SUMMER.

THE Spring's gay promise melted into thee,
Fair Summer! and thy gentle reign is here;
The emerald robes are on each leafy tree;

In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear; And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reignThey leap in music midst thy bright domain.

The gales, that wander from the unclouded west,
Are burden'd with the breath of countless fields;
They teem with incense from the green earth's breast
That up to heaven its grateful odour yields;
Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird,
By nature's aspect into rapture stirr❜d.
In such a scene the sun-illumined heart

Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell,
When through its bars the morning glories dart,
And forest-anthems in his hearing swell—
And, like the heaving of the voiceful sea,
His panting bosom labours to be free.
Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky,
O, Summer! in my inmost soul arise
Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply,
And the bland air with its soft melodies;—
Till basking in some vision's glorious ray,
I long for eagle's plumes to flee away.
I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside,

And the impure, unholy thoughts that cling To the sad bosom, torn with care and pride: I would soar upward, on unfetter'd wing, Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies, Where the high fount of Summer's brightness lies!

THE EARLY DEAD.

Ir it be sad to mark the bow'd with age
Sink in the halls of the remorseless tomb,
Closing the changes of life's pilgrimage

In the still darkness of its mouldering gloom:
O! what a shadow o'er the heart is flung,
When peals the requiem of the loved and young!
They to whose bosoms, like the dawn of spring
To the unfolding bud and scented rose,
Comes the pure freshness age can never bring,
And fills the spirit with a rich repose,
How shall we lay them in their final rest,
How pile the clods upon their wasting breast?
Life openeth brightly to their ardent gaze;

A glorious pomp sits on the gorgeous sky; O'er the broad world hope's smile incessant plays, And scenes of beauty win the enchanted eye: How sad to break the vision, and to fold Each lifeless form in earth's embracing mould! Yet this is life! To mark from day to day, Youth, in the freshness of its morning prime, Pass, like the anthem of a breeze away,

Sinking in waves of death ere chill'd by time! Ere yet dark years on the warm cheek had shed Autumnal mildew o'er the rose-like red! And yet what mourner, though the pensive eye Be dimly thoughtful in its burning tears,

But should with rapture gaze upon the sky, [reers? Through whose far depths the spirit's wing ca There gleams eternal o'er their ways are flung, Who fade from earth while yet their years are young!

THE SIGNS OF GOD.

I MARK'D the Spring as she pass'd along,
With her eye of light, and her lip of song:
While she stole in peace o'er the green earth's breast,
While the streams sprang out from their icy rest:
The buds bent low to the breeze's sigh,
And their breath went forth in the scented sky;
When the fields look'd fresh in their sweet repose,
And the young dews slept on the new-born rose.
The scene was changed. It was Autumn's hour:
A frost had discolour'd the summer bower;
The blast wail'd sad mid the wither'd leaves,
The reaper stood musing by gather'd sheaves;
The mellow pomp of the rainbow woods
Was stirr'd by the sound of the rising floods;
And I knew by the cloud-by the wild wind's strain
That Winter drew near with his storms again!
I stood by the ocean; its waters roll'd
In their changeful beauty of sapphire and gold;
And day look'd down with its radiant smiles,
Where the blue waves danced round a thousand
The ships went forth on the trackless seas, [isles:
Their white wings play'd in the joyous breeze;
Their prows rushed on mid the parted foam,
While the wanderer was wrapp'd in a dream of home!
The mountain arose with its lofty brow,
While its shadow was sleeping in vales below;
The mist like a garland of glory lay,
Where its proud heights soar'd in the air away;
The eagle was there on his tireless wing,
And his shriek went up like an offering:
And he seem'd, in his sunward flight, to raise
A chant of thanksgiving-a hymn of praise!
I look'd on the arch of the midnight skies.
With its deep and unsearchable mysteries:
The moon, mid an eloquent multitude
Of unnumber'd stars, her career pursued:
A charm of sleep on the city fell,
All sounds lay hush'd in that brooding spell;
By babbling brooks were the buds at rest,
And the wild-bird dream'd on his downy nest.
I stood where the deepening tempest pass'd,
The strong trees groan'd in the sounding blast,
The murmuring deep with its wrecks roll'd on;
The clouds o'ershadow'd the mighty sun;
The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side,
And hills to the thunder-peal replied;
The lightning burst forth on its fearful way.
While the heavens were lit in its red array!
And hath man the power, with his pride and his skill,
To arouse all nature with storms at will?
Hath he power to colour the summer-cloud--
To allay the tempest when the hills are bow'd!
Can he waken the spring with her festal wreath!
Can the sun grow dim by his lightest breath!
Will he come again when death's vale is trod?
Who then shall dare murmur "There is no God'

EUTHANASIA.

METHINKS, when on the languid eye
Life's autumn scenes grow dim;
When evening's shadows veil the sky,
And Pleasure's syren hymn
Grows fainter on the tuneless ear,
Like echoes from another sphere,

Or dream of seraphim,

It were not sad to cast away

This dull and cumbrous load of clay.
It were not sad to feel the heart

Grow passionless and cold;
To feel those longings to depart

That cheer'd the good of old;

To clasp the faith which looks on high,
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,
And makes the curtain-fold
That falls upon his wasting breast
The door that leads to endless rest.

It were not lonely thus to lie

On that triumphant bed,
Till the pure spirit mounts on high,
By white-wing'd seraphs led:
Where glories earth may never know
O'er "many mansions" lingering glow,
In peerless lustre shed;

It were not lonely thus to soar,
Where sin and grief can sting no more.
And, though the way to such a goal

Lies through the clouded tomb,

If on the free, unfetter'd soul

There rest no stains of gloom,
How should its aspirations rise
Far through the blue, unpillar'd skies,
Up, to its final home!

Beyond the journeyings of the sun,
Where streams of living waters run.

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over, And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover

Will to the embraces of the worm have gone; Those who now love thee will have pass'd forever, Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee; Thou wilt nced balm to heal thy spirit's fever,

As thy sick heart broods over years to be! Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,

Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die; Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throw

Fades, like the crimson from a sunset sky; [ing

Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,
Which lights the future with a fadeless ray;
O, touch the sceptre !-win a hope in Heaven
Come, turn thy spirit from the world away!
Then will the crosses of this brief existence
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;-
And, shining brightly in the forward distance,
Will of thy patient race appear the goal:
Home of the weary!-where, in peace reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,
Though o'er its dust the curtain'd grave is closing,
Who would not, early, choose a lot like this?

THE BURIAL-PLACE AT LAUREL HILL.* HERE the lamented dead in dust shall lie,

Life's lingering languors o'er, its labours done, Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky, Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.

Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,
With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in,
To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,
No more to suffer, and no more to sin.

And in this hallow'd spot, where Nature showers
Her summer smiles from fair and stainless skies,
Affection's hand may strew her dewy flowers,

Whose fragrant incense from the grave shall rise.

And here the impressive stone, engraved with words
Which grief sententious gives to marble pale,
Shall teach the heart; while waters, leaves, and birds
Make cheerful music in the passing gale.

Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour
On scented airs the unavailing sigh-
While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,
And landscapes blooming-that the loved must
die?

There is an emblem in this peaceful scene;

Soon rainbow colours on the woods will fall, And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green, As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.

Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,

Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand. While the chain'd streams are silent as the ground,

As Death had numb'd them with his icy hand. Yet, when the warm, soft winds shall rise in spring,

Like struggling daybeams o'er a blasted heath, The bird return'd shall poise her golden wing,

And liberal Nature break the spell of Death.

So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,

The blessed dead to endless youth shall rise, And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blend Its tone with anthems from the upper skies. There shall the good of earth be found at last,

Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand; Where Love her crown attains-her trials pastAnd, fill'd with rapture, hails the "better land!"

*Near the city of Philadelphia.

A CONTRAST.

It was the morning of a day in spring; The sun look'd gladness from the eastern sky; Birds were upon the trees and on the wing, And all the air was rich with melody; [high; The heaven-the calm, pure heaven, was bright on Earth laugh'd beneath in all its freshening green, The free blue streams sang as they wandered by, And many a sunny glade and flowery scene Gleam'd out, like thoughts of youth, life's troubled years between.

The rose's breath upon the south wind came, Oft as its whisperings the young branches stirr'd, And flowers for which the poet hath no name; While, mid the blossoms of the grove, were heard The restless murmurs of the humming-bird; Waters were dancing in the mellow light; And joyous notes and many a cheerful word Stole on the charmed ear with such delight As waits on soft, sweet tones of music heard at night. The night-dews lay in the half-open'd flower, Like hopes that nestle in the youthful breast; And ruffled by the light airs of the hour, Awoke the pure lake from its glassy rest: Slow blending with the blue and distant west, Lay the dim woodlands, and the quiet gleam Of amber-clouds, like islands of the blestGlorious and bright, and changing like a dream, And lessening fast away beneath the intenser beam.

Songs were amid the valleys far and wide, And on the green slopes and the mountains high: While, from the springing flowers on every side, Upon his painted wings, the butterfly Roam'd, a gay blossom of the sunny sky; The visible smile of joy was on the scene; 'Twas a bright vision, but too soon to die! Spring may not linger in her robes of greenAutumn, in storm and shade shall quench the summer sheen.

I came again. 'Twas Autumn's stormy hour: The voice of winds was in the faded wood; The sere leaves, rustling in deserted bower, Were hurl'd in eddies to the moaning flood: Dark clouds were in the west-and red as blood, The sun shone through the hazy atmosphere; While torrent voices broke the solitude, Where, straying lonely, as with steps of fear, I mark'd the deepening gloom which shrouds the dying year.

The ruffled lake heaved wildly; near the shore It bore the red leaves of the shaken tree, Shed in the violent north wind's restless roar, Emblems of man upon life's stormy sea! Pale autumn leaves! once to the breezes free They waved in spring and summer's golden prime; Now, even as clouds or dew how fast they flee; Weak, changing like the flowers in autumn's clime, As man sinks down in death, chill'd by the touch of time!

I mark'd the picture-'t was the changeful scene Which life holds up to the observant eye:

Its spring, and summer, and its bowers of green, The streaming sunlight of its morning sky, And the dark clouds of death, which linger by; For oft, when life is fresh and hope is strong, Shall early sorrow breathe the unbidden sigh, While age to death moves peacefully along, As on the singer's lip expires the finish'd song

THE FADED ONE.

GONE to the slumber which may know no waking

Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell; Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking, In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath: A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,

A bond of loneliness--a spell of death! Yet 't was but yesterday that all before thee

Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee,

And thy light feet impress'd but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charm'd thy sweet existence, Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. How have the garlands of thy childhood wither'd, And hope's false anthem died upon the air! Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gather'd, And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even,

Youth's braided wreath lies stain'd in sprinkled Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven, [dust, Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and

trust.

A REMEMBRANCE.

I SEE thee still! thou art not dead,
Though dust is mingling with thy form;
The broken sunbeam hath not shed
The final rainbow on the storm:
In visions of the midnight deep,

Thine accents through my bosom thrill, Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep,— For, wrapt in thought I see thee still!

I see thee still,-that cheek of rose,—
Those lips, with dewy fragrance wet,
That forehead in serene repose,-

Those soul-lit eyes-I see them yet!
Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not dead,—
Thou gracest still this earthly sphere,
An influence still is round me shed,
Like thine, and yet thou art not here!
Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight,

Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom; No more thy smiles inspire delight,

For thou art garner'd in the tomb.
Rich harvest for that ruthless power
Which hath no bound to mar his will:-

Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour,
Throned in my heart, I see thee still.

THE paternal ancestors of Mr. BENJAMIN came to New England at an early period from Wales. His father, who was a merchant, resided many years at Demerara, in British Guiana, where he acquired a large fortune. There the subject of this notice was born in the year 1809. When he was about three years old, in consequence of a severe illness he was brought to this country, under the care of a faithful female guardian, and here, except during a few brief periods, he has since resided. The improper medical treatment to which he had been subjected in Demerara prevented his complete restoration under the more skilful physicians of New England, and he has been lame from his childhood; but I believe his general health has been uniformly good for many

years.

While a boy he was sent to an excellent school in the rural village of Colchester, in Connecticut. At twelve he was removed to New Haven, where he resided three years in his father's family, after which he was sent to a private boarding school near Boston, in which he remained until he entered Harvard College, in 1825. He left this venerable institution before the close of his second academic year, in consequence of a protracted and painful illness, and on his recovery entered Washington College, at Hartford, then under the presidency of the Right Reverend THOMAS C. BROWNELL, now Bishop of Connecticut. He was graduated in 1829, with the highest honours of his class.

In 1830, Mr. BENJAMIN entered the Law School at Cambridge, at that time conducted by Mr. Justice STORY and Professor ASHMUN. He pursued his legal studies with much industry for a considerable period at this seminary, but finished the acquirement of his profession at New Haven, under Chief Justice DAGGETT and Professor HITCHCOCK. He was admitted to the Connecticut bar in 1833, and removing soon after to Boston, the residence of his relatives and friends, he was admitted to the courts of Massachusetts, as attorney and counsellor at law and solicitor in chancery.

His disposition to devote his time to literature prevented his entering upon the practice of his profession, and on the death of EDWIN BUCKINGHAM, one of its original editors, I believe he became connected with the "New England Magazine."

In 1836 that periodical was joined to the "American Monthly Magazine," published in New York, and edited by CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, and Mr. BENJAMIN was soon after induced to go to reside permanently in that city. By unfortunate investments, and the calamities in which so many were involved in that period, he had lost most of his patrimonial property, and the remainder

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of it he now invested in a publishing establish ment; but the commercial distress of the time, by which many of the wealthiest houses were overthrown, prevented the realization of his expectations, and the business was abandoned. He purchased, I believe, near the close of the year 1837, the "American Monthly Magazine," and for about two years conducted it with much ability; but by giving to some of the later numbers of it a political character, its prosperity was destroyed, and he relinquished it to become associated with Mr. HORACE GREELEY in the editorship of the "New Yorker," a popular weekly periodical, devoted to literature and politics. In 1840 several weekly gazettes of unprecedented size were established in New York, and rapidly attained a great circulation. With the most prominent of these he was connected, and his writings contributed largely to its success.

In both prose and verse Mr. BENJAMIN has been a very prolific author. His rhythmical compositions would fill many volumes. They are generally short. "A Poem on the Contemplation of Nature," read before the classes of Washington College, on the day of his graduation; « Poetry, a Satire," published in 1843, and "Infatuation, a Satire," published in 1845, are the longest of his printed works. He has written several dramatic pieces, of which only fragments have been given to the public.

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There have not been many successful American satires. TRUMBULL'S "Progress of Dulness" and McFingal," are the best that had been produced at the close of the Revolution. FRENEAU, HopKINS, DWIGHT, ALSOP, CLIFFTON, and others, attempted this kind of writing with various success, but none of them equalled TRUMBULL. More recently FESSENDEN, VERPLANCK, PIERPONT, HALLECK, HOLMES, WARD, OSBORN, and BENJAMIN, have essayed it. HALLECK'S " "Fanny" and "Epistles" are witty, spirited and playful, but local in their application. The "Vision of Rubeta" has felicitous passages, and shows that its author is a scholar, but it is cumbrous and occasionally coarse. Mr. BENJAMIN's satires are lively, pointed, and free from malignity or licentiousness.

In some of his shorter poems, Mr. BENJAMIN has shown a quick perception of the ridiculous; in others, warm affections and a meditative spirit; and in more, gayety. His poems are adorned with apposite and pretty fancies, and seem generally to be expressive of actual feelings. Some of his humourous picces, as the sonnet entitled "Sport," which is quoted in the following pages, are happily expressed, but his style is generally more like that of an improvisator than an artist. He rarely makes use of the burnisher.