MR. COXE is the eldest son of the Reverend SAMUEL H. COXE, D. D., of Brooklyn. He was born in Mendham, in New Jersey, on the tenth day of May, 1818. At ten years of age he was sent to a gymnasium at Pittsfield, in Massachusetts, and he completed his studies preparatory to entering the University of New York, under the private charge of Doctor Busн, author of "The Life of Mohammed," etc. While in the university he distinguished himself by his devotion to classic learning, and particularly by his acquaintance with the Greek poets. In his freshman year he delivered a poem before one of the undergraduates' societies, on " The Progress of Ambition," and in the same period produced many spirited metrical pieces, some of which appeared in the periodicals of the time. In the autumn of 1837 he published his first volume, "Advent, a Mystery," a poem in the dramatic form, to which was prefixed the following dedication:

FATHER, as he of old who reap'd the field,

The first young sheaves to Him did dedicate
Whose bounty gave whate'er the glebe did yield,
Whose smile the pleasant harvest might create-
So I to thee these numbers consecrate,
Thou who didst lead to Silo's pearly spring;

And if of hours well saved from revels late
And youthful riot, I these fruits do bring,
Accept my early vow, nor frown on what I sing.

This work was followed in the spring of 1838 by "Athwold, a Romaunt;" and in the summer of the same year were printed the first and second cantos of Saint Jonathan, the Lay of a Scald." These were intended as introductory to a novel in the stanza of "Don Juan," and four other cantos were afterward written, but wisely destroyed by the author on his becoming a candidate for holy orders, an event not contemplated in his previous studies. He was graduated in July, and on the occasion delivered an eloquent valedictory

oration.

From this period his poems assumed a devotional cast, and were usually published in the periodicals of the church. His "Athanasion" was pronounced before the alumni of Washington College, in Connecticut, in the summer of 1840. It is an irregular ode, and contains passages of considerable merit, but its sectarian character will prevent its receiving general applause. The following allusion to Bishop BERKELEY is from this poem:

Oft when the eve-star, sinking into day,
Seems empire's planet on its westward way,
Comes, in soft light from antique window's groin,
Thy pure ideal, mitred saint of Cloyne!

Among them "The Blues" and "The Hebrew Muse," in "The American Monthly Magazine." 54

Taught, from sweet childhood, to revere in thee
Earth's every virtue, writ in poesie,
Nigh did I leap, on CLIO's calmer line,
To see thy story with our own entwine.
On Yale's full walls, no pictured shape to me
Like BERKELEY's seem'd, in priestly dignity,
Such as he stood, fatiguing, year by year,
In our behoof, dull prince and cavalier;
And dauntless still, as erst the Genoese;
Such as he wander'd o'er the Indy seas
To vex'd Bermoothes, witless that he went
Mid isles that beckon'd to a continent.
Such there he seem'd, the pure, the undefiled!
And meet the record! Though, perchance, I smiled
That those, in him, themselves will glorify,
Who reap his fields, but let his doctrine die,
Yet, let him stand: the world will note it well,
And Time shall thank them for the chronicle
By such confess'd, COLUMBUS of new homes
For song, and Science with her thousand tomes.
Yes-pure apostle of our western lore,
Spoke the full heart, that now may breathe it more,
Still in those halls, where none without a sneer
Name the dear title of thy ghostly fear,
Stand up, bold bishop-in thy priestly vest;
Proof that the Church bore letters to the West!

In the autumn of the same year appeared Mr. COXE's "Christian Ballads," a collection of religious poems, of which the greater number had previously been given to the public through the columns of "The Churchman." They are elegant, yet fervent expressions of the author's love for the impressive and venerable customs, ceremonies, and rites of the Protestant Episcopal Church.

While in the university, Mr. CoxE had, besides acquiring the customary intimacy with ancient literature, learned the Italian language; and he now, under Professor NORDHEIMER, devoted two years to the study of the Hebrew and the German. After passing some time in the Divinity School at Chelsea, he was admitted to deacon's ty-eighth of June, 1841. In the following July, on orders, by the Bishop of New York, on the twenreceiving the degree of Master of Arts from the University, he pronounced the closing oration, by appointment of the faculty; and in August he accepted a call to the rectorship of Saint Anne's church, then recently erected by Mr. GOUVERNEUR MORRIS on his family domain of Morrisiana, near New York. He was married on the twenty-first of September, by the bishop of the diocese, to his third cousin, CATHARINE CLEVELAND, eldest daughter of Mr. SIMEON HYDE.

Besides his numerous metrical compositionspublished and unpublished-Mr. CoxE has written several elaborate prose articles for the "Biblical Repository," "The Churchman," "The New York Review," and other periodical works. Rarely has an author accomplished so much before reaching his twenty-fourth year.

MANHOOD."

ВоYHOOD hath gone or ever I was 'ware; Gone like the birds that have sung out their summer, And fly away, but never to return.

Gone like the memory of a fairy vision;

Gone like the stars that have burnt out in heaven;
Like flowers that open once an hundred years,
And have just folded up their golden petals;
Like maidenhood to one no more a virgin;
Like all that's bright and beautiful and transient,
And yet, in its surpassing loveliness
And swift dispersion into empty nothing,
Like its own self alone-like life-like boyhood!
Now, on the traversed scene I leave forever,
Doth memory cast already her pale look;
And though the mellow light of bygone summers,
Gay, like a bride that leaveth her home-valley,
She, with faint heart, upon the bending hill-top
Turns her fair neck, one moment unperceived,
And through the sunset and her tearful eye
Throws a last glimpse upon her father's dwelling:
Blesses the roof-tree, and the groves, and garden
Where romp her younger sisters, still at home!

I have just waken'd from a darling dream,
And fain would sleep again. I have been roving
In a sweet isle, and would return once more.
I have just come, methinks, from Fairy-land,
And grieve for its sweet landscapes. Wake, my soul!
Thy holiday is over, play-time done,
And a stern master calls thee to thy task.

How shall I ever go through this rough world?
How grow still older every coming day?
How merge my childish heart in manliness?
How take my part upon this tricking stage?
How wear the mask to seem what I am not?
Ah me! for I forget-I'll need no mask,
And soon old age will need no mimicry!
I've taken my first step adown the valley,
And e'er I reach it e'en my pace shall change.
I shall go down as men have ever done,

And tread the pathway worn by constant tramp,
Since first the giants of old time descended,
And ADAM, leading on our mother EVE,
In ages older than antiquity.

This voice so buoyant shall be all unstrung,
Like harps that chord by chord grow musicless:
These hands must totter on a smooth-topp'd staff,
That whirl'd so late the ball-club vigorously:
This eye grow glassy that can sparkle now,
And on the clear earth's hues look doatingly:
And these brown locks, which tender hands have
In loving curls about their taper fingers, [twined
Must silver soon, and bear about such snows
As freeze away all touch of tenderness.
And this, the end of every human story,
Is always this-whatever its beginning-
To wear the robes of being in their rags,
To bear, like the old Tuscan prisoners,
A corpse still with us, insupportable;
And then to sink in clay, like earth to earth,
And hearse forever, from the gaze of man, [relics.
What long they thought-now dare to call-our

* Conclusion of an unpublished poem, written the night the author came of age, May 10, 1839.

I

Glory to Him who doth subject the same In hope of immortality! My song shall change! go from strength to strength, from joy to joy, From being into being. I have learn'd This doctrine from the vanishing of youth. The pictured primer, true, is thrown aside; But its first lesson liveth in my heart. I shall go on through all eternity. Thank God, I only am an embryo still: The small beginning of a glorious soul, An atom that shall fill immensity.

The bell hath toll'd! my birth-hour is upon me: The hour that made me child, now makes me man! Put childish things away, is in the warning; And grant me, Lord, with this, the Psalmist's prayer, Remember not the follies of my youth, But in thy goodness think upon me, Lord!

OLD CHURCHES.

HAST been where the full-blossom'd bay-tree is blowing

With odours like Eden's around? [growing, Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is And wild vines are fringing the ground? Hast sat in the shade of catalpas, at noon,

And ate the cool gourds of their clime; Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon, And the mocking-bird sung her sweet rhyme? And didst mark, in thy journey, at dew-dropping Some ruin peer high o'er thy way, [eve, With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave A mantle for turrets so gray?

Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind

Lived there, when the country was young? And burn'd not the blood of a Christian, to find How there the old prayer-bell had rung? And did ye not glow, when they told ye-the LORD Had dwelt in that thistle-grown pile; And that bones of old Christians were under its sward,

That once had knelt down in its aisle ? And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep

When ye thought-o'er your country so broad, The bard seeks in vain for a mouldering heap, Save only these churches of Gon!

O ye that shall pass by those ruins agen,
Go kneel in their alleys and pray,

And not till their arches have echoed amen,
Rise up, and fare on, in your way.
[more,
Pray Gon that those aisles may be crowded once
Those altars surrounded and spread,
While anthems and prayers are upsent as of yore,
As they take of the wine-cup and bread.
Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane
They have left to the bat and the mole,
May sound with the loud-pealing organ again,

And the full swelling voice of the soul. [by,
Peradventure, when next thou shalt journey there-
Even-bells shall ring out on the air,
And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye
The snowy-robed pastor at prayer.

THE HEART'S SONG.

In the silent midnight watches,

List-thy bosom-door!

How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh,
Knocketh evermore!

Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating;
'Tis thy heart of sin:

'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Rise, and let me in!

Death comes down with reckless footstep
To the hall and hut:

Think you Death will stand a-knocking
Where the door is shut?
JESUS waiteth-waiteth-waiteth;
But thy door is fast!
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth:
Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating
Christ to let thee in:

At the gate of heaven beating,
Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,
Hast thou then forgot,

JESUS waited long to know thee,
But he knows thee not!

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland,
Of England green and old,

That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have toll'd; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallow'd day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,

Sweet tales of olden time!

And ring a thousand memories

At vesper, and at prime;

At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king

Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,
Upon a Christmas morn,

Outbreaking, as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born;

How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,

With holly deck'd and mistletoe,
To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and gothic pile,

Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle;
Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,

And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls!

And then, those Easter bells, in spring! Those glorious Easter chimes; How loyally they hail thee round,

Old queen of holy times!
From hill to hill, like sentinels,
Responsively they cry,

And sing the rising of the LORD,
From vale to mountain high.

I love ye-chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,
And bless the LORD that I am sprung
Of good old English line!
And like a son I sing the lay

That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the LORD,

For you, ye Christian bells! And heir of her ancestral fame, And happy in my birth, Thee, too, I love, my forest-land,

The joy of all the earth;

For thine thy mother's voice shall be,

And here where GoD is king,

With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring.

MARCH.

MARCH-march-march!

Making sounds as they tread,

Ho-ho! how they step,

Going down to the dead! Every stride, every tramp,

Every footfall is nearer; And dimmer each lamp,

As darkness grows drearer; But ho! how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho! how they step,

Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho, how they laugh, Going down to the dead! How they whirl--how they trip, How they smile, how they dally, How blithesome they skip,

Going down to the valley; Oh-ho, how they march,

Making sounds as they tread;

Ho-ho, how they skip,

Going down to the dead!

March-march-march!

Earth groans as they tread! Each carries a skull;

Going down to the dead! Every stride-every stamp, Every footfall is bolder; "Tis a skeleton's tramp,

With a skull on his shoulder! But ho, how he steps

With a high-tossing head,

That clay-cover'd bone,

Going down to the dead!

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 dead-
But 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!

428

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 Gon'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 Gon it were so, ROSALINE!

THE BEGGAR.

A BEGGAR through the world am I,
From place to place I wander by ;—
Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me,
For CHRIST'S sweet sake and charity!
A little of thy steadfastness,
Rounded with leafy gracefulness,
Old oak, give me,-

That the world's blasts may round me blow,

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.