J. H. BRIGHT. [Born, 1804. Died, 1837.] JONATHAN HUNTINGTON BRIGHT was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804. At an early age he went to New York, where he resided several years, after which he removed to Albany, and subsequently to Richmond, in Virginia, where he was married. In the autumn of 1836 he sailed for New Orleans, and soon after his arrival in that city was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take part in a mercantile interest at Manchester, where he died, very suddenly, in the thirty-third year of his age. He was for several years a writer for the public journals and literary magazines, under the signature of "Viator." His poetry has never been published collectively. THE VISION OF DEATH. THE moon was high in the autumn sky, And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads An impulse I might not defy, Constrain'd my footsteps there, When through the gloom a red eye burn'd Then out it spake: "My name is Death!" And a voice from that unnatural shade "Dig me a grave! dig me a grave!" "And make it deep, and long, and wide, And bury me my dead." A corpse without sheet or shroud, at my feet, And rusted mattock laid. With trembling hand the tool I spann'd, "T was wet with blood, and cold, And from its slimy handle hung And I sought to detach my stiffen'd "Now cautiously turn up the sod; GOD's image once it bore, grasp, And time shall be when each small blade To life He will restore, Deeply my spade the soft earth pierced, The vulture circled, and flapp'd his wings, O, then I sought to rest my brow, "Toil on! toil on!" scream'd the ugly fiend, "My servants never stop! Toil on toil on! at the judgment-day Now, wheresoe'er I turn'd my eyes, 'Twas horrible to see How the grave made bare her secret work, While the ground beneath me heaved and roll'd The spectre skinn'd his yellow teeth- Six thousand years your fellow-man And ever when he cursed I laugh'd, In this dark spot I've laid- And tender Indian maid; "Yet here they may no more remain ; Of deeper, lonelier gloom; While over his advancing hosts The forward banners shine: And where he builds his cities and towns, Anon a pale and silvery mist Was girdled round the moon: Slowly the dead unclosed their eyes, "Ha!" mutter'd the mocking sprite, "I fear "Now marshal all the numerous host In one concentred band, And hurry them to the west," said he, "Where ocean meets the land: They shall regard thy bidding voice, And move at thy command." Then first I spake-the sullen corpse Stood on the gloomy sod, Like the dry bones the prophet raised, A might company, so vast, They stalk'd erect as if alive, But like the pestilence that walks, The grave personified. The earth-worm drew his slimy trail And the carrion bird in hot haste came While ever as on their way they moved, And before and behind, and about their sides, As the beggar clasps his skinny hands His tatter'd garments round. On, on we went through the livelong night, We turn'd not aside for forest or stream But straight and swift as the hurricane sweeps Once, once I stopp'd, where something gleam'd, At length our army reach'd the verge The stars went out, the morning smiled The bird began his early hymn, And the vision of death was broken with HE WEDDED AGAIN. ERE death had quite stricken the bloom from her cheek, Or worn off the smoothness and gloss of her brow, When our quivering lips her dear name could not speak, And our hearts vainly strove to God's judgment to bow; He estranged himself from us, and cheerfully then And waited in fancy her sweet voice to hear; He turn'd from her harp and its melody then, Sought out a new minstrel and wedded again. The turf had not yet by a stranger been trod, Nor the pansy a single leaf shed on her grave, The cypress had not taken root in the sod, [gave; Nor the stone lost the freshness the sculptor first He turn'd from these mournful remembrances then, Wove a new bridal chaplet, and wedded again. His dwelling to us, O, how lonely and sad! When we thought of the light death had stolen away, Of the warm hearts which once in its keeping it had, When she with our lost one forgotten is laid! She must know he will worship some other star then, Seek out a new love, and be wedded again. SONG. SHOULD Sorrow o'er thy brow Its darken'd shadows fling, And hopes that cheer thee now, Die in their early spring; Should pleasure at its birth Fade like the hues of even, Turn thou away from earth,— There's rest for thee in heaven! If ever life shall seem To thee a toilsome way, O'er shoreless ocean driven, Undimn'd by earthly gloom; Thy better rest in heaven! Tell of a time to die Sweet hope shall whisper then, "Though thou from earth be riven, There's bliss beyond thy ken, There's rest for thee in heaven!" GEORGE D. PRENTICE. [Born, 1804.] MR. PRENTICE is a native of Preston, in Connecticut, and was educated at Brown University, in Providence, where he was graduated in 1823. He edited for several years, at Hartford, "The New England Weekly Review," in connection, I believe, with JOHN G. WHITTIER; and in 1831 he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he has since conducted the "Journal," of that city, one of the most popular gazettes ever published in this country. Nearly all his poems were written while he was in the university. They have never been published collectively. THE CLOSING YEAR. 'Tis midnight's holy hour—and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirr'd, As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud, That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, [form, Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn And Winter with his aged locks, and breathe In mournful cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. "Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have pass'd away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, And, bending mournfully above the pale Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pass'd to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It pass'd o'er The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield Flash'd in the light of midday—and the strength Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crush'd and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time- LINES TO A LADY. LADY, I love, at eventide, Upon the one dear form that gave Eve's low, faint wind is breathing now, And hurry them to the west," said he, "Where ocean meets the land: They shall regard thy bidding voice, And move at thy command." Then first I spake-the sullen corpse Stood on the gloomy sod, Like the dry bones the prophet raised, A might company, so vast, But like the pestilence that walks, The earth-worm drew his slimy trail And the carrion bird in hot haste came To gorge his thirsty beak; But, scared by the living banquet, fled, Another prey to seek. While ever as on their way they moved, And before and behind, and about their sides, As the beggar clasps his skinny hands His tatter'd garments round. On, on we went through the livelong night, We turn'd not aside for forest or stream But straight and swift as the hurricane sweeps Once, once I stopp'd, where something gleam'd, At length our army reach'd the verge The stars went out, the morning smiled The bird began his early hymn, And plumed his wings for flight: And the vision of death was broken with HE WEDDED AGAIN. ERE death had quite stricken the bloom from her cheek, Or worn off the smoothness and gloss of her brow, When our quivering lips her dear name could not speak, And our hearts vainly strove to God's judgment to bow; He estranged himself from us, and cheerfully then Sought out a new object, and wedded again. The dust had scarce settled itself on her lyre, And its soft,melting tones still held captive the ear, While we look'd for her fingers to glide o'er the wire, And waited in fancy her sweet voice to hear; He turn'd from her harp and its melody then, Sought out a new minstrel and wedded again. The turf had not yet by a stranger been trod, Nor the pansy a single leaf shed on her grave, The cypress had not taken root in the sod, [gave; Nor the stone lost the freshness the sculptor first He turn'd from these mournful remembrances then, Wove a new bridal chaplet, and wedded again. His dwelling to us, O, how lonely and sad! When we thought of the light death had stolen away, Of the warm hearts which once in its keeping it had, And that one was now widow'd and both in decay; But its deep desolation had fled even thenHe sought a new idol, and wedded again. But can she be quite blest who presides at his board! Will no troublesome vision her happy home shade, Of a future love luring and charming her lord, When she with our lost one forgotten is laid! She must know he will worship some other star then, Seek out a new love, and be wedded again. SONG. SHOULD Sorrow o'er thy brow Its darken'd shadows fling, And hopes that cheer thee now, Die in their early spring; Should pleasure at its birth Fade like the hues of even, Turn thou away from earth,There's rest for thee in heaven! If ever life shall seem To thee a toilsome way, O'er shoreless ocean driven, Raise thou thine eye above,There's rest for thee in heaven! But, O! if always flowers Throughout thy pathway bloom, And gayly pass the hours, Undimn'd by earthly gloom; Still let not every thought To this poor world be given, Not always be forgot Thy better rest in heaver Whekness pales thy I GEORGE D. PRENTICE. [Born, 1804.] MR. PRENTICE is a native of Preston, in Connecticut, and was educated at Brown University, in Providence, where he was graduated in 1823. He edited for several years, at Hartford, "The New England Weekly Review," in connection, I believe, with JoHN G. WHITTIER; and in 1831 THE CLOSING YEAR. | he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, where he has In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time- "TIs midnight's holy hour-and silence now LINES TO A LADY. LADY, I love, at eventide, Upon my spirit, and appears |