There is much merit in some passages of the fragment of the "Age of Benevolence." WILCOX was pious, gentle-hearted, and unaffected and retiring in his manners. The general character of his poetry is religious and sincere. He was a

lover of nature, and he described rural sights and sounds with singular clearness and fidelity. In the ethical and narrative parts of his poems, he was less successful than in the descriptive; but an earnestness and simplicity pervaded all that he wrote.

SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND.*

LONG Swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds

Start at the touch of vivifying beams.
Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph
Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field
A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week,
Is naked Nature in her full attire.

On the first morn, light as an open plain
Is all the woodland, fill'd with sunbeams, pour'd
Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below,
With strong reflection: on the last, 'tis dark
With full-grown foliage, shading all within.
In one short week the orchard buds and blooms;
And now, when steep'd in dew or gentle showers,
It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze,
Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes.
E'en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth,
And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air,
Fill'd with a watery glimmering, receives
A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays.
Each day are heard, and almost every hour,
New notes to swell the music of the groves,
And soon the latest of the feather'd train
At evening twilight come; the lonely snipe,
O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air,
Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones,
Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head;
And, in mid air, the sportive night-hawk, seen
Flying a while at random, uttering oft
A cheerful cry, attended with a shake
Of level pinions, dark, but when upturn'd
Against the brightness of the western sky,
One white plume showing in the midst of each,
Then far down diving with a hollow sound;
And, deep at first within the distant wood,
The whip-poor-will, her name her only song.
She, soon as children from the noisy sport
Of whooping, laughing, talking with all tones,
To hear the echoes of the empty barn,
Are by her voice diverted and held mute,
Comes to the margin of the nearest grove;
And when the twilight, deepen'd into night,
Calls them within, close to the house she comes,
And on its dark side, haply on the step
Of unfrequented door lighting unseen,
Breaks into strains articulate and clear,
The closing sometimes quicken'd, as in sport.
Now, animate throughout, from morn to eve
All harmony, activity, and joy,

Is lovely Nature, as in her bless'd prime.
The robin to the garden or green yard,

This and the four following extracts are from "The Age of Benevolence."

Close to the door, repairs to build again
Within her wonted tree; and at her work
Seems doubly busy for her past delay.
Along the surface of the winding stream,
Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim,
Or round the borders of the spacious lawn
Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er
Hillock and fence with motion serpentine,
Easy, and light. One snatches from the ground
A downy feather, and then upward springs,
Follow'd by others, but oft drops it soon,
In playful mood, or from too slight a hold,
When all at once dart at the falling prize.
The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown,
Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick
Till her breath fails, when, breaking off, she drops
On the next tree, and on its highest limb
Or some tall flag, and gently rocking, sits,
Her strain repeating. With sonorous notes
Of every tone, mix'd in confusion sweet,
All chanted in the fulness of delight,
The forest rings: where, far around enclosed
With bushy sides, and cover'd high above
With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks,
Like pillars rising to support a roof,
It seems a temple vast, the within
space
Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody.
Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct,
The merry mocking-bird together links
In one continued song their different notes,
Adding new life and sweetness to them all.
Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields
Frequents the stony wall and briery fence,
Here chirps so shrill, that human feet approach
Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries
Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat
Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree;
But oft a moment after reappears,
First peeping out, then starting forth at once
With a courageous air, yet in his pranks
Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far
Till left unheeded. In rank pastures graze,
Singly and mutely, the contented herd;
And on the upland rough the peaceful sheep;
Regardless of the frolic lambs, that, close
Beside them, and before their faces prone,
With many an antic leap and butting feint,
Try to provoke them to unite in sport,
Or grant a look, till tired of vain attempts;
When, gathering in one company apart,
All vigour and delight, away they run,
Straight to the utmost corner of the field,
The fence beside; then, wheeling, disappear
In some small sandy pit, then rise to view;
Or crowd together up the heap of earth
Around some upturn'd root of fallen tree,

And on its top a trembling moment stand,
Then to the distant flock at once return.
Exhilarated by the general joy,

And the fair prospect of a fruitful year,
The peasant, with light heart and nimble step,
His work pursues, as it were pastime sweet.
With many a cheering word, his willing team
For labour fresh, he hastens to the field
Ere morning lose its coolness; but at eve,
When loosen'd from the plough and homeward
turn'd,

He follows slow and silent, stopping oft
To mark the daily growth of tender grain
And meadows of deep verdure, or to view
His scatter'd flock and herd, of their own will
Assembling for the night by various paths,
The old now freely sporting with the young,
Or labouring with uncouth attempts at sport.

A SUMMER NOON.

A SULTRY noon, not in the summer's prime, When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, But near its close, when vegetation stops, And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, Soothes and enervates with its thousand charms, Its images of silence and of rest, The melancholy mind. The fields are still; The husbandman has gone to his repast, And, that partaken, on the coolest side Of his abode, reclines in sweet repose. Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand, The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe, No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, The sunshine seems to move; nor e'en a breath Brushes along the surface with a shade Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. The slender stalks their heavy bended heads Support as motionless as oaks their tops. O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still; E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung By stems elastic, quiver at a breath, Rest in the general calm. The thistle down, Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside Some shading object, in a silver shower Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends; And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct From the resplendent sky, a single cloud, On the soft bosom of the air becalm'd, Drops a lone shadow, as distinct and still, On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side; Or in the polish'd mirror of the lake, In which the deep reflected sky appears A calm, sublime immensity below.

No sound nor motion of a living thing The stillness breaks, but such as serve to soothe, Or cause the soul to feel the stillness more. The yellow-hammer by the way-side picks, Mutely, the thistle's seed; but in her flight,

So smoothly serpentine, her wings outspread
To rise a little, closed to fall as far,
Moving like sea-fowl o'er the heaving waves,
With each new impulse chimes a feeble note.
The russet grasshopper at times is heard,
Snapping his many wings, as half he flies,
Half-hovers in the air. Where strikes the sun,
With sultriest beams, upon the sandy plain,
Or stony mount, or in the close, deep vale,
The harmless locust of this western clime,
At intervals, amid the leaves unseen,
Is heard to sing with one unbroken sound,
As with a long-drawn breath, beginning low,
And rising to the midst with shriller swell,
Then in low cadence dying all away.
Beside the stream, collected in a flock,
The noiseless butterflies, though on the ground,
Continue still to wave their open fans

Powder'd with gold; while on the jutting twigs
The spindling insects that frequent the banks
Rest, with their thin, transparent wings outspread
As when they fly. Ofttimes, though seldom seen,
The cuckoo, that in summer haunts our groves,
Is heard to moan, as if at every breath
Panting aloud. The hawk, in mid-air high,
On his broad pinions sailing round and round,
With not a flutter, or but now and then,
As if his trembling balance to regain,
Utters a single scream, but faintly heard,
And all again is still.

SEPTEMBER.

THE sultry summer past, September comes, Soft twilight of the slow-declining year. All mildness, soothing loneliness, and peace; The fading season ere the falling come, More sober than the buxom, blooming May, And therefore less the favourite of the world, But dearest month of all to pensive minds. "Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, Checker'd by one night's frost with various hues, While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, The yellow, red, or purple of the trees That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side Of some high mount reflected far below, With its bright colours, intermix'd with spots Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad To wander in the open fields, and hear, E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past, The lulling insects of the summer's night; To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, A lonely bee long roving here and there To find a single flower, but all in vain; Then rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head,

Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adieu;
To hear, within the woodland's sunny side,
Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps,
The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp'd
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.

SUNSET IN SEPTEMBER.*

THE sun now rests upon the mountain topsBegins to sink behind-is half conceal'dAnd now is gone: the last faint, twinkling beam Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. Sweet to the pensive is departing day, When only one small cloud, so still and thin, So thoroughly imbued with amber light, And so transparent, that it seems a spot Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount, Hangs o'er the hidden orb; or where a few Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain, At each end sharpen'd to a needle's point, With golden borders,sometimes straight and smooth, And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, A half-hour's space above the mountain lie; Or when the whole consolidated mass, That only threaten'd rain, is broken up Into a thousand parts, and yet is one, One as the ocean broken into waves; And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed

Every person, who has witnessed the splendour of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight the local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the landscape; the situation of the hill, on the broad, level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot,-these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain-drops, and over the whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, "fading, still fading," till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night reigns, with its silence, shadows, and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student. In winter, the north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the snow

banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.-Rev. G. B. CHEEVER.

Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark,
As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote,
All fading soon as lower sinks the sun,
Till twilight end. But now another scene,
To me most beautiful of all, appears:
The sky, without the shadow of a cloud,
Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow
So bright and broad, it glares upon the eye,
Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force
Its power of vision to admit the whole.
Below, 'tis all of richest orange dye,
Midway, the blushing of the mellow peach
Paints not, but tinges the ethereal deep;
And here, in this most lovely region, shines,
With added loveliness, the evening-star.
Above, the fainter purple slowly fades,
Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven.

Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun
Descended, in a single row arranged,
As if thus planted by the hand of art,
Majestic pines shoot up into the sky,
And in its fluid gold seem half-dissolved.
Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands
With shafts erect, and tops converged to one,
A stately colonnade, with verdant roof;
Upon a nearer still, a single tree,

With shapely form, looks beautiful alone;
While, farther northward, through a narrow pass
Scoop'd in the hither range, a single mount
Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems,
And of a softer, more ethereal blue,
A pyramid of polish'd sapphire built.

But now the twilight mingles into one
The various mountains; levels to a plain
This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade,
Where every object to my sight presents
Its shaded side; while here upon these walls,
And in that eastern wood, upon the trunks
Under thick foliage, reflective shows
Its yellow lustre. How distinct the line
Of the horizon, parting heaven and earth!

SUMMER EVENING LIGHTNING.

FAR off and low

In the horizon, from a sultry cloud,
Where sleeps in embryo the midnight storm,
The silent lightning gleams in fitful sheets,
Illumes the solid mass, revealing thus
Its darker fragments, and its ragged verge;
Or if the bolder fancy so conceive
Of its fantastic forms, revealing thus
Its gloomy caverns, rugged sides and tops
With beetling cliffs grotesque. But not so bright
The distant flashes gleam as to efface
The window's image, on the floor impress'd
By the dim crescent; or outshines the light
Cast from the room upon the trees hard by,
If haply, to illume a moonless night,
The lighted taper shine; though lit in vain,
To waste away unused, and from abroad
Distinctly through the open window seen,
Lone, pale, and still as a sepulchral lamp.

THE CASTLE OF IMAGINATION.*

JUST in the centre of that wood was rear'd
Her castle, all of marble, smooth and white;
Above the thick young trees, its top appear'd
Among the naked trunks of towering height;
And here at morn and eve it glitter'd bright,
As often by the far-off traveller seen
In level sunbeams, or at dead of night,

When the low moon shot in her rays between
That wide-spread roof and floor of solid foliage

green.

Through this wide interval the roving eye
From turrets proud might trace the waving line
Where meet the mountains green and azure sky,
And view the deep when sun-gilt billows shine;
Fair bounds to sight, that never thought confine,
But tempt it far beyond, till by the charm

Of some sweet wood-note or some whispering pine
Call'd home again, or by the soft alarm
Of Love's approaching step, and her encircling arm.

Through this wide interval, the mountain side
Show'd many a sylvan slope and rocky steep:
Here roaring torrents in dark forests hide;
There silver streamlets rush to view, and leap
Unheard from lofty cliffs to valleys deep:
Here rugged peaks look smooth in sunset glow,
Along the clear horizon's western sweep;
There from some eastern summit moonbeams flow
Along o'er level wood, far down to plains below.

Now stretch'd a blue, and now a golden zone
Round that horizon; now o'er mountains proud
Dim vapours rest, or bright ones move alone:
An ebon wall, a smooth, portentous cloud,
First muttering low, anon with thunder loud,
Now rises quick, and brings a sweeping wind
O'er all that wood in waves before it bow'd;
And now a rainbow, with its top behind

A spangled veil of leaves, seems heaven and earth to bind.

Above the canopy, so thick and green, And spread so high o'er that enchanted vale, Through scatter'd openings oft were glimpses seen Of fleecy clouds, that, link'd together, sail In moonlight clear before the gentle gale:' Sometimes a shooting meteor draws a glance; Sometimes a twinkling star, or planet pale, Long holds the lighted eye, as in a trance; And oft the milky-way gleams through the white expanse.

That castle's open windows, though half-hid With flowering vines, show'd many a vision fair: A face all bloom, or light young forms, that thrid Some maze within, or lonely ones that wear The garb of joy with sorrow's thoughtful air, Oft caught the eye a moment: and the sound Of low, sweet music often issued there, And by its magic held the listener bound, And seem'd to hold the winds and forests far around.

This and the two extracts which follow are from "The Religion of Taste."

Within, the queen of all, in pomp or mirth, While glad attendants at her glance unfold Their shining wings, and fly through heaven and

earth,

Oft took her throne of burning gems and gold, Adorn'd with emblems that of empire told, And rising in the midst of trophies bright, That bring her memory from the days of old, And help prolong her reign, and with the flight Of every year increase the wonders of her might. In all her dwelling, tales of wild romance, Of terror, love, and mystery dark or gay, Were scatter'd thick to catch the wandering glance, And stop the dreamer on his unknown way; There, too, was every sweet and lofty lay, The sacred, classic, and romantic, sung As that enchantress moved in might or play; And there was many a harp but newly strung, Yet with its fearless notes the whole wide valley

rung.

There, from all lands and ages of her fame, Were marble forms, array'd in order due, In groups and single, all of proudest name; In them the high, the fair, and tender grew To life intense in love's impassion'd view, And from each air and feature, bend and swell, Each shapely neck, and lip, and forehead threw O'er each enamour'd sense so deep a spell, The thoughts but with the past or bright ideal dwell. The walls around told all the pencil's power; There proud creations of each mighty hand Shone with their hues and lines, as in the hour When the last touch was given at the command Of the same genius that at first had plann'd, Exulting in its great and glowing thought: Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land, Of love and glory, to new life were wrought, From history, from fable, and from nature brought.

With these were others all divine, drawn all From ground where oft, with signs and accents dread,

The lonely prophet doom'd to sudden fall Proud kings and cities, and with gentle tread Bore life's quick triumph to the humble dead, And where strong angels flew to blast or save, Where martyr'd hosts of old, and youthful bled, And where their mighty LORD o'er land and wave Spread life and peace till death, then spread them through the grave.

From these fix'd visions of the hallow'd eye,
Some kindling gleams of their ethereal glow,
Would ofttimes fall, as from the opening sky,
On eyes delighted, glancing to and fro,
Or fasten'd till their orbs dilated grow;
Then would the proudest seem with joy to learn
Truths they had fear'd or felt ashamed to know;
The skeptic would believe, the lost return;
And all the cold and low would seem to rise and burn.

Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast,
The beautiful, impassion'd, and refined;
And in the deep enchantment o'er them cast,
They look'd from earth, and soar'd above their kind

To the bless'd calm of an abstracted mind,
And its communion with things all its own,
Its forms sublime and lovely; as the blind,
Mid earthly scenes, forgotten, or unknown,
Live in ideal worlds, and wander there alone.

Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell
With all whom that enchantress held subdued,
As in the holiest circle of her spell,
Where meaner spirits never dare intrude,
They dwelt in calm and silent solitude,

Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet,
In thought, and art, and nature, and imbued
With its devotion to life's inmost seat,

As drawn from all the charms which in that valley meet.

In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wander'd o'er its stripes of light and shade And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade.

"T was thus in nature's bloom and solitude He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; "T was thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower.

ROUSSEAU AND COWPER.

ROUSSEAU Could weep-yes, with a heart of stone
The impious sophist could recline beside
The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone
On all its loveliness at eventide :

On its small running waves, in purple dyed
Beneath bright clouds, or all the glowing sky,
On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide,
And on surrounding mountains wild and high,
Till tears unbidden gush'd from his enchanted eye.
But his were not the tears of feeling fine,
Of grief or love; at fancy's flash they flow'd,
Like burning drops from some proud, lonely pine,
By lightning fired; his heart with passion glow'd
Till it consumed his life, and yet he show'd
A chilling coldness both to friend and foe,
As Etna, with its centre an abode
Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow
Of all its desert brow the living world below.

Was he but justly wretched from his crimes?
Then why was CowPER's anguish oft as keen,
With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes
Genius and feeling, and to things unseen
Lifts the pure heart through clouds that roll be-

tween

The earth and skies, to darken human hope? Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene To render vain faith's lifted telescope, And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope?

He, too, could give himself to musing deep;
By the calm lake at evening he could stand,
Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep
On all its breast, by not an insect fann'd,
And hear low voices on the far-off strand,
Or through the still and dewy atmosphere
The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand,
From fronting shore and woody island near
In echoes quick return'd more mellow and more
clear.

And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams,
In the pine grove, when low the full moon fair
Shot under lofty tops her level beams,
Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare,

THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY.

AND thou, to whom long worshipp'd nature lends
No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight,
Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends,
Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate;
None seek thy misery, none thy being hate;
Break from thy former self, thy life begin;
Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate,
And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within,
And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win.

With deeds of virtue to embalm his name,
He dies in triumph or serene delight;
Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame
At every breath, but in immortal might
His spirit grows, preparing for its flight:
The world recedes and fades like clouds of even,
But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more

bright,

All intervening mists far off are driven; The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven.

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold: "Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not when, all unroll'd, Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air.

Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night

When death is waiting for thy number'd hours
To take their swift and everlasting flight;
Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite,
And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd;
Do something-do it soon-with all thy might;
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,
And God himself inactive were no longer bless'd.

Some high or humble enterprise of good
Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind,