Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share ;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness, and should sickness come and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then

I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
How injured, and how faithful I had been!

THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There, with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There, with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea:
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

GENIUS SLUMBERING.

HE sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;
He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame,
That once in transport drew his spirit on;
He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares
Who the wreathed laurel bears.

And yet, not all forgotten, sleeps he there;
There are who still remember how he bore

Upward his daring pinions, till the air

Seem'd living with the crown of light he wore;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.

He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye
And the press'd lip, a darken'd glory plays;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,
There hovers still the light of other days;
Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.

He will not sleep forever, but will rise

Fresh to more daring labours; now, even now,
As the close shrouding mist of morning flies,
The gather'd slumber leaves his lifted brow;
From his half-open'd eye, in fuller beams,
His waken'd spirit streams.

Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone;
The deadly charm departed; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,

Keen as the famish'd eagle darts her wing;
The goal is still before him, and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.

He rushes forth to conquer: shall they takeThey, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way, When he forgot the contest-shall they take,

Now he renews the race, the victor's bay! Still let them strive-when he collects his might, He will assert his right.

The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,

Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust Dimly a while, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher.

DECLINE OF THE IMAGINATION.

WHY have ye linger'd on your way so long, Bright visions, who were wont to hear my call, And with the harmony of dance and song

Keep round my dreaming couch a festival? Where are ye gone, with all your eyes of light, And where the flowery voice I loved to hear, When, through the silent watches of the night, Ye whisper'd like an angel in my ear? O! fly not with the rapid wing of time,

But with your ancient votary kindly stay; And while the loftier dreams, that rose sublime In years of higher hope, have flown away: O! with the colours of a softer clime, Give your last touches to the dying day.

GENIUS WAKING.

SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound theeWhere is now thy fire?

Feebler wings are gathering round thee-
Shall they hover higher?

Can no power, no spell, recall thee
From inglorious dreams?
O, could glory so appal thee,

With his burning beams!
Thine was once the highest pinion
In the midway air;

With a proud and sure dominion,

Thou didst upward bear,
Like the herald, wing'd with lightning,
From the Olympian throne,

Ever mounting, ever brightening,
Thou wert there alone.
Where the pillar'd props of heaven
Glitter with eternal snows,
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Where no fountain flows-
Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm
Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.

O, what rare and heavenly brightness
Flow'd around thy plumes,
As a cascade's foamy whiteness
Lights a cavern's glooms!
Wheeling through the shadowy ocean,
Like a shape of light,
With serene and placid motion,

Thou wert dazzling bright.
From that cloudless region stooping,
Downward thou didst rush,
Not with pinion faint and drooping
But the tempest's gush.
Up again undaunted soaring,
Thou didst pierce the cloud,

When the warring winds were roaring
Fearfully and loud.

Where is now that restless longing

After higher things?

Come they not, like visions, thronging
On their airy wings?

Why should not their glow enchant thee
Upward to their bliss?

Surely danger cannot daunt thee
From a heaven like this?

But thou slumberest; faint and quivering
Hangs thy ruffled wing;

Like a dove in winter shivering,

Or a feebler thing.

Where is now thy might and motion,
Thy imperial flight?

Where is now thy heart's devotion?
Where thy spirit's light?

Hark! his rustling plumage gathers
Closer to his side;

Close, as when the storm-bird weathers

Ocean's hurrying tide.

Now his nodding beak is steady

Wide his burning eye

Now his open wings are ready,

And his aim-how high!

Now he curves his neck, and proudly
Now is stretch'd for flight-

Hark! his wings-they thunder loudly,
And their flash-how bright!
Onward-onward over mountains,
Through the rock and storm,
Now, like sunset over fountains,
Flits his glancing form.

Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee-
Thou hast reach'd thy heaven-
Lingering slumber hath not reft thee
Of the glory given.

With a bold, a fearless pinion,

On thy starry road,

None, to fame's supreme dominion, Mightier ever trode.

NEW ENGLAND.

HAIL to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast;

The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed,
A fearless host:

No slave is here; our unchain'd feet
Walk freely as the waves that beat
Our coast.

Our fathers cross'd the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;

They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;
With hearts unbent, and spirits brave,

They sternly bore

Such toils as meaner souls had quell'd; But souls like these, such toils impell'd To soar.

Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height,

And, fearless, stemm'd the invading flood,
And wrote our dearest rights in blood,
And mow'd in ranks the hireling brood,
In desperate fight!

O, 'twas a proud, exulting day,
For even our fallen fortunes lay
In light.

There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore;

Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the port of Liberty,
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon
My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.

Thou art the firm, unshaken rock,
On which we rest;

And, rising from thy hardy stock,
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free the oppress'd:

All, who the wreath of Freedom twine
Beneath the shadow of their vine,

Are bless'd.

We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand-

Let foreign navies hasten o'er,
And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their cannon's loudest roar,
And storm our land;
They still shall find our lives are given
To die for home;-and leant on Heaven
Our hand.

MAY.

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;

The winds, that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours,-

Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air,

And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there;

The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
The tresses of the woods

With the light dallying of the west-wind play;
And the full-brimming floods,
As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.

TO SENECA LAKE.

Ox thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

O! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er.

THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.

Now the growing year is over,

And the shepherd's tinkling bell Faintly from its winter cover

Rings a low farewell :Now the birds of Autumn shiver, Where the wither'd beech-leaves quiver, O'er the dark and lazy river,

In the rocky dell.

Now the mist is on the mountains,
Reddening in the rising sun;

Now the flowers around the fountains
Perish one by one :-

Not a spire of grass is growing,
But the leaves that late were glowing,
Now its blighted green are strowing

With a mantle dun.

Now the torrent brook is stealing

Faintly down the furrow'd gladeNot as when in winter pealing,

Such a din is made,

That the sound of cataracts falling
Gave no echo so appalling,
As its hoarse and heavy brawling

In the pine's black shade.
Darkly blue the mist is hovering

Round the clifted rock's bare height-
All the bordering mountains covering
With a dim, uncertain light :-
Now, a fresher wind prevailing,
Wide its heavy burden sailing,
Deepens as the day is failing,
Fast the gloom of night.

Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding
Through the still and hazy air,
Like a sheeted spectre gliding

In a torch's glare:

Few the hours, her light is given-
Mingling clouds of tempest driven
O'er the mourning face of heaven,
All is blackness there.

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

FAINTLY flow, thou falling river, Like a dream that dies away; Down to ocean gliding ever, Keep thy calm unruffled way: Time with such a silent motion, Floats along, on wings of air, To eternity's dark ocean,

Burying all its treasures there. Roses bloom, and then they wither; Cheeks are bright, then fade and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither

Then, like visions hurry by : Quick as clouds at evening driven

O'er the many-colour'd west, Years are bearing us to heaven,

Home of happiness and rest.

IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE.

O! IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending:

Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye

Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending.

Glory that never shall fade, never, O! never away.

O! it is sweet for our country to die--how softly reposes

Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love,

Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands of roses,

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perish'd:

HEBE awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile;

There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherish'd;

Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile.

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; Not to the isles of the bless'd, over the blue, rolling sea;

But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted forever;

I feel it-though the flesh is weak, I feel
The spirit has its energies untamed
By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal

The wounds which it has suffer'd; folly claim'd
Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed
Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly,

And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed Elijah, when the chariot, rushing by, Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky. We are as barks afloat upon the sea,

Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled, The spirit, whose strong influence can free The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead Cold night of mortal darkness; from the bed Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call,

And, kindling in the blaze around him shed, Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall, And gives to God his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.

Our home is not on earth; although we sleep,
And sink in seeming death a while, yet, then,
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life, and energy, and light, again;
We cannot slumber always in the den
Of sense and selfishness; the day will break,
Ere we forever leave the haunts of men;
Even at the parting hour the soul will wake,
Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey
take.

How awful is that hour, when conscience stings

The hoary wretch, who, on his death-bed hears, Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years, And, screaming like a vulture in his ears,

How wild the fury of his soul careers! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame.

HOME.

Mr place is in the quiet vale,

The chosen haunt of simple thought;

I seek not Fortune's flattering gale,

I better love the peaceful lot.

I leave the world of noise and show,
To wander by my native brook;

I ask, in life's unruffled flow,
No treasure but my friend and book.
These better suit the tranquil home,
Where the clear water murmurs by;
And if I wish a while to roam,
I have an ocean in the sky.

Fancy can charm and feeling bless

With sweeter hours than fashion knows;

There is no calmer quietness

Than home around the bosom throws.

THE author of the "Culprit Fay" was born in the city of New York, on the seventh day of August, 1795. His father died while he was very young, and I believe left his family in possession of but little property. Young DRAKE, therefore, experienced some difficulties in acquiring his education. He entered Columbia College, however, at an early period, and passed through that seminary with a reputation for scholarship, taste, and admirable social qualities. He soon after made choice of the medical profession, and became a student, first, with Doctor ROMAINE, and subsequently with Doctor POWELL, both of whom were at that time popular physicians in New York.

Soon after completing his professional studies he was married to Miss SARAH ЕсKFORD, a daughter of the well-known marine architect, HENRY ECKFORD, through whom he inherited a moderate for

tune.

His health, about the same time, began to decline, and in the winter of 1819 he visited New Orleans, to which city his mother, who had married a second husband, had previously removed with his three sisters. He had anticipated some benefit from the sea-voyage, and the mild climate of Louisiana, but was disappointed, and in the spring of 1820 he returned to New York. His disease--consumption--was now too deeply seated for hope of restoration to be cherished, and he gradually withdrew himself from society, and sought quiet among his books, and in the companionship of his wife and most intimate friends. He lingered through the summer, and died near the close of September, in the twenty-sixth year of his age.

He began to write verses when very young, and was a contributor to several gazettes before he was sixteen years old. He permitted none but his most intimate friends to know his signatures, and sometimes kept the secrets of his authorship entirely to himself. The first four of the once celebrated series of humorous and satirical odes, known as the "Croaker Pieces," were written by him, for the New York "Evening Post," in which they appeared between the tenth and the twentieth of March, 1819. After the publication of the fourth number, DRAKE made HALLECK, then recently arrived in New York, a partner, and the remainder of the pieces were signed "Croaker and 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 contributed by HALLECK, on the twenty-fourth of July. These pieces related to persons, events, and scenes, with which most of the readers in New York were familiar, and as they were distinguished alike for playful humour, and an easy and spirited diction, they became very popular, and many efforts were made to find out the authors. Both DRAKE and HALLECK were unknown as poets, and, as they

24

kept the secret from their friends, a considerable period elapsed before they were discovered.

The "Croakers" are now, however, well nigh forgotten, save a few of the least satirical numbers, which HALLECK has preserved in the collections of his own and of his friend's writings; and the reputation of either author rests on more elaborate and ingenious productions. The longest poem by DRAKE is "The Culprit Fay," a story exhibiting the most delicate fancy, and much artistic skill, which was not printed until several years after his death. It was composed hastily among the highlands of the Hudson, in the summer of 1819. The author was walking with some friends, on a warm, moonlit evening, when one of the party remarked, that "it would be difficult to write a fairy poem, purely imaginative, without the aid of human characters." When the friends were reassembled, two or three days afterwards, "The Culprit Fay" was read to them, nearly as it is printed in this volume.

DRAKE placed a very modest estimate on his own productions, and it is believed that but a small portion of them have been preserved. When on his death-bed, a friend inquired of him what disposition he would have made with his poems? "O, burn them," he replied, "they are quite valueless." Written copies of a number of them were, however, in circulation, and some had been incorrectly printed in the periodicals; and, for this reason, Commodore DEKAY, the husband of the daughter and only child of the deceased poet, in 1836 published the single collection of them which has appeared. It includes, beside "The Culprit Fay," eighteen shorter pieces, some of which are very beautiful.

DRAKE was unassuming and benevolent in his manners and his feelings, and he had an unfailing fountain of fine humour, which made him one of the most pleasant of companions. HALLECK closes a tributary poem published soon after his death, in the "New York Review," with the following

stanzas

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth.

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine,-
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vain essay'd it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fix'd too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.
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