THE MYRTLE AND STEEL. ONE bumper yet, gallants, at parting, "T is the last he may pledge her, to-night. The entwining of myrtle and steel! Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, "Tis in moments like this, when each bosom With its highest-toned feeling is warm, Like the music that's said from the ocean To rise ere the gathering storm, That her image around us should hover, Whose name, though our lips ne'er reveal, We may breathe mid the foam of a bumper, As we drink to the myrtle and steel. Then hey for the myrtle and steel, Then ho for the myrtle and steel, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Now mount, for our bugle is ringing When your sabres the death-blow would deal, Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid, Fill round to the myrtle and steel! EPITAPH UPON A DOG. Ax ear that caught my slightest tone, Can such in endless sleep be chill'd, And mortal pride disdain to sorrow, Because the pulse that here was still'd May wake to no immortal morrow? Can faith, devotedness, and love, That seem to humbler creatures given To tell us what we owe above, The types of what is due to Heaven, Can these be with the things that were, No shade that speaks a moment's mourning? BLAME not the bowl-the fruitful bowl, To bathe young Love's delighted wing. And teaches drowning hope to swim? To earth another VENUS give, Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard, Brings all their hidden warmth to lightAre feelings bright, which, in the cup, Though graven deep, appear but dim, Till, fill'd with glowing BACCHUS up, They sparkle on the foaming brim. Each drop upon the first you pour Brings some new tender thought to life, And, as you fill it more and more, The last with fervid soul is rife. The island fount, that kept of old Its fabled path beneath the sea, And fresh, as first from earth it roll'd, From earth again rose joyously: Bore not beneath the bitter brine Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine Our hearts toward each other glide. Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, Truth beaming at the bottom lies. A HUNTER'S MATIN. The curlew's wing hath swept the lake, To drink from the limpid tide. Is rock'd on the swaying trees, While the humbird sips from the harebell's cup, As it bends to the morning breeze. Up, comrades, up! our shallops grate Upon the pebbly strand, And our stalwart hounds impatient wait To spring from the huntsman's hand. SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. SPARKLING and bright in liquid light Does the wine our goblets gleam in, Which a bee would choose to dream in. As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, O! if Mirth might arrest the flight Of Time through Life's dominions, To drink to-night with hearts as light, As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, Bit since delight can't tempt the wight, Nor Love himself can hold the elf, We'll drink to-night with hearts as light, As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, SEEK NOT TO UNDERSTAND HER. WHY seek her heart to understand, Which in her breast resideth, How many for Despair! Her heart, of whom thou knowest Upon the wind thou throwest: ASK NOT WHY I SHOULD LOVE HER. Ask me not why I should love her: And see there how sweetly rise See, from those sweet windows peeping, Wonder not that looks so winning SHE LOVES, BUT 'TIS NOT ME. SHE loves, but 't is not me she loves: Not me on whom she ponders, When, in some dream of tenderness, Her truant fancy wanders. The forms that flit her visions through Are like the shapes of old, Where tales of prince and paladin On tapestry are told. Man may not hope her heart to win, Be his of common mould. But I-though spurs are won no more Where steel-clad ranks are wheelingI loose the falcon of my hopes Upon as proud a flight As those who hawk'd at high renown, If daring, then, true love may crown, THY SMILES. "Tis hard to share her smiles with many! And while she is so dear to me, To fear that I, far less than any, Call out her spirit's witchery! To find my inmost heart when near her How can she thus, sweet spendthrift, squander When I but live in those sweet eyes! LOVE AND POLITICS. A BIRTH-DAY MEDITATION. ANOTHER year! alas, how swift, ALINDA, do these years flit by, Like shadows thrown by clouds that drift Is turn'd within life's volume brief, There are some moments when I feel Had not a right alike to go, But it was love that taught me rhyme, Of words a useless sluggard prove, And often bitter thoughts arise Of what I've lost in loving thee, And in my breast my spirit dies, The gloomy cloud around to see, Of baffled hopes and ruined powers Of mind, and miserable hoursOf self-upbraiding, and despairOf heart, too strong and fierce to bear. "Why, what a peasant slave am I," To bow my mind and bend my knee To woman in idolatry, Who takes no thought of mine or me. Thus do my jarring thoughts revolve To dash thine angel image thence; And then for hours and hours I muse On things that might, yet will not be, Till, one by one, my feelings lose Their passionate intensity, And steal away in visions soft, Which on wild wing those feelings waft Far, far beyond the drear domain Of Reason and her freezing reign. And now again from their gay track I call, as I despondent sit, Once more these truant fancies back, Which round my brain so idly flit; And some I treasure, some I blush To own-and these I try to crushAnd some, too wild for reason's reign, I loose in idle rhyme again. And even thus my moments fly, And even thus my hours decay, And even thus my years slip by, My life itself is wiled away; But distant still the mounting hope, The burning wish with men to cope In aught that minds of iron mould May do or dare for fame or gold. Another year! another year, ALINDA, it shall not be so; Both love and lays forswear I here, As I've forsworn thee long ago. That name, which thou wouldst never share, Proudly shall Fame emblazon where On pumps and corners posters stick it, The highest on the JACKSON ticket. WHAT IS SOLITUDE? Nor in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the echoes brood In caves untrod by men; Where loitering surges break, Where man hath never stood, Not there is solitude! Birds are in woodland bowers, Breathe ocean's frothing lips, The flower toward it dips; Pluming the mountain's crest, Life tosses in its pines; Coursing the desert's breast, Life in the steed's mane shines. Leave-if thou wouldst be lonely Leave Nature for the crowd; Seek there for one-one onlyWith kindred mind endow'd! There-as with Nature erst Closely thou wouldst communeThe deep soul-music, nursed In either heart, attune! Heart-wearied, thou wilt own, Vainly that phantom woo'd, That thou at last hast known What is true solitude! J. O. ROCKWELL. [Born, 1807. Died, 1831.] he went to New York, and subsequently to Boston, in each of which cities he laboured as a journeyman compositor. He had now acquired considerable reputation by his poetical writings, and was engaged as associate editor of the "Statesman," an old and influential journal published in Boston, with which, I believe, he continued until 1829, when he became the conductor of the Providence "Patriot," with which he was connected at the time of his death. He was poor, and in his youth he had been left nearly to his own direction. He chose to learn the business of printing, because he thought it would afford him opportunities to improve his mind; and his education was acquired by diligent study during the leisure hours of his apprenticeship. When he removed to Providence, it became necessary for him to take an active part in the discussion of political questions. He felt but little interest in public affairs, and shrank instinctively from the strife of partisanship; but it seemed the only avenue to competence and reputation, and he embarked in it with apparent ardour. Journalism, in the hands of able and honourable men, is the noblest of callings; in the hands of the ignorant and mercenary, it is among the meanest. There are at all times connected with the press, persons of the baser sort, who derive their support and chief enjoyment from ministering to the worst passions; and by some of this class ROCKWELL'S private character was assailed, and he was taunted with his obscure parentage, defective education, and former vocation, as if to have elevated his position in society, by perseverance and the force of mind, were a ground of accusation. He had too little energy in his nature to regard such assaults with the indifference they merited; and complained in some of his letters that they "robbed him of rest and of all pleasure." With constantly increasing reputation, however, he continued his editorial labours until the summer of 1831, when, at the early age of twenty-four years, he was suddenly called to a better world. He felt unwell, one morning, and, in a brief paragraph, apologized for the apparent neglect of his gazette. The next number of it wore the signs of mourning for his death. A friend of ROCKWELL'S, in a notice of him published in the "Southern Literary Messenger," mentions as the immediate cause of his death, that he "was troubled at the thought of some obliga *Reverend CHARLES W. EVEREST, of Meriden, Connecticut. tion which, from not receiving money then due to him, he was unable to meet, and shrank from the prospect of a debtor's prison." That it was in some way a result of his extreme sensitiveness, was generally believed among his friends at the time. WHITTIER, who was then editor of the "New England Weekly Review," soon after wrote the following lines to his memory: "The turf is smooth above him! and this rain No vigil with the dead. Well-it is meet "Nor died he unlamented! To his grave To feel that earth remembers him in love!" The specimens of ROCKWELL'S poetry which have fallen under my notice show him to have possessed considerable fancy and deep feeling His imagery is not always well chosen, and his ver sification is sometimes defective; but his thoughts are often original, and the general effect of his pieces is striking. His later poems are his best, and probably he would have produced works of much merit had he lived to a maturer age. THE SUM OF LIFE. SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights And strugglest in the foam; O! come and view this land of graves, And mark thee out thy home. Lover of woman, whose sad heart Wastes like a fountain in the sun, Here slumber forms as fair as those Lover of fame, whose foolish thought Steals onward o'er the wave of time, The absent soul in fear; Bring home thy thoughts and come with me, And, warrior, thou with snowy plume, Come and look down; this lonely tomb TO ANN. THоr wert as a lake that lieth In a bright and sunny way; I was as a bird that flieth O'er it on a pleasant day; When I look'd upon thy features Presence then some feeling lent; But thou knowest, most false of creatures, With a kiss my vow was greeted, On another lip than mine; I could blame thee for awaking Thoughts the world will but deride; Calling out, and then forsaking Flowers the winter wind will chide. Guiling to the midway ocean Barks that tremble by the shore; THE LOST AT SEA. WIFE, who in thy deep devotion Hope no more-his course is done. Dream not, when upon thy pillow, That he slumbers by thy side; For his corse beneath the billow Heaveth with the restless tide. Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, Laugh amid the sorrowing rains, Know ye many clouds are throwing Shadows on your sire's remains? Where the hoarse, gray surge is rolling With a mountain's motion on, Dream ye that its voice is tolling For your father lost and gone? When the sun look'd on the water, Where the giant current roll'd, And the silent sunbeams slanted, Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendours haunted Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, Sparkled through his raven hair; But the sleep that knows no dreaming Bound him in its silence there. So we left him; and to tell thee That thy heart-blood wildly flows, That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, Are the fruits of these new woes. Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring, Father, mother,-both no more; One upon the ocean's floor! |