JOHN G. SAXE, of Highgate, Franklin county, Vermont, was born in that town on the second day of June, 1816. His youth was passed in rural occupations, until he was seventeen years of age, when he determined to study one of the liberal professions, and with this view entered the grammar school at St. Albans, and after the usual preliminary course, the college at Middlebury, where he graduated bachelor of arts in the summer of 1839. He subsequently read law, at Lockport in New York and at St. Albans, and was admitted to the bar at the latter place, in September, 1843, since which time he has been practising in the courts, with more than the average success of young attorneys.

I remember that when Mr. SAXE was in college he was well known for his manly character, good sense, genial humour, and, for an undergraduate, large acquaintance with literature. He preserves, with fitting increase, his good reputation. "Besides writing with such delightful point and facility," observes a friend of his, "he is one of the best of conversationists, and wastes more wit in a day than would set up a Yankee Punch' or a score of Yankee Doodles.' He is a good general scholar, well read in the best English authors, and besides his comical compositions, has produced many pieces of grace and tenderness that evince a genuine poetical feeling and ability."

Mr. SAXE excels most in fun, burlesque, and satire, fields upon the confines of the domain of poetry, in which we have many of the finest specimens of lyrical expression, and which have furnished, from the times of JUVENAL, a fair proportion of the noblest illustrations of creative energy. His verse is nervous, and generally highly finished; and in almost all cases it is admirably calculated for the production of the desired effects. One of the happiest exhibitions of his skill in language is in the piece printed in the Knickerbocker Magazine, commencing

Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges,

Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges;

Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o'er the vale-
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on a rail!

The whole composition is an echo and reflection of the crowded railroad car.

The longest of his productions is "Progress, a Satire," which has passed through two editions, and been largely quoted for its felicitous characterization of popular foibles. His "New Rape of the Lock," written in 1847, and "Proud Miss MacBride," written in 1848, are in the vein of Hoop, but are full of verbal felicities and humour, and are fruits of original observation of manners.

THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. A LEGEND OF GOTHAM.

O, TERRIBLY proud was Miss MACBRIDE,
The very personification of pride,
As she minced along in fashion's tide,
Adown Broadway-on the proper side-

When the golden sun was setting;

There was pride in the head she carried so high,
Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye,
And a world of pride in the very sigh

That her stately bosom was fretting:

A sigh that a pair of elegant feet,
Sandal'd in satin, should kiss the street-
The very same that the vulgar greet
In common leather not over "neat"-

For such is the common booting;
(And Christian tears may well be shed,
That even among our gentlemen-bred,
The glorious Day of Morocco is dead,
And Day and Martin are rigning instead,
On a much inferior footing!)

O, terribly proud was Miss MACBRIDE, Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride, And proud of fifty matters beside

That wouldn't have borne dissection; Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk, Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk,"

On a very slight inspection!—

Proud abroad, and proud at home,
Proud wherever she chanced to come-
When she was glad, and when she was glum ;
Proud as the head of a Saracen
Over the door of a tippling-shop!—
Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop,
"Proud as a boy with a bran-new top,"
Proud beyond comparison !

It seems a singular thing to say,
But her very senses led her astray
Respecting all humility;
In sooth, her dull, auricular drum
Could find in humble only a "hum,"
And heard no sound of "gentle" come,
In talking about gentility.

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What lowly meant she didn't know,
For she always avoided "everything low,"
With care the most punctilious;
And, queerer still, the audible sound
Of "super-silly" she never had found
In the adjective supercilious!

The meaning of meek she never knew,
But imagined the phrase had something to do
With "Moses," a peddling German Jew,
Who, like all hawkers, the country through,
Was "a person of no position;"
And it seem'd to her exceedingly plain,
If the word was really known to pertain
To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane
To a lady of high condition!

Even her graces-not her grace-
For that was in the "vocative case"-
Chill'd with the touch of her icy face,

Sat very stiffly upon her!
She never confess'd a favour aloud,
Like one of the simple, common crowd-
But coldly smiled, and faintly bow'd,
As who should say, "You do me proud,
And do yourself an honour!"
And yet the pride of Miss MACBRIDE,
Although it had fifty hobbies to ride,

Had really no foundation;

But like the fabrics that gossips devise-
Those single stories that often arise
And grow till they reach a four-story size-

Was merely a fancy creation!

"T is a curious fact as ever was known In human nature, but often shown

Alike in castle and cottage,

That pride, like pigs of a certain breed,
Will manage to live and thrive on " feed"

As poor as a pauper's pottage!

That her wit should never have made her vain, Was-like her face-sufficiently plain;

And, as to her musical powers,
Although she sang until she was hoarse,
And issued notes with a banker's force,
They were just such notes as we never endorse
For any acquaintance of ours!

Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high—
For Miss MAC BRIDE first opened her eye
Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky;
But pride is a curious passion--

And in talking about her wealth and worth,
She always forgot to mention her birth
To people of rank and fashion!

Of all the notable things on earth,
The queerest one is pride of birth,

Among our " fierce democracie!"
A bridge across a hundred years,
Without a prop to save it from sneers-
Not even a couple of rotten peers
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers,
Is American aristocracy!
English and Irish, French and Spanish,
German, Italian, Dutch and Danish,
Crossing their veins until they vanish

In one conglomeration; So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, No heraldry-HARVEY will ever succeed In finding the circulation! Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it wax'd at the farther end, By some plebeian vocation; Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loup of stronger twine,

That plagued some worthy relation! But Miss MAC BRIDE had something beside Her lofty birth to nourish her prideFor rich was the old paternal MACBRIDE, According to public rumour;

And he lived up town," in a splendid square,
And kept his daughter on dainty fare,
And gave her gems that were rich and rare,
And the finest rings and things to wear,

And feathers enough to plume her.

An honest mechanic was JoHN MACBRIDE,
As ever an honest calling plied,

Or graced an honest ditty;

For JOHN had work'd in his early day,
In "pots and pearls," the legends say—
And kept a shop with a rich array
Of things in the soap and candle way,
In the lower part of the city!
No "rara avis" was honest JOHN-
(That's the Latin for "sable-swan")—

Though in one of his fancy flashes,
A wicked wag, who meant to deride,
Call'd honest JOHN "Old Phonix MACBRIDE,"
"Because he rose from his ashes!"
Little by little he grew to be rich,
By saving of candle-ends and “sich,"
Till be reach'd at last an opulent niche-
No very uncommon affair;

For history quite confirms the law
Express'd in the ancient Scottish saw-

A MICKLE may come to be may'r!"
Alack for many ambitious beaux!
She hung their hopes upon her nose-

(The figure is quite Horatian!)
Until, from habit, the member grew
As very a hook as ever eye knew,
To the commonest observation.
A thriving tailor begg'd her hand,
But she gave the fellow" to understand
By a violent manual action,
She perfectly scorn'd the best of his clan,
And reckon'd the ninth of any man

An exceedingly vulgar fraction!
Another, whose sign was a golden boot,
Was mortified with a bootless suit,

In a way that was quite appalling; For, though a regular sutor by trade, He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid,

Are they whose sires, by pounding their knees, Or coiling their legs, or trades like theseContrived to win their children ease

From poverty's galling manacles.)

A rich tobacconist comes and sues,
And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse
A man of his wealth and liberal views,
Began, at once, with "If you choose-

And could you really love him-"
But the lady spoil'd his speech in a huff,
With an answer rough and ready enough,
To let him know she was up to snuff,
And altogether above him!

A young attorney, of winning grace,
Was scarce allow'd to "open his face,"
Ere Miss MACBRIDE had closed his case

With true judicial celerity;

For the lawyer was poor, and "seedy" to boot, And to say the lady discarded his suit,

Is merely a double verity!

The last of those who came to court,
Was a lively beau, of the dapper sort,
"Without any visible means of support,"
A crime by no means flagrant
In one who wears an elegant coat,
But the very point on which they vote
A ragged fellow “a vagrant!”

A courtly fellow was dapper JIM,
Sleek and supple, and tall and trim,
And smooth of tongue as neat of limb;

And maugre his meagre pocket,
You'd say from the glittering tales he told,
That JIM had slept in a cradle of gold,
With FORTUNATUS to rock it!

Now dapper JIM his courtship plied (I wish the fact could be denied)

With an eye to the purse of the old MACBRIDE, And really "nothing shorter!"

For he said to himself, in his greedy lust,
66 Whenever he dies-as die he must-
And yields to Heaven his vital trust,

He's very sure to come down with his dust,'
In behalf of his only daughter."

And the very magnificent Miss MACBRIDE,
Half in love, and half in pride,

Quite graciously relented;

And, tossing her head, and turning her back,
No token of proper pride to lack—
To be a Bride, without the "Mac,"

With much disdain, consented!
Alas! that people who've got their box
Of cash beneath the best of locks,
Secure from all financial shocks,
Should stock their fancy with fancy stocks,
And madly rush upon Wall-street rocks,
Without the least apology!

Alas! that people whose money-affairs
Are sound, beyond all need of repairs,
Should ever tempt the bulls and bears
Of Mammon's fierce zoology!

Old JOHN MACBRIDE, one fatal day,
Became the unresisting prey

Of Fortune's undertakers;
And staking all on a single die,
His founder'd bark went high and dry
Among the brokers and breakers!
At his trade again, in the very shop
Where, years before, he let it drop,

He follows his ancient calling-
Cheerily, too, in poverty's spite,
And sleeping quite as sound at night,
As when, at fortune's giddy height,
He used to wake with a dizzy fright

From a dismal dream of falling.
But alas for the haughty Miss MACBRIDE,
"T was such a shock to her precious pride!
She couldn't recover, although she tried

Her jaded spirits to rally;

"T was a dreadful change in human affairs,
From a Place "up town," to a nook "up stairs,"
From an avenue down to an alley!—

'Twas little condolence she had, Gon wot-
From her "troops of friends," who hadn't forgot
The airs she used to borrow;
They had civil phrases enough, but yet
'Twas plain to see that their "deepest regret"
Was a different thing from sorrow!
They own'd it could n't have well been worse
To go from a full to an empty purse:
To expect a "reversion," and get a reverse,

Was truly a dismal feature;

But it wasn't strange-they whisper'd-at all!
That the summer of pride should have its fall
Was quite according to Nature!

And one of those chaps who make a pun,
As if it were quite legitimate fun
To be blazing away at every one
With a regular, double-loaded gun-

Remark'd that moral transgression
Always brings retributive stings
To candle-makers as well as kings:
For "making light of cereous things"
Was a very wick-ed profession!
And vulgar people-the saucy churls-
Inquired about "the price of pearls,"

And mock'd at her situation:
"She wasn't ruin'd-they ventured to hope-
Because she was poor, she need n't mope;
Few people were better off for soap,

And that was a consolation!"
And to make her cup of wo run over,
Her elegant, ardent plighted lover

Was the very first to forsake her;
"He quite regretted the step, 't was true-
The lady had pride enough for two,'
But that alone would never do

To quiet the butcher and baker!"

WHAT impious mockery, when with soulless art
Fashion, intrusive, seeks to rule the heart;
Directs how grief may tastefully be borne;
Instructs Bereavement just how long to mourn;
Shows Sorrow how by nice degrees to fade,
And marks its measure in a riband's shade!
More impious still, when through her wanton laws
She desecrates Religion's sacred cause;
Shows how "the narrow road" is easiest trod,
And how genteelest, worms may worship GoD;
How sacred rites may bear a worldly grace,
And self-abasement wear a haughty face;
How sinners, long in Folly's mazes whirl'd,
With pomp and splendour may "renounce the
world;"

How "with all saints hereafter to appear,"
Yet quite escape the vulgar portion here!

"THE PRESS."

O MIGHT the muse prolong her flowing rhyme, (Too closely cramp'd by unrelenting Time, Whose dreadful scythe swings heedlessly along, And, missing speeches, clips the thread of song), How would she strive in fitting verse to sing The wondrous progress of the printing king! Bibles and novels, treatises and songs, Lectures on "rights," and strictures upon wrongs; Verse in all metres, travels in all climes,

Rhymes without reason, sonnets without rhymes;

Translations from the French," so vilely done, The wheat escaping, leaves the chaff alone;

Memoirs, where dunces sturdily essay
To cheat Oblivion of her certain prey;
Critiques, where pedants vauntingly expose
Unlicensed verses in unlawful prose;
Lampoons, whose authors strive in vain to throw
Their headless arrows from a nerveless bow;
Poems by youths, who, crossing Nature's will,
Harangue the landscape they were born to till;
Huge tomes of law, that lead by rugged routes
Through ancient dogmas down to modern doubts,
Where judges oft, with well-affected ease,
Give learned reasons for absurd decrees,

Or, more ingenious still, contrive to found
Some just decision on fallacious ground-
Or blink the point, and haply, in its place,
Moot and decide some hypothetic case;
Smart epigrams, all sadly out of joint,
And pointless, save the "exclamation point,"
Which stands in state, with vacant wonder fraught,
The pompous tombstone of some pauper thought;
Ingenious systems based on doubtful facts,
"Tracts for the times," and most untimely tracts;
Polemic pamphlets, literary toys,
And "easy lessons" for uneasy boys;
Hebdomadal gazettes and daily news,
Gay magazines and quarterly reviews:
Small portion these of all the vast array
Of darken'd leaves that cloud each passing day,
And pour their tide unceasingly along,
A gathering, swelling, overwhelming throng!

"ASSOCIATION."

HAIL, social progress! each new moon is rife With some new theory of social life, Some matchless scheme ingeniously design'd From half their miseries to free mankind; On human wrongs triumphant war to wage, And bring anew the glorious golden age.

Association" is the magic word

From many a social "priest and prophet" heard;
" Attractive labour" is the angel given,
To render earth a sublunary heaven!
"Attractive labour !" ring the changes round,
And labour grows attractive in the sound;
And many a youthful mind, where haply lurk
Unwelcome fancies at the name of "work,"
Sees pleasant pastime in its longing view
Of" toil made easy" and "attractive" too-
And, fancy-rapt, with joyful ardour, turns
Delightful grindstones and seductive churns!.....
Inventive France! what wonder-working schemes
Astound the world whene'er a Frenchman dreams!
What fine-spun theories-ingenious, new,
Sublime, stupendous, everything but true!
One little favour, O "imperial France:"
Still teach the world to cook, to dress, to dance;
Let, if thou wilt, thy boots and barbers roam,
But keep thy morals and thy creeds at home!

BEREAVEMENT.

NAY, weep not, dearest, though the child be dead, He lives again in heaven's unclouded life, With other angels that have early fled

From these dark scenes of sorrow, sin, and strife; Nay, weep not, dearest, though thy yearning love Would fondly keep for earth its fairest flowers, And e'en deny to brighter realms above

The few that deck this dreary world of ours: Though much it seems a wonder and a wo

That one so loved should be so early lostAnd hallow'd tears may unforbidden flow, To mourn the blossom that we cherish'd most Yet all is well: God's good design I see, That where our treasure is, our hearts may be!

MR. COOKE was born in Martinsburg, Berkeley county, Virginia, on the twenty-sixth of October, 1816. His father, JOHN R. COOKE, of Richmond, has long been a man of honourable distinction in the Virginia bar. Mr. COOKE's first essays in poetry were contributed to the "Knickerbocker" magazine, then edited by CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, while he was a student in the college of Princeton. Before arriving at the age of twenty-one years, Mr. COOKE was married, and settled as a lawyer, in the pleasant village of Millwood, on the banks of

the Shenandoah, where he now resides, in the practice of his profession, the study of his favourite authors, and the occasional enjoyment of the sports of the rod and gun.

Many of Mr. CoоKE's pieces are very beautiful. His "Florence Vane" is one of the most poetical songs that have been written in this country. His longer poems are elaborate, full of striking thoughts and delicate fancies, and nearly all of them contain touches of tenderness which show to what issues his spirit is attuned.

EMILY:

PROEM TO THE "FROISSART BALLADS."

YOUNG Emily has temples fair, Caress'd by locks of dark brown hair. A thousand sweet humanities

Speak wisely from her hazel eyes.

Her speech is ignorant of command, And yet can lead you like a hand.

Her white teeth sparkle, when the eclipse Is laughter-moved, of her red lips.

She moves, all grace, with gliding limbs
As a white-breasted cygnet swims.

In her sweet childhood, Emily
Was wild with natural gayety,
A little creature, full of laughter,
Who cast no thought before or after,
And knew not custom or its chains.
The dappled fawns upon the plains,
The birds that love the upper sky,
Lived not in lovelier liberty.

But with this natural merriment,
Mind, and the ripening years have blent
A thoughtfulness—not melancholy—
Which wins her life away from folly;
Checking somewhat the natural gladness,
But saved, by that it checks, from sadness-
Like clouds athwart a May-morn sailing,
Which take the golden light they are veiling.
She loves her kind, and shuns no duty,

Her virtues sanctify her beauty,
And all who know her say that she
Was born for man's felicity-

I know that she was born for mine.
Dearer than any joy of wine,

Or pomp, or gold, or man's loud praise,
Or purple power, art thou to me—
Kind cheerer of my clouded ways-
Young vine upon a rugged tree.

Maidens who love are full of hope,
And crowds hedge in its golden scope;
Wherefore they love green solitudes
And silence for their better moods.

I know some wilds, where tulip trees,
Full of the singing toil of bees,
Depend their loving branches over
Great rocks, which honeysuckles cover
In rich and liberal overflow.

In the dear time of long ago
When I had woo'd young Emily,
And she had told her love to me,
I often found her in these bowers,
Quite rapt away in meditation,
Or giving earnest contemplation
To leaf, or bird, or wild wood flowers;
And once I heard the maiden singing,
Until the very woods were ringing-
Singing an old song to the Hours!

I well remember that rare song,

It charged the Hours with cruel wrong-
Wrong to the verdure of the boughs-
Wrong to the lustre of fair brows,
Its music had a wondrous sound,
And made the greenwood haunted ground.
But I delay: one jocund morn—
A morn of that blithe time of spring,
When milky blossoms load the thorn,
And birds so prate, and soar, and sing,
That melody is everywhere,

On the glad earth, and in the air,-
On such a morn I went to seek

In our wild haunts for Emily.

I found her where a flowering tree
Gave odours and cool shade. Her cheek
A little rested on her hand;

Her rustic skill had made a band
Of rare device which garlanded
The beauty of her bending head;