS has become old through grief. His secretary, returned from a pursuit of the fugitives, informs him that Donna ALDA had fled from the residence of her seducer; she is discovered, seeking shelter from a storin under the walls of the castle, brought in, recognised, and dies, referring to a written exposure of the villany of Don Luis. CALAYNOs, convinced of her innocence, hastens to Seville, and slays the destroyer of his happiness in the midst of his debaucheries. This simple story is managed with much skill, and so as to produce a cumulative interest to its close. The characters, besides those already referred to, are some half dozen gentlemen to make side speeches and care about the details of the plot. They are distinctly drawn, in most cases with finely contrasted idiosyncracies (though the hero and heroine converse somewhat too much in the same style), and they are all excellently sustained. The action is less dramatic than the dialogue, which in some parts evinces great power, and, more frequently, those happy turns of expres sion which disclose a chief element of the dramatic faculty.

The next production of Mr. BoKER was "Anne Boleyn, a Tragedy," which in many respects surpasses "Calaynos," evincing more skill in the use of language, more force in the display of passion, and a finer vein of poetical feeling, with the same admirable contrasts of character, and unity and directness of conduct.

"Calaynos" and "Anne Boleyn" have been followed by "The Betrothal," "Francesca di Rimini," and other plays, and a small volume published in 1853 under the title of "The Podesta's Daughter, and other Poems." In the present year (1856) he has given to the public a collection of his Dramatic and Miscellaneous Poems, in two volumes, from the press of Tick nor and Fields.

ets.

In his minor productions Mr. BOKER has dişplayed a richness of invention, a copiousness of illustration, and a vigour and finish of style, that amply vindicate his right to be classed among the sinall number of our writers of verses who are po The attraction of these pieces, like that of his more ambitious performances, consists more in their general cast than in the strength or grace of particular ideas, or a fit elegance of phrase. It is a fault indeed, less conspicuous in his minor poems than in his tragedies, that modelling himself after some of the older masters of English verse, there

is an occasional want of ease in the structure of his sentences, and in his selection of words an insensibility to the more delicate charms of language: a fault that is not likely to outlast the full devel opment of his genius. It would be easy to point out in "Calaynos" many passages which are spoiled

by inversions altogether unnecessary to the perfec tion of the rhythm, or by other departures from the rule of nature, which are results of no carelessness, but evidently of an erroneous and it is to be hoped very transient fancy in regard to the effect of a colloquial simplicity in poetical writing..

THE SONG OF THE EARTH.

PRELUDE-CHORUS OF PLANETS.

HARK to our voices, O mother of nations! Why art thou dim when thy sisters are radiant? Why veil'st thy face in a mantle of vapour, Gliding obscure through the depths of the night? Wake from thy lethargy. Hear'st thou our music, Harmonious, that reaches the confines of space? Join in our chorus, join in our jubilee,

Make the day pine with thy far-piercing melody-
Pine that his kingdom of blue sky and sunshine
Never re-echoes such marvellous tones.
No, thou art silent, O mystical sister,

Silent and proud that thou bear'st on thy bosom
The wonderful freight of the God-lighted soul.
We hear thee, we hear thee, beneath thy thick
mantle,

The war of the winds through thy leaf-laden forests,
And round aisles of thy pillar'd and hill-piercing
Caverns sonorous; hear the dread avalanche
Torn from its quivering mountainous summit,
Ribbed with massy rocks, crested with pine-trees,
Thundering enormous upon thy fair valleys;
Hear the dull roar of thy mist-spouting cataracts;
Hear the faint plash of thy salt, seething billows,
Lifting their heads multitudinous, or shoreward
Climbing the cliffs that overhang them with trem-
bling,

And tossing their spray in exultant defiance
Over the weed-bearded guardians of ocean.
Sister, we listen; thy strains are enlinking,
Melodiously blending to ravishing harmony;
Clouds are departing, we see thee, we yearn to thee,
Noblest of planets, creation's full glory!
Bending we hearken, thou mother of nations,
Hark to the sky-rending voice of humanity.

SONG OF THE EARTH.

Oh vex me not, ye ever-burning planets; Nor sister call me, ye who me afflict. I am unlike ye ye may revelling sing, Careless and joyful, roaming sunlit ether, Urged with but one emotion, chanting still Through lapsing time the purpose of your birth, Each with a several passion; but to me Are mix'd emotions, vast extremes of feelingNow verdant in the fruitful smile of Heaven, Now waste and blacken'd in the scowl of Hell. Ye know me not, nor can ye sympathize With one like me, for wisdom is not yours Ye sing for joy; but wisdom slowly comes From the close whispers of o'erburden'd pain. I am alone in all the universe!

To me is pain; I can distinguish sin;

But ye with constant though unweeting glance

Rain good or ill, and smile alike at both,
Nor understand the mystery of your natures,
To me is wisdom-wisdom bought with wo,
Ages on ages past, when first I stray'd,
With haughty scorn and self-reliant pride,
From purity and God. For once, like you,
God spoke me face to face, me soulless led
From joy to joy; yet he was mystical-
Too obvious for thought-I knew him not:
But now, through sin, I understand like him
The heart of things-the steep descents of guilt,
And the high pinnacles of heaven-lit virtue.
Bend down, ye stars, bend from your silver thrones,
Ye joyful wanderers of ether bright;
For I, soul-bearer of the universe,
Would teach your ignorance with the lips of song!
O Mercury, hot planet, burying deep
Thy forehead in the sunlight, list to me!
I groan beneath thy influence. Thou dost urge
The myriad hands of Labour, and with toil
Dost mar my features; day by day dost work
Thy steady changes on mine ancient face,
Till all the host of heaven blank wonder look,
Nor know the fresh, primeval-moulded form
That like the Aphrodite, rose from chaos,
Smiling through dews upon the first morn's sun.
The leaf-crown'd mountain's brows thou hudless
down

Into the dusty valley, and dost still

The free, wild singing of the cleaving streams
To murmurs dying lazily within

The knotted roots of pool-engender'd lilies,
That sluggish nod above the slimy dams.
All day the axe I hear rending through trunks,
Moss-grown and reverend, of cluster'd oaks.
All day the circling scythe sweeps off
The ruddy bloom of vain-aspiring fields,
Clipping to stubbles grim the vernal flowers.
Thou portionest my meadows, and dost make
Each fruitful slope a spot for sweaty toil.
Thou tearest up my bosom; far within
My golden veins the grimed miner's pick
Startles the babbling echoes. Ancient rocks,
My hardy bones, are rent with nitrous fire,
To rear thy marts, to bridge the leaping streams,
Or to usurp the ocean's olden right,
That selfish trade may dry-shod walk to power.
The very ocean, grim, implacable,

Thou loadest with the white-wing'd fleets of com

merce,

Crossing, like wheeling birds, each other's tracks;
Until the burden'd giant, restless grown,
Bounds from his sleep, and in the stooping clouds
Nods his white head, while splinter'd navies melt
To scatter'd fragments in his sullen froth'
Malignant star, I feel thy wicked power:

My children's busy thoughts are full of thee:
Thou'st chill'd the loving spirit in their hearts,
And on their lips hast placed the selfish finger-
They dare not know each other. All that is,
All that God bless'd my teeming bosom with,
Is priced and barter'd; ay, the very worth

Of man himself is weigh'd with senseless gold-
Therefore I hate thee, bright-brow'd wanderer!
Daughter of the sober twilight,
Lustrous planet, ever hanging
In the mottled mists that welcome
Coming morning, or at evening
Peeping through the ruddy banners
Of the clouds that wave a parting,
From their high aerial summits,
To the blazing god of day-
"T is for thee I raise my pæan,
Steady-beaming Venus! kindler,
In the stubborn hearts of mortals,
Of the sole surviving passion
That enlinks a lost existence
With the dull and ruthless present.
Far adown the brightening future,
Prophetess, I see thee glancing-
See thee still amid the twilight
Of the ages rolling onward,
Promising to heart-sick mortals
Triumph of thy gracious kingdom;
When the hand of power shall weaken,
And the wronger right the wrongéd,
And the pure, primeval Eden
Shall again o'erspread with blossoms
Sunny hill and shady valley.
"Tis to thee my piny mountains
Wave aloft their rustling branches,
'Tis to thee my opening flowerets
Send on high their luscious odours,
"Tis to thee my leaping fountains
Prattle through their misty breathings,
And the bass of solemn ocean
Chimes accordant in the chorus.
Every fireside is thy altar,
Streaming up its holy incense;
Every mated pair of mortals,

Happily link'd, are priest and priestess,
Pouring to thee full libations
From their overbrimming spirits.
Clash the loud-resounding cymbals,
Light the rosy torch of Hymen;

Bands of white-robed youths and maidens
Whirl aloft the votive myrtle!
Raise the choral hymn to Venus-
Young-eyed Venus, ever youthful,
Ever on true hearts bestowing
Pleasures new that never pall!

Brightest link 'tween man and Heaven,
Soul of virtue, life of goodness,
Cheering light in pain and sorrow,
Pole-star to the struggling voyager
Wreck'd on life's relentless billows,
Fair reward of trampled sainthood,
Beaming from the throne Eternal
Lonely hope to sinful mankind—
Still among the mists of morning,
Still among the clouds of evening,

While the years drive ever onward, Hang thy crescent lamp of promise, Venus, blazing star of Love!

O Mars, wide heaven is shuddering 'neath the stride
Of thy mail'd foot, most terrible of planets;
I see thee struggling with thy brazen front
To look a glory from amid the crust

Of guilty blood that dims thy haughty face:
The curse of crime is on thee.-Look, behold!

See where thy frenzied votaries march;
Hark to the brazen blare of the bugle,
Hark to the rattling clatter of the drums,
The measured tread of the steel-clad footmen!
Hark to the labouring horses' breath,
Painfully tugging the harness'd cannon;
The shrill, sharp clank of the warriors' swords,
As their chargers bound when the trumpets sound
Their alarums through the echoing mountains!
See the flashing of pennons and scarfs,
Shaming the gorgeous blazon of evening,
Rising and falling mid snowy plumes

That dance like foam on the crested billows!
Bright is the glitter of burnish'd steel,
Stirring the clamour of martial music;
The clank of arms has a witchery
That wakes the blood in a youthful bosom;
And who could tell from this pleasant show,
That flaunts in the sun like a May-day festal,
For what horrid rites are the silken flags,
For what horrid use are the gleaming sabres,
What change shall mar, when the battles join,
This marshall'd pageant of shallow glory?
For then the gilded flags shall be rent,
The sabres rust with the blood of foemen,
And the courteous knight shall howl like a wolf,
When he scents the gory steam of battle.

The orphan's curse is on thee, and the tears
Of widow'd matrons plead a fearful cause.
Each thing my bosom bears, that thou hast touch'd,
Is loud against thee. Flowers and trampled grass,
And the long line of waste and barren fields,
Erewhile o'erflowing with a sea of sweets,
Look up all helpless to the pitying heavens,
Showing thy bloody footprints in their wounds,
And shrieking through their gaunt and leafless trees,
That stand with imprecating arms outspread-
They fiercely curse thee with their desolation;
Each cheerless hearthstone in the home of man,
Where Ruin grins, and rubs his bony palms,
Demands its lost possessor. Thou hast hurl'd
Man's placid reason from its rightful throne,
And in its place rear'd savage force, to clip
Debate and doubt with murder. Therefore, Mars,
I sicken in thy angry glance, and loathe
The dull red glitter of thy bloody spear!

I know thy look, majestic Jupiter!

I see thee moving mid the stars of heaven,
Girt with thy train of ministering satellites.
Proud planet, I confess thy influence :
My heart grows big with gazing in thy face;
Unwonted power pervades my eager trame;
My bulk aspiring towers above itself,
And restless pants to rush on acts sublime.
At which the wondering stars might stand agaze,