III. One night when the moon shone fair on the main, Choice spirits were gather'd 'twixt Derry and Spain, And lightly embarking from Erin's bold cliffs, They slid o'er the wave in their moonbeam skiffs. A ray for a rudder-a thought for a sail, Swift, swift was each bark as the wing of the gale. wave, Or listen'd to mermaids that sang from the cave; Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here, For they were to hold a revel that night, IV. Away sped the maskers like arrows of light, To gather their gear for the revel bright. To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru, In emulous speed some sportive flewAnd deep in the mine, or mid glaciers on high, For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly. For diamonds rare that gleam in the bed Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped, While others for topaz and emerald stray, Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay. As these are gathering the rarest of gems, Others are plucking the rarest of stems. They range wild dells where the zephyr alone To the blushing blossoms before was known; Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strungWhere temples of nature with arches of bloom, Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume. They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine, Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine; Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows, And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose. O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light, Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight, And gathering the fairest they speed to their bower, Each one with his favourite brilliant or flower. V. The hour is come, and the fairies are seen Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now; VI. Of all that did chance, 't were a long tale to tell, Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle; But each were so happy, and all were so fair, That night stole away and the dawn caught them there! Such a scampering never before was seen Content in our clime, and more blest than before! THE RIVER. O, TELL me, pretty river! "My birthplace was the mountain, "One morn I ran away, "And then, mid meadowy banks, "But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave I hear the ocean's roar, And there must be my grave!" THE LEAF. Ir came with spring's soft sun and showers, But its companions pass'd away, And slumber'd in the ocean's breast. Thus life begins-its morning hours, And, like the leaf, he sinks forever. LAKE SUPERIOR. "FATHER OF LAKES!" thy waters bend Boundless and deep, the forests weave Their twilight shade thy borders o'er, And threatening cliffs, like giants, heave Their rugged forms along thy shore. Pale Silence, mid thy hollow caves, With listening ear, in sadness broods; Or startled Echo, o'er thy waves, Sends the hoarse wolf-notes of thy woods. The spell of stillness reigning there. The gnarl'd and braided boughs, that show The very echoes round this shore Have caught a strange and gibbering tone; Wave of the wilderness, adieu! And fill these awful solitudes! God is thy theme. Ye sounding caves Whisper of Him, whose mighty plan Deems as a bubble all your waves! THE SPORTIVE SYLPHS. THE sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair, And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves. With sparkling cups of bubbles made, They gather gems with sunbeams bright, To grace their own fair queen of flowers. Thus, thus adorned, the speaking rose Then, take my flower, and let its leaves The thought it whispers to thine ear. ISAAC CLASON. [Born about 1796, Died, 1830.] ISAAC CLASON Wrote the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Cantos of Don Juan-a continuation of the poem of Lord BYRON-published in 1825. I have not been able to learn many particulars of his biography. He was born in the city of New York, where his father was a distinguished merchant, and graduated at Columbia College in 1813. He inherited a considerable fortune, but in the pursuit of pleasure he spent it all, and much besides, received from his relatives. He was in turn a gay roué in London and Paris, a writer for the public journals, an actor in the theatres, and a private NAPOLEON.* I love no land so well as that of France- AS BRUTUS pluck'd away his "cursed steel," To space reverberation, round and round The spheres of heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive NAPOLEON!" in thunders shall rebound; The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky! What though or St. Helena's rocky shore Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, Perhaps that son, the child thou didst adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd * From the Seventeenth Canto of Don Juan. tutor. A mystery hangs over his closing years. It has been stated that he was found dead in an obscure lodging-house in London, under circumstances that led to a belief that he committed suicide, about the year 1830. Besides his continuation of Don Juan, he wrote but little poetry. The two cantos which he left under that title, have much of the spirit and feeling, in thought and diction, which characterize the work of BYRON. He was a man of attractive manners and brilliant conversation. His fate is an unfavourable commentary on his character. To crush the bigot BOURBON, and restore Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed; Now sunk in slavery and shame again; No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name; Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great FREDERICK WILLIAM; he who, at the board, Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; FREDERICK, the king of regimental tailors, AS HUDSON LOWE, the very prince of jailors. Farewell, NAPOLEON! couldst thou have died The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed To meet adversity's advancing tide, The weak had praised thee, but the wise had blamed; But no! though torn from country, child, and bride, With spirit unsubdued, with soul untamed, Great in misfortune, as in glory high, Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony. Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry, Mercy, for thee, shall bankrupt all her store; Valour shall pluck a garland from on high, And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er; Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky, And smiling seraphs open wide heaven's door; Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet. Farewell, NAPOLEON! a long farewell, A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dares wake his harp to tell, Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy name, that, with its magic spell, Aroused the slumbering nations of the earth, Echoes around thy land; 't is past—at length France sinks beneath the sway of CHARLES the Tenth. JEALOUSY. He who has seen the red-fork'd lightnings flash From out some black and tempest-gather'd cloud, And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash, Bursting in peals, terrifically loud; He who has mark'd the madden'd ocean dash (Robed in its snow-white foam as in a shroud) Its giant billows on the groaning shore, While death seem'd echo'd in the deafening roar; He who has seen the wild tornado sweep (Its path destruction, and its progress death) The silent bosom of the smiling deep With the black besom of its boistercus breath, Waking to strife the slumbering waves, that leap In battling surges from their beds beneath, Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves, Like buried giants from their restless graves:He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood; But nature's warfare passes by degrees, The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude, The dying winds unclasp the raging seas, The scowling sky throws back her cloud-capt The infant lightnings to their cradles creep, Which owns no limit, and which knows no goal, Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck, Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck. EARLY LOVE. THE fond caress of beauty, O, that glow! Of waken'd passions, that but now impart Ah! where's the youth whose stoic heart ne'er knew The fires of joy, that burst through every vein, That burn forever bright, forever new, As passion rises o'er and o'er again? That, like the phoenix, die but to renew Beat in the heart, and throb upon the brainSelf-kindling, quenchless as the eternal flame That sports in Etna's base. But I'm to blame Ignobly thus to yield to raptures past; To call my buried feelings from their shrouds, O'er which the deep funereal pall was castLike brightest skies entomb'd in darkest clouds; No matter, these, the latest and the last That rise, like spectres of the past, in crowds; The ebullitions of a heart not lost, But weary, wandering, worn, and tempest-toss'd. "Tis vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys Which, like the hour that's gone, return no more; Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boys Billows that swell, to burst upon the shorePlaythings of passion, manhood's gilded toys, (Deceitful as the shell that seems to roar, But proves the mimic mockery of the surge:) They sink in sorrow's sea, and ne'er emerge. ALL IS VANITY. I've compass'd every pleasure, Caught every joy before its bead could pass; I've loved without restriction, without measureI've sipp'd enjoyment from each sparkling glassI've known what 'tis, too, to "repent at leisure" I've sat at meeting, and I've served at mass:-And having roved through half the world's insanities, Cry, with the Preacher--Vanity of vanities! What constitutes man's chief enjoyment here? It smiles to-day, and weeps again to-morrow; Mere child of passion, that beguiles in youth, And flies from age, as falsehood flies from truth. Is 't glory? Pause beneath St. Helen's willow, Whose weeping branches wave above the spot; Ask him, whose head now rests upon its pillow, Its last, low pillow, there to rest, and rot. Is't fame? Ask her, who floats upon the billow, Untomb'd, uncoffin'd, and perchance forgot; The lovely, lovesick Lesbian, frail as fair, Victim of love, and emblem of despair. Is 't honour? Go, ask him whose ashes sleep Within the crypt of Paul's stupendous dome, Whose name once thunder'd victory o'er the deep, Far as his country's navies proudly roam; Above whose grave no patriot Dane shall weep, No Frank deplore the hour he found a homeA home, whence valour's voice from conquest's ca No more shall rouse the lord-of Trafalgar. JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. [Born, 1796. Died, 1828.] DURING the present century many persons in this country, whose early productions gave promise of brilliant achievements in maturity, have died young. It has been said that the history of American genius might be written in a series of obituaries of youthful authors. Were DRAKE, SANDS, GRIFFIN, ROCKWELL, WILCOX, PINKNEY, CLARKE, the DAVIDSONS, and BRAINARD now alive, there would be no scarcity of American writers, nor would any of them have passed the ordinary meridian of existence. What they have left us must be regarded as the first-fruits of minds whose full powers were to the last undeveloped, and which were never tasked to their full capacity. JOHN GARDNER CALKINS BRAINARD was a son of the Honourable J. G. BRAINARD, one of the Justices of the Supreme Court of Connecticut. He was born at New London, in that State, on the twenty-first day of October, 1796. After finishing his preparatory studies, which were pursued under the direction of an elder brother, he entered Yale College, in 1811, being then in the fifteenth year of his age. At this immature period, before the mind is fully awake to the nature and importance of moral and intellectual discipline, severe application to study is unusual. BRAIN ARD's books were neglected for communion with his own thoughts and "thick-coming fancies," or for the society of his fellows. His college career was marked by nothing peculiar: he was distinguished for the fine powers he evinced whenever he chose to exert them, for the uniform modesty of his deportment, the kindness which characterized his intercourse with those about him, and a remarkable degree of sensitiveness, which caused him to shrink from every harsh collision, and to court retirement. On leaving college, in 1815, he commenced the study of law, in his native place, and on his admission to the bar, he removed to the city of Middletown, intending to practise there his profession. His success was less than he anticipated; perhaps because of his too great modesty-an unfortunate quality in lawyers-or, it may be, in consequence of his indolence and convivial propensities. One of his biographers remarks that his friends were always welcome, save when they came as clients. Wearied with the vexations and dry formalities of his profession, he relinquished it in the winter of 1822, to undertake the editorship of the Connecticut Mirror, a weekly political and literary gazette, published in Hartford. But here he found as little to please him as in the business he had deserted. He was too indolent to prepare every week articles of a serious, argumentative character, and gave in their place, graceful or humorous paragraphs, and the occasional pieces of verse on which rests his reputation as a poet. These, at the time, were republished in many periodicals, and much praised. In the departments of poetry and criticism, the Mirror acquired a high reputation; but in others, while under his direction, it hardly rose to mediocrity.* His first volume of poetry,† containing his contributions to the Mirror, and some other pieces, was published early in 1825. It was favourably received by the public, and its success induced his friends to urge him to undertake the composition of a larger and more important work than he had yet attempted. His constitutional lassitude and aversion to high and continued effort deterred him from beginning the task, until 1827, when his health began to wane, and it was no longer in his power. He then relinquished the editorship of the Mirror, and sought for restoring quiet, and the gentle ministrations of affection, the home of his childhood. His illness soon assumed the character of consumption, and he saw that he had but a brief time to live. A few weeks were passed on the eastern shore of Long Island, in the hope of deriving benefit from a change of air; but nothing could arrest the progress of the fatal malady; and he returned to New London, to prepare for the * The editor of the last edition of his works, of which I have received a copy since the above was written, and while this volume is passing through the press, speaks as follows of his editorial career:-"We are assured by competent testimony, that laboured and able political articles were withheld from publication, owing to causes over which he had little control. It is not, perhaps, necessary to detail the facts, but they certainly go far to exculpate him from the charge of levity, or weakness, in conducting the editorial department of his paper. Prudential considerations were suffered to have sway, at the expense of his reputation for political tact and foresight. The only substitutes for the articles referred to, were such brief and tame pieces as he could prepare, after the best and almost only hours for composition had passed by. This circumstance, together with the consciousness that the paper was ill sustained in respect to its patronage, was sufficiently discouraging to a person whose sensibilities were as acute as those of BRAINARD. It accounts, also, for the frequent turns of mental depression which marked his latter years,-heightened, indeed, by that frequent and mortifying concomitant of genius,-slender pecuniary means." The volume was introduced by the following characteristic address to the reader :-"The author of the following pieces has been induced to publish them in a book, from considerations which cannot be interesting to the public. Many of these little poems have been printed in the Connecticut Mirror; and others are just fit to keep them company. No apologies are made, and no criticisms deprecated. The commonplace story of the importunities of friends, though it had its share in the publication, is not insisted upon; but the vanity of the author, if others choose to call it such, is a natural motive, and the hope of making a little something by it,' is an honest acknowledgment, if it is a poor excuse." The motto of the title-page was as quaint : "Some said, 'John, print it ;' others said 'Not so ;' Some said 'It might do good;' others said, 'No.'" Bunyan's Apology. |