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 BUSH, 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.

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.

man.

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 GerAfter passing some time in the Divinity School at Chelsea, he was admitted to deacon's orders, by the Bishop of New York, on the twenty-eighth of June, 1841. In the following July, on receiving 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.

Since this time Mr. CoxE has become Rector of St. Pauls, in Hartford, Connecticut, and has published, besides several works in prose, "Saul, a Mystery," and two or three volumes of miscellaneous poems. He is among the most prolific, and, but for this, would probably be among the best, of our younger writers.

MANHOOD.

BOYHOOD hath gone, or ever I was 'ware: Gone like the birds that have sung out their season, 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 a 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 quick dispersion into empty nothing, Like its dear self alone, like life, like Boyhood. Now, on the traversed scene I leave for ever, Doth memory cast already her pale look, And through the mellow light of by-gone summers, Gaze, like the bride, that leaveth her home-valley, And like the Patriarch, goes she knows not where. She, with faint heart, upon the bounding hill-top Turns her fair neck, one moment, unbeheld, And through the sun-set, and her tearful eye, Far as her father's dwelling, strains her sight, To bless the roof-tree, and the lawn, and gardens, Where romp her younger sisters, still at home.

I have just waken'd from a darling dream, And fain would sleep once more. I have been roving In a sweet isle, and thither would return. I have just come, methinks, from Fairyland, And yearn to see Mab's kingdom once again, And roam its landscapes with her! Ah, my soul, Thy holiday is over-play-time gone, And a stern Master bids thee to thy task.

How shall I ever go through this rough world!
How find me older every setting sun;
How merge my boyish heart in manliness;
How take my part upon the tricksy stage,
And wear a mask to seem what I am not!
Ah me-but I forgot; the mimicry
Will not be long, ere all that I had feign'd,
Will be so real, that my mask will fall,
And Age act Self, uncostumed for the play.
Now my first step I take, adown the valley,
But ere I reach the foot, my pace must change;
And I toil on, as man has ever done,
Treading the causeway, smooth with endless travel,
Since first the giants of old Time descended,
And Adam leading down our mother Eve,
In ages elder than Antiquity.

This voice, so buoyant, must be all unstrung,
Like harps, that chord by chord grow musicless;
These hands must totter on a smooth-topp'd staff,
That late could whirl the ball-club vigorously:
This eye grow glassy, that can sparkle now,
And on the dear Earth's hues look doatingly:
And these brown locks, which tender hands have
In loving curls about their taper-fingers,
Must silver soon, and bear about such snows,
As freeze away all touch of tenderness.
And then, the end of every human story
Is ever this, whatever its beginning,

[twined

To wear the robes of being-in their rags;
To bear, like the old Tuscan's prisoners,
A corpse still with us, insupportable;
And then to sink in Earth, like dust to dust,

And hearse for ever from the gaze of men, [relics!
What long they thought-now dare to call-our
Glory to him who doth subject the same,
In hope of Immortality!

I go from strength to strength, from joy to joy;
From being unto being! I will snatch
This germ of comfort from departing youth;
And when the pictured primer's thrown aside,
I'll hoard its early lessons 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, has made me man,
And bids me put all childish things away.
Keep me from evil, that it may not grieve me!
And grant me, LORD, with this, the Psalmist's prayer,
Remember not the follies of my youth,
But in thy mercy, think upon me, Lord!

OLD CHURCHES.

HAST been where the full-blossom'd bay-tree is blow-
With odours like Eden's around?
[ing
Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is grow-
And wild vines are fringing the ground? [ing,
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,
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

[eve,

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 GOD!

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!

60

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!

2 R2

MR. FIELDS is a native of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but has long resided in Boston. He is a partner in a well-known publishing and bookselling house in that city. His principal poems are "Commerce," read before the Boston Mercantile Library Association on its anniversary in 1838, when he was associated as poet with EDWARD EVERETT, who delivered on the occasion one of his most brilliant orations; and "The Post of Honour," read before the same society in 1848, when DANIEL WEBSTER preceded him as orator. For several years he has been an occasional contributor to the magazines, and a few of his poems, as “ The Fair Wind," Yankee Ships," and "Dirge for a Young Girl," have been copied from them into the newspapers of all parts of the Union. The general style of his serious pieces is pure, sweet, thought-ly ful, and harmonious; and though evidently unlabored, they are characterized by much refinement of taste and an intuitive perception of metrical proprieties. His lyrics are clear, strong, and bright, in expression, and dashing in movement, and have that charm which comes from a "polished want of polish," in which spontaneous sensibility is allied with instinctive taste. The "Sleighing Song" has

ON A PAIR OF ANTLERS,

BROUGHT FROM GERMANY.

GIFT, from the land of song and wine-
Can I forget the enchanted day,
When first along the glorious Rhine

I heard the huntsman's bugle play,
And mark'd the early star that dwells
Among the cliffs of Drachenfels!
Again the isles of beauty rise;

Again the crumbling tower appears,
That stands, defying stormy skies,

With memories of a thousand years;
And dark old forests wave again,
And shadows crowd the dusky plain.
They brought the gift, that I might hear
The music of the roaring pine-

To fill again my charmed ear

With echoes of the Rodenstein-
With echoes of the silver horn,
Across the wailing waters borne.
Trophies of spoil! henceforth your place
Is in this quiet home of mine;
Farewell the busy, bloody chase,

Mute emblems now of "auld lang syne," When Youth and Hope went hand in hand To roam the dear old German land.

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

WE were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep-
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.
"Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shatter'd in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shudder'd there in silence-
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.
As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers—
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he stagger'd down the stairs.
But his little daughter whisper'd,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kiss'd the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchor'd safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

A VALENTINE.

SHE that is fair, though never vain or proud, More fond of home than fashion's changing crowd; Whose taste refined even female friends admire, Dress'd not for show, but robed in neat attire; She who has learn'd, with mild, forgiving breast, To pardon frailties, hidden or confess'd; True to herself, yet willing to submit, More sway'd by love than ruled by worldly wit; Though young, discreet-though ready, ne'er unBlest with no pedant's, but a woman's mind: [kind, She wins our hearts, toward her our thoughts inSo at her door go leave my Valentine. [cline,

ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES,
SENT TO AN EMINENT ENGLISH POET.

To him who sang of Venice, and reveal'd
How wealth and glory cluster'd in her streets,
And poised her marble domes with wondrous skill,
We send these tributes, plunder'd from the sea.
These many-colour'd, variegated forms,
Sail to our rougher shores, and rise and fall
To the deep music of the Atlantic wave.
Such spoils we capture where the rainbows drop,
Melting in ocean. Here are broideries strange,
Wrought by the sea-nymphs from their golden hair,
And wove by moonlight. Gently turn the leaf:
From narrow cells, scoop'd in the rocks, we take
These fairy textures, lightly moor'd at morn.
Down sunny slopes, outstretching to the deep,
We roam at noon, and gather shapes like these.
Note now the painted webs from verdurous isles,
Festoon'd and spangled in sea-caves, and say
What hues of land can rival tints like those,
Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of kings
Who dwell beneath the waters! Such our gift,
Cull'd from a margin of the western world,
And offer'd unto genius in the old.

FROM "THE POST OF HONOUR."

GLORY.

UNCHANGING Power! thy genius still presides O'er vanquish'd fields, and ocean's purpled tides; Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board, Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword; For thee and thine combining squadrons form To sweep the field with Glory's awful storm; The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name, And plucks new valour from thy torch of fame; For him the bell shall wake its loudest song, For him the cannon's thunder echo long, For him a nation weave the unfading crown, And swell the triumph of his sweet renown. SO NELSON watch'd, long ere Trafalgar's days, Thy radiant orb, prophetic Glory, blaze— Saw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars, And plant his breast with Honour's burning stars. So the young hero, with expiring breath, Bequeaths fresh courage in the hour of death, Bids his brave comrades hear the inspiring blast, And nail their colours dauntless to the mast; Then dies, like LAWRENCE, trembling on his lip That cry of Honour, “Don't give up the ship!"

TRUE HONOUR.

The painter's skill life's lineaments may trace, And stamp the impress of a speaking face; The chisel's touch may make that marble warm Which glows with all but breathing manhood's But deeper lines, beyond the sculptor's art, [formAre those which write their impress on the heart. On TALFOURD's page what bright memorials glow Of all that's noblest, gentlest, best below! Thou generous brother, guard of griefs conceal'd, Matured by sorrow, deep but unreveal'd, Let me but claim, for all thy vigils here,

The noiseless tribute to a heart sincere.

Though Dryburgh's walls still hold their sacred dust,
And Stratford's chancel shrines its hallow'd trust,
TO ELIA'S grave the pilgrim shall repair,
And hang with love perennial garlands there.

And thou, great bard of never-dying name, Thy filial care outshines the poet's fame; For who, that wanders by the dust of GRAY While memory tolls the knell of parting day, But lingers fondly at the hallow'd tomb, That shrouds a parent in its pensive gloom, To bless the son who pour'd that gushing tear, So warm and earnest, at a mother's bier! Wreaths for that line which woman's tribute gave, Last at the cross, and earliest at the grave." Can I forget, a pilgrim o'er the sea, The countless shrines of woman's charity? In thy gay capital, bewildering France, [dance, Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome, Where pallid Suffering seeks and finds a home, Methinks I see that sainted sister now Wipe Death's cold dewdrops from an infant's brow; Can I forget that mild, seraphic grace, With heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face? Ah! sure, if angels leave celestial spheres, We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears.

WEBSTER.

Let blooming boys, from stagnant cloisters freed, Sneer at old virtues and the patriot's creed; Forget the lessons taught at Valour's side, And all their country's honest fame deride. All are not such: some glowing blood remains To warm the icy current of our veinsSome from the watch-towers still descry afar The faintest glimmer of an adverse star. When faction storms, when meaner statesmen quail, Full high advanced, our eagle meets the gale! On some great point where Honour takes her stand, The Ehrenbreitstein of our native land— See, in the front, to strike for Freedom's cause, The mail'd defender of her rights and laws! On his great arm behold a nation lean, And parcel empire with the island queen; Great in the council, peerless in debate, Who follows WEBSTER takes the field too late. Go track the globe, its changing climes explore, From crippled Europe to the Arab's shore; See Albion's lion guard her stormy seas, See Gallia's lilies float on every breeze, Roam through the world, but find no brighter names Than those true honour for Columbia claims.