Some maiden thoughts most kind and wise
Were dimly burning in her eyes.
When I beheld her-form and face
So lithe, so fair-the spirit race,
Of whom the better poets dream'd,
Came to my thought, and I half deem'd
My earth-born mistress, pure and good,
Was some such lady of the wood,
As she who work'd at spell, and snare,
With Huon of the dusky hair,
And fled, in likeness of a doe,
Before the fleet youth Angelo.
But these infirm imaginings
Flew quite away on instant wings.
I call'd her name. A swift surprise
Came whitely to her face, but soon
It fled before some daintier dyes,
And, laughing like a brook in June,
With sweet accost she welcomed me,
And I sat there with Emily.
The gods were very good to bless
My life with so much happiness.
The maiden on that lowly seat-
I sitting at her little feet!
Two happier lovers never met,
In dear and talk-charm'd privacy.
It was a golden day to me,

And its great bliss is with me yet,
Warming like wine my inmost heart-
For memories of happy hours

Are like the cordials press'd from flowers,
And madden sweetly. I impart
Naught of the love-talk I remember,
For May's young pleasures are best hid
From the cold prudence of December,
Which clips and chills all vernal wings;
And Love's own sanctities forbid,
Now as of old, such gossipings
In Hall, of what befalls in Bower,
But other matters of the hour,
Of which it breaks no faith to tell,
My homely rhyme shall chronicle.

As silently we sat alone-
Our love-talk spent-two mated birds
Began to prate in loving tone;

Quoth Emily, "They sure have words!
Didst hear them say My sweet, My dear'?"
And as they chirp'd we laugh'd to he

Soon after this a southern wind
Came sobbing like a hunted hind
Into the quiet of the glen:
The maiden mused awhile, and then
Worded her thought right playfully.
"The winds," she said, "of land and sea,
My friend, are surely living things
That come and go on unseen wings.
The teeming air and prodigal,
Which droops its azure over all,
Is full of immortalities

That look on us with unseen eyes.
This sudden wind that hath come here,
With its hard sobs of pain or fear,
It may be, is a spirit kind,

That loves the bruised flowers to bind,
Whose task it is to shake the dew

From the sad violet's eye of blue,
Or chase the honey-making thieves
From off the rose, and shut its leaves
Against the cold of April eves.
Perhaps its dainty, pink-tipt hands
Have plied such tasks in far off lands
And now,
perchance, some grim foe follows
The little wight to these green hollows."
Such gentle words had Emily

For the south wind in the tulip tree.
A runnel, hidden by the trees,
Gave out some natural melodies.
She said, "The brook, among the stones,
Is solemn in its undertones;

How like a hymn! the singing creature
Is worshipping the God of nature."
But I replied, "My dear-not so;
Thy solemn eyes, thy brow of snow,
And, more than these, thy maiden merit
Have won Undine, that gentle spirit,
To sing her songs of love to thee."
Swift answer'd merry Emily-
"Undine is but a girl, you know,
And would not pine for love of me;
She has been peering from the brook,

And glimpsed at you." She said and shook
With a rare fit of silvery laughter.

I was more circumspect thereafter,
And dealt in homelier talk. A man
May call a white-brow'd girl « Dian,"
But likes not to be turn'd upon,
And nick-named "Young Endymion."

My Emily loved very well,

At times, those ancient lays which tell
Rude natural tales; she had no lore
Of trouvere, or of troubadour,

Nor knew what difference there might be
Between the tongues of oc and oui;
But hearing old tales, loved them all
If truth but made them natural.
In our good talks, we oft went o'er
The little horde of my quaint lore,
Cull'd out of old melodious fable.
She little cared for Arthur's table,
For tales of doughty Launcelot,
Or Tristram, or of him who smote
The giant, Angoulafre hight,
And moan'd for love by day and night.
She little cared for such as these,
But if I cross'd the Pyrenees,
With the great peers of Charlemagne,
Descending toward the Spanish plain,
Her eye would lighten at the strain;
And it would moisten with a tear
The sad end of that tale to hear-
How all aweary, worn and white,
And urging his failing steed amain,
A courier from the south, one night,
Reach'd the great city of the Seine;
And how at that same time and hour,
The bride of Roland lay in Bower
Wakeful, and quick of ear to win
Some rumour of her Paladin-
And how it came in sudden cries,
That shook the earth and rent the skies;

And how the messenger of fate-
That courier who rode so late-
Was dragg'd on to her palace gate;
And how the lady sat in hall,
Moaning among her damsels all,
At the wild tale of Ronceval.
That story sounds like solemn truth,
And she would hear it with such ruth
As sympathetic hearts will pay
To real griefs of yesterday.

Pity look'd lovely in the maiden;
Her eyes were softer, when so laden
With the bright dew of tears unshed.
But I was somewhat envious

That other bards should move her thus,
And oft within myself had said,

66 Yea-I will strive to touch her heart
With some fair songs of mine own art"-
And many days before the day
Whereof I speak, I made assay
At this bold labour. In the wells
Of Froissart's life-like chronicles
I dipp'd for moving truths of old.
A thousand stories, soft and bold,
Of stately dames, and gentlemen,
Which good Lord Berners, with a pen
Pompous in its simplicity,

Yet tipt with charming courtesy,
Had put in English words, I learn'd;
And some of these I deftly turn'd
Into the forms of minstrel verse.

I know the good tales are the worse-
But, sooth to say, it seems to me
My verse has sense and melody-
Even that its measure sometimes flows
With the brave pomp of that old prose.
Beneath our trysting tree, that day,
With dubious face, I read one lay;
Young Emily quite understood
My fears, and gave me guerdon good
In well-timed praise, and cheer'd me on,
Into full flow of heart and tone.
And when, in days of pleasant weather,
Thereafter, we were met together,
As our strong love oft made us meet,
I always took my cosy seat,
Just at the damsel's little feet,
And read my tales. It was no friend
To me that day that heard their end.
It had become a play of love,
To watch the swift expression rove
Over the bright sky of her face-
To steal those upward looks, and trace
In every change of cheek and eye,
The influence of my poesy.

I made my verse for Emily-
I give it, reader, now to thee.
The tales which I have toil'd to tell
Of Dame in hall and knight in Selle,
Of faithful love, and courage high-
Sweet flower, strong staff of chivalry-
These tales indeed are old of date;
But why should time their force abate?
Shall we look back with vision dull
On the old brave and beautiful,

And, for they lived so long ago,
Be careless of their mirth or wo?
If sympathy knows but to-day-
If time quite wears its nerve away-
If deeds majestically bold,

In words of ancient music told,
Are only food for studious minds
And touch no hearts-if man but finds

An abstract virtue in the faith,

That clung to truth, and courted death,If he can lift the dusky pall

With dainty hand artistical

And smile at woes, because some years
Have swept between them and his tears-
I say, my friend, if this may be,
Then burn old books; antiquity

Is no more than a skeleton
Of painted vein and polish'd bone.
Reader! the minstrel brotherhood,
Earnest to soothe thy listening mood,
Were wont to style thee Gentle, Good,
Noble or Gracious:-they could bow
With loyal knee, yet open brow-
They knew to temper thy decision
With graces of a proud submission.
That wont is changed. Yet I, a man
Of this new land republican,

Where insolence wins upward better
Than courtesy-that old dead letter-
And toil claims pay with utterance sharp,
Follow the good Lords of the Harp,
And dub thee with each courtly phrase,
And ask indulgence for my lays.

And keen delight is in the proud swift chase! Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate Soars joyously singing-quite infuriate

With the high pride of his place;

What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning In its first bright adorning.

Hark! the quick horn

As sweet to hear as any clarion-
Piercing with silver call the ear of morn;

And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne
And Greysteil and the Don-

Each one of them his fiery mood displaying
With pawing and with neighing,

Urge your swift horse,

him

THE author of "Velasco" is a native of Gloucester, a town on the sea-coast of Massachusetts, and was born on the twenty-seventh of September, 1816. His father, a respectable merchant, of the same name, is still living, and resides in Boston. The subject of this sketch was educated in the schools of that city and the neighbourhood, where he lived until his removal to New York, in 1837. His earliest metrical compositions were printed in "The Collegian," a monthly miscellany edited by several of the students of Harvard College, of the junior and senior classes of 1830. One of his contributions to that work, entitled "Twilight Sketches," exhibits the grace of style, ease of versification, and variety of description, which are characteristic of his more recent effusions. It was a sketch of the Summer Gardens of St. Petersburg, and was written during a visit to that capital in the spring of 1828.

Mr. SARGENT's reputation rests principally on his dramas, which bear a greater value in the closet than on the stage. His first appearance as a dramatic author was in the winter of 1836, when his "Bride of Genoa" was brought out at the Tremont Theatre, in Boston. This was a five-act play, founded on incidents in the career of ANTONIO MONTALDO, a plebeian, who at the age of twentytwo, made himself doge of Genoa, in 1693, and who is described in the history of the times as a man of "forgiving temper," but daring and ambitious, with a genius adequate to the accomplishment of vast designs. In the delineation of his hero, the author has followed the historical record, though the other characters and incidents of the drama are entirely fictitious. It was successfully

performed in Boston, and since in many of the first theatres of the country. His next production was of a much higher order, and as a specimen of dramatic art, has received warm commendation from the most competent judges. It was the tragedy of "Velasco," first performed at Boston, in November, 1837, Miss ELLEN TREE in the character of IZIDORA, and subsequently at the principal theatres in New York, Philadelphia, Washington, and New Orleans. It was published in New York in 1839. "The general action of the piece," says the author in his preface, "is derived from incidents in the career of RODRIGO DIAZ, the Cid, whose achievements constitute so considerable a portion of the historical and romantic literature of Spain." The subject had been variously treated by French and Spanish dramatists, among others, by ConNEILLE, but Mr. SARGENT was the first to introduce it successfully upon the English stage. It is a chaste and elegant performance, and probably has not been surpassed by any similar work by so youthful an author. It was written before Mr. SARGENT was twenty-one years of age.

In the beginning of 1847 Mr. SARGENT published in Boston a volume entitled "Songs of the Sea, and other Poems," and a new edition of his plays. The quatorzains written during a voyage to Cuba, in the spring of 1835, appear to be among the most elaborate of his sea pieces, but some of his nautical lyrics are more spirited.

He has published anonymously several prose works, and in 1846 commenced the publication of the "Modern Acting Drama," of which several volumes have been issued under his editorial supervision.

RECORDS OF A SUMMER-VOYAGE TO

CUBA.

I. THE DEPARTURE.

AGAIN thy winds are pealing in mine ear! Again thy waves are flashing in my sight! Thy memory-haunting tones again I hear, As through the spray our vessel wings her flight! On thy cerulean breast, now swelling high, Again, thou broad Atlantic, am I cast! Six years, with noiseless tread, have glided by, Since, an adventurous boy, I hail'd thee last, The sea-birds o'er me wheel, as if to greet An old companion; on my naked brow The sparkling foam-drops not unkindly beat; [now Flows through my hair the freshening breeze-and The horizon's ring enclasps me; and I stand Gazing where fades from view, cloud-like, my fatherland!

II. THE GALE.

The night came down in terror. Through the
air
Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits, roll'd;
The lightning kindling with its vivid glare
Their outlines, as they rose, heap'd fold on fold,
The wind, in fitful sughs, swept o'er the sea;
And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep,
Soft as an infant's breathing, seem'd to be
Lain, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep.
But, false the calm! for soon the strengthen'd
gale

Burst, in one loud explosion, far and wide,
Drowning the thunder's voice! With every sail
Close-reef'd, our groaning ship heel'd on her side;
The torn waves comb'd the deck; while o'er the

mast

The meteors of the storm a ghastly radiance cast!

III. MORNING AFTER THE GALE.

Bravely our trim ship rode the tempest through; And, when the exhausted gale had ceased to rave, How broke the day-star on the gazer's view! How flush'd the orient every crested wave! The sun threw down his shield of golden light In fierce defiance on the ocean's bed; Whereat, the clouds betook themselves to flight, Like routed hosts, with banners soil'd and red. The sky was soon all brilliance, east and west; All traces of the gale had pass'd awayThe chiming billows, by the breeze caress'd, Toss'd lightly from their heads the feathery spray. Ah! thus may Hope's auspicious star again Rise o'er the troubled soul where gloom and grief have been!

IV. TO A LAND-BIRD.

Thou wanderer from green fields and leafy nooks! Where blooms the flower and toils the honey-bee; Where odorous blossoms drift along the brooks, And woods and hills are very fair to seeWhy hast thou left thy native bough to roam, With drooping wing, far o'er the briny billow? Thou canst not, like the osprey, cleave the foam, Nor, like the petrel, make the wave thy pillow. Thou'rt like those fine-toned spirits, gentle bird, Which, from some better land, to this rude life Seem borne-they struggle, mid the common herd, With powers unfitted for the selfish strife! Haply, at length, some zephyr wafts them back To their own home of peace, across the world's dull track.

V. A THOUGHT OF THE PAST.

I woke from slumber at the dead of night,
Stirr'd by a dream which was too sweet to last-
A dream of boyhood's season of delight;
It flash'd along the dim shapes of the past!
And, as I mused upon its strange appeal,
Thrilling my heart with feelings undefined,
Old memories, bursting from time's icy seal,
Rush'd, like sun-stricken fountains, on my mind.
Scenes, among which was cast my early home,
My favourite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods,
Where, with my schoolmates, I was wont to roam,
Green, sloping lawns, majestic solitudes-
All rose before me, till, by thought beguiled,
Freely I could have wept, as if once more a child.

VI. TROPICAL WEATHER.

We are afloat upon the tropic sea!
Here summer holdeth a perpetual reign:
How flash the waters in their bounding glee!
The sky's soft purple is without a stain! [blowing,
Full in our wake the smooth, warm trade-winds
To their unvarying goal still faithful run;
And as we steer, with sails 1efore them flowing,
Nearer the zenith daily climbs the sun.
The startled flying-fish around us skim,
Gloss'd, like the hummingbird, with rainbow dyes;
And, as they dip into the water's brim,
Swift in pursuit the preying dolphin hies.
All, all is fair; and, gazing round, we feel
The south's soft languor gently o'er our senses steal.

VIL-A CALM.

ון

O! for one draught of cooling northern air! That it might pour its freshness on me now; That it might kiss my cheek and cleave my hair, And part its currents round my fever'd brow! Ocean, and sky, and earth! a blistering calm Spread over all! how weary wears the day! O, lift the wave, and bend the distant palm, Breeze! wheresoe'er thy lagging pinions stray, Triumphant burst upon the level deep, Rock the fix'd hull and swell the clinging sail! Arouse the opal clouds that o'er us sleep, Sound thy shrill whistle! we will bid thee hail! | Though wrapt in all the storm-clouds of the north, Yet from thy home of ice, come forth, O, breeze, come forth!

VIII-A WISH.

That I were in some forest's green retreat, Beneath a towering arch of proud old elms; Where a clear streamlet gurgled at my feetIts wavelets glittering in their tiny helms! Thick clustering vines, in many a rich festoon, From the high, rustling branches should depend; Weaving a net, through which the sultry noon Might stoop in vain its fiery beams to send. There, prostrate on some rock's gray sloping side, Upon whose tinted moss the dew yet lay, Would I catch glimpses of the clouds that ride Athwart the sky-and dream the hours away; While through the alleys of the sunless wood The fanning breeze might steal, with wild-flowers' breath imbued.

IX. TROPICAL NIGHT.

But, O! the night!-the cool, luxurious night,
Which closes round us when the day grows dim,
And the sun sinks from his meridian height
Behind the ocean's occidental rim!
Clouds, in thin streaks of purple, green, and red,
Lattice his parting glory, and absorb
The last bright emanations that are shed
In wide profusion, from his failing orb.
And now the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns
To smile serenely on the charmed sea,
That shines as if inlaid with lightning-chains,
From which it hardly struggled to be free.
Swan-like, with motion unperceived, we glide,
Touch'd by the downy breeze, and favour'd by the tide.

X. THE PLANET JUPITER.

Ever, at night, have I look'd first for thee, O'er all thy astral sisterhood supreme! Ever, at night, have I look'd up to see The diamond lustre of thy quivering beam; Shining sometimes through pillowy clouds serene, As they part from thee, like a loosen'd scroll; Sometimes unveil'd, in all thy native sheen, When no pale vapours underneath thee roll. Bright planet! that art but a single ray From our Creator's throne, illume my soul! Thy influence shed upon my doubtful way Through life's dark vista to the immortal goalGleam but as now upon my dying eyes [shall rise. And hope, from earth to thee, from thee to heaven,