I chose thee, EASE! and Wealth withdrew,
Indignant at the choice I made,
And, to her first resentment true,

My scorn with tenfold scorn repaid.
Now, noble palace, lofty dome,
Or cheerful, hospitable home,

Are comforts I must never know:
My enemies shall ne'er repine
At pomp or pageantry of mine,
Nor prove, by bowing at my shrine,

Their souls are abject, base, and low.
No wondering crowd shall ever stand
With gazing eye and waving hand,

To mark my train, and pomp, and show:
And, worst of all, I shall not live
To taste the pleasures Wealth can give,
When used to soothe another's wo.
The peasants of my native land
Shall never bless my open hand;
No wandering bard shall celebrate
His patron's hospitable gate:

No war-worn soldier, shatter'd tar,
Nor exile driven from afar,

Nor hapless friend of former years,
Nor widow's prayers, nor orphan's tears,
Nor helpless age relieved from cares,
Nor innocence preserved from snares,
Nor houseless wanderer clothed and fed,
Nor slave from bitter bondage led,
Nor youth to noble actions bred,
Sha!! call down blessings on my head.
I chose thee, EASE! and yet the while,
So sweet was Beauty's scornful smile,
So fraught with every lovely wile,
Yet seemingly so void of guile,

It did but heighten all her charms;
And, goddess, had I loved thee then
But with the common love of men,
My fickle heart had changed agen,
Even at the very moment when

I woo'd thee to my longing arms:
For never may I hope to meet
A smile so sweet, so heavenly sweet.
I chose thee, EASE! and now for me
No heart shall ever fondly swell,
No voice of rapturous harmony
Awake the music-breathing shell;
Nor tongue, or witching melody

Its love in faltering accents tell;
Nor flushing cheek, nor languid eye,
Nor sportive smile, nor artless sigh,
Confess affection all as well.
No snowy bosom's fall and rise
Shall e'er again enchant my eyes;
No melting lips, profuse of bliss,
Shall ever greet me with a kiss;
Nor balmy breath pour in my ear
The trifles Love delights to hear:
But, living, loveless, hopeless, I
Unmourned and unloved must die.

I chose thee, EASE! and yet to me
Coy and ungrateful thou hast proved;
Though I have sacrificed to thee
Much that was worthy to be loved.

But come again, and I will yet
Thy past ingratitude forget:

O! come again! thy witching powers
Shall claim my solitary hours:
With thee to cheer me, heavenly queen,
And conscience clear, and health serene,
And friends, and books, to banish spleen,
My life should be, as it had been,

A sweet variety of joys;

And Glory's crown, and Beauty's smile, And treasured hoards should seem the while The idlest of all human toys.

SOLOMON AND THE GENIUS.*

SPIRIT OF THOUGHT! LO! art thou here?
Lord of the false, fond, ceaseless spell
That mocks the heart, the eye, the ear-
Art thou, indeed, of heaven or hell?
In mortal bosoms dost thou dwell,
Self-exiled from thy native sphere?

Or is the human mind thy cell
Of torment? To inflict and bear

Thy doom?-the doom of all who fell? Since thou hast sought to prove my skill, Unquestion'd thou shalt not depart,

Be thy behests or good or ill,

No matter what or whence thou art!
I will commune with thee apart,
Yea! and compel thee to my will-

If thou hast power to yield my heart
What earth and Heaven deny it still.

I know thee, Spirit! thou hast been
Light of my soul by night and day;
All-seeing, though thyself unseen,

My dreams-my thoughts-and what are the 7.
But visions of a calmer ray?

All! all were thine-and thine between
Each hope that melted fast away,
The throb of anguish, deep and keen '
With thee I've search'd the earth, the sea,
The air, sun, stars, man, nature, time,
Explored the universe with thee,

Plunged to the depths of wo and crime,
Or dared the fearful height to climb,
Where, amid glory none may see

And live, the ETERNAL reigns sublime,
Who is, and was, and is to be!

And I have sought, with thee have sought,
Wisdom's celestial path to tread,
Hung o'er each page with learning fraught;
Question'd the living and the dead:

The Moslem imagine that SOLOMON Acquired dominion over all the orders of the genii-good and evil It is even believed he sometimes condescended to converse with his new subjects. On this supposition he has been represented interrogating a genius, in the very wise, but very disagreeable mood of mind which led to the conclusion that "All is vanity!" Touching the said genius, the author has not been able to discover whether he or she (even the sex is equivocal) was of Allah or Eblis, and, therefore, left the matter where he found it-in discreet doubt.

The patriarchs of ages fled-
The prophets of the time to come-
All who one ray of light could shed
Beyond the cradle or the tomb.

And I have task'd my busy brain

To learn what haply none may know, Thy birth, seat, power, thine ample reign

O'er the heart's tides that ebb and flow, Throb, languish, whirl, rage, freeze, or glow Like billows of the restless main,

Amid the wrecks of joy and wo By ocean's caves preserved in vain. And oft to shadow forth I strove,

To my mind's eye, some form like thine,
And still my soul, like NOAH's dove,

Return'd, but brought, alas! no sign:
Till, wearying in the mad design,
With fever'd brow and throbbing vein,
I left the cause to thread the mine
Of wonderful effects again!

But now I see thee face to face,

Thou art indeed, a thing divine; An eye pervading time and space,

And an angelic look are thine, Ready to seize, compare, combine Essence and form-and yet a trace

Of grief and care-a shadowy line Dims thy bright forehead's heavenly grace.

Yet thou must be of heavenly birth,

Where naught is known of grief and pain; Though I perceive, alas! where earth

And earthly things have left their stain: From thine high calling didst thou deign To prove-in folly or in mirth

With daughters of the first-born CAIN, How little HUMAN LOVE is worth?

Ha! dost thou change before mine eyes!
Another form! and yet the same,
But lovelier, and of female guise,
A vision of ethereal flame,

Such as our heart's despair can frame,
Pine for, love, worship, idolize,

Like HERS, who from the sea-foam came, And lives but in the heart, or skies.

SPIRIT OF CHANGE! I know thee too,
I know thee by thine Iris bow,

By thy cheek's ever-shifting hue,

By all that marks thy steps below;

By sighs that burn, and tears that glowFalse joys-vain hopes-that mock the heart; From FANCY's urn these evils flow, SPIRIT OF LIES! for such thou art!

Saidst thou not once, that all the charms
Of life lay hid in woman's love,
And to be lock'd in Beauty's arms,

Was all men knew of heaven above?
And did I not thy counsels prove,
And all their pleasures, all their pain?
No more! no more my heart they move,
For I, alas! have proved them vai.

Didst thou not then, in evil hour,

Light in my soul ambition's flame? Didst thou not say the joys of power,

Unbounded sway, undying fame,

A monarch's love alone should claim? And did I not pursue e'en these?

And are they not, when won, the same
All VANITY OF VANITIES!

Didst not, to tempt me once again,
Bid new,
deceitful visions rise,
And hint, though won with toil and pain,
"Wisdom's the pleasure of the wise!"
And now, when none beneath the skies
Are wiser held by men than me,

What is the value of the prize?

It too, alas! is VANITY!

Then tell me since I've found on earth
Not one pure stream to slake this thirst,
Which still torments us from our birth,

And in our heart and soul is nursed;
This hopeless wish wherewith we're cursed
Whence came it, and why was it given?

Thou speak'st not!-Let me know the worst Thou pointest!—and it is to HEAVEN!

A FAREWELL TO AMERICA.*

FAREWELL! my more than fatherland!

Home of my heart and friends, adieu! Lingering beside some foreign strand, How oft shall I remember you!

How often, o'er the waters blue,
Send back a sigh to those I leave,

The loving and beloved few,
Who grieve for me,-for whom I grieve!
We part!-no matter how we part,

There are some thoughts we utter not,
Deep treasured in our inmost heart,
Never reveal'd, and ne'er forgot!
Why murmur at the common lot?
We part!-I speak not of the pain,-
But when shall I each lovely spot
And each loved face behold again?

It must be months,-it may be years,―

It may-but no!—I will not fill

Fond hearts with gloom,-fond eyes with tears "Curious to shape uncertain ill.”

Though humble,few and far,-yet, still Those hearts and eyes are ever dear;

Theirs is the love no time can chill, The truth no chance or change can sear! All I have seen, and all I see,

Only endears them more and more; Friends cool, hopes fade, and hours flee, Affection lives when all is o'er! Farewell, my more than native shore! I do not seek or hope to find,

Roam where I will, what I deplore To leave with them and thee behind!

*Written on board ship Westminster, at sea, off the Highlands of Neversink, June 1, 1835.

NAPOLEON'S GRAVE.

FAINT and sad was the moonbeam's smile,
Sullen the moan of the dying wave;
Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle.

As I stood by the side of NAPOLEON's grave.

And is it here that the hero lies,

Whose name has shaken the earth with drea?? And is this all that the earth supplies-

A stone his pillow-the turf his bed?

Is such the moral of human life?

Are these the limits of glory's reign? Have oceans of blood, and an age of strife, And a thousand battles been all in vain ?

Is nothing left of his victories now

But legions broken-a sword in rustA crown that cumbers a dotard's browA name and a requiem-dust to dust?

Of all the chieftains whose thrones he rear'd, Was there none that kindness or faith could bind? Of all the monarch: whose crowns he spared, Had none one spa k of his Roman mird?

Did Prussia cast no repentant glance?

Did Austria shed no remorseful tear, When England's truth, and thine honour, France, And thy friendship, Russia, were blasted here!

No holy leagues, like the heathen heaven,

Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock; And glorious TITAN, the unforgiven,

Was doom'd to his vulture, and chains, and rock.

And who were the gods that decreed thy doom?
A German CESAR-a Prussian sage-
The dandy prince of a counting-room-

And a Russian Greek of earth's darkest age.

Men call'd thee Despot, and call'd thee true;

But the laurel was earn'd that bound thy brow; And of all who wore it, alas! how few

Were freer from treason and guilt than thou!

Shame to thee, Gaul, and thy faithless horde!
Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore ?
Fraud still lurks in the gown, but the sword
Was never so false to its trust before.

Where was thy veteran's boast that day,
"The old Guard dies, but it never yields?"
O! for one heart like the brave DESSAIX,
One phalanx like those of thine early fields!

But, no, no, no!-it was Freedom's charm

Gave them the courage of more than men; You broke the spell that twice nerved each arm, Though you were invincible only then.

Yet St. Jean was a deep, not a deadly blow;
One struggle, and France all her faults repairs-
But the wild FAYETTE, and the stern CARNOT
Are dupes, and ruin thy fate and theirs!

STANZAS.

Mr life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close,
Is scatter'd on the ground-to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see-
But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frafl-its date is brief,

Restless and soon to pass away! Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

TO LORD BYRON.

BYRON! 'tis thine alone, on eagles' pinions,
In solitary strength and grandeur soaring,
To dazzle and delight all eyes; outpouring
The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions
Earth, sea, and air, and powers and dominions,
Nature, man, time, the universe exploring;
And from the wreck of worlds, thrones, creeds,
opinions,

Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing O! how I love and envy thee thy glory,

To every age and clime alike belonging; Link'd by all tongues with every nation's glory.

Thou TACITUS of song! whose echoes, thronging O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary And forests with the name my verse is wronging

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

WING'D mimic of the woods! thou motley fool.
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe?
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe:
Wit, sophist, songster, YORICK of thy tribe,
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule!

For such thou art by day--but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy JACQUES complain.. Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong. And sighing for thy motiey coat again.

THE author of the "Star Spangled Banner" was very able and eloquent lawyer, and one of the most respectable gentlemen whose lives have ever adorned American society. During our second war with England he was residing in Baltimore, and left that city on one occasion for the purpose of procuring the release from the British fleet of a friend who had been captured at Marlborough. He went as far as the mouth of the Patuxent, but was not permitted to return, lest the intended attack on Baltimore should be disclosed by him. Brought up the bay to the mouth of the Petapsco, he was placed on board one of the enemy's ships, from

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

O! SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming;

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?

And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there;

O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore,dimly seen through the mists of the deep Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half discloses? Now it catches thegleam of the morning's first beam; Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream:

which he was compelled to witness the bombardment of Fort McHenry, which the admiral had boasted that he would carry in a few hours, and the city soon after. Mr. KEY watched the flag over the fort through the whole day, with intens anxiety, and in the night, the bombshells; but he saw at dawn "the star-spangled banner" still waving over its defenders. The following song was partly composed before he was set at liberty. He was a man of much literary cultivation and taste, and his religious poems are not without merit. He died very suddenly at Baltimore on the eleventh of January, 1843.

'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. And where is the band who so vauntingly swore, Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a country they'd leave us no more? Their blood hath wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution;

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freeman shall stand Between our loved home and the war's desolation; Bless'd with victory and peace, may the heavenrescued land

Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation!

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, And this be our motto, "In GOD is our trust," And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

THE author of "Hadad" was descended from an ancient and honourable Irish family, in the county of Derry, and his ancestors emigrated to this country and settled in Connecticut in 1720. A high order of intellect seems to have been their right of inheritance, for in every generation we find their name prominent in the political history of the state. The grandfather of the poet, the Honourable WILLIAM HILLHOUSE, was for more than fifty years employed in the public service, as a representative, as a member of the council, and in other offices of trust and honour. His father, the Honourable JAMES HILLHOUSE, who died in 1833, after filling various offices in his native state, and being for three years a member of the House of Representatives, was in 1794 elected to the Senate of the United States, where for sixteen years he acted a leading part in the politics of the country. His wife, the mother of the subject of this sketch, was the daughter of Colonel MELANCTHON WOOLSEY, of Dosoris, Long Island. She was a woman distinguished alike for mental superiority, and for feminine softness, purity, and delicacy of character. Although educated in retirement, and nearly self-taught, her son was accustomed to say, when time had given value to his opinions, that she possessed the most elegant mind he had ever met with; and much of the nice discrimination, and the finer and more delicate elements of his own character, were an inheritance from her. Among the little occasional pieces which he wrote entirely for the family circle, was one composed on visiting her birth-place, after her death, which I have been permitted to make public.

"As yonder frith, round green Dosoris roll'd,
Reflects the parting glories of the skies,

Or quivering glances, like the paly gold,
When on its breast the midnight moonbeam lies;

"Thus, though bedimm'd by many a changeful year,
The hues of feeling varied in her cheek,
That, brightly flush'd, or glittering with a tear,
Seem'd the rapt poet's, or the seraph's meek.

"I have fulfill'd her charge,-dear scenes, adieu!-
The tender charge to see her natal spot;
My tears have flow'd, while busy Fancy drew
The picture of her childhood's happy lot.
"Would I could paint the ever-varying grace,
The ethereal glow and lustre of her mind,
Which own'd not time, nor bore of age a trace,
Pure as the sunbeam, gentle and refined!"

I am indebted for the materials for this biography to the poet's intimate friend, the Reverend WILLIAM INGRAHAM KIPP, Rector of St. Paul's Church, in Albany, New York, who kindly consented to write out the character of the poet, as he appeared at home, and as none but his associates could know him, for this work.

Mr. HILLHOUSE was born in New Haven, on the twenty-sixth of September, 1789. The hone of such parents, and the society of the intelligent circle they drew about them, (of which President DWIGHT was the most distinguished ornament,) was well calculated to cherish and cultivate his peculiar tastes. In boyhood he was remarkable for great activity and excellence in all manly and athletic sports, and for a peculiarly gentlemanly deportment. At the age of fifteen he entered Yale College, and in 1808 he was graduated, with high reputation as a scholar. From his first junior exhibition, he had been distinguished for the ele gance and good taste of his compositions. Upon taking his second degree, he delivered an oration on "The Education of a Poet," so full of beauty, that it was long and widely remembered, and in. duced an appointment by the Phi Beta Kappa Society, (not much in the habit of selecting juvenile writers,) to deliver a poem before them at their next anniversary. It was on this occasion that he wrote "The Judgment," which was pronounced before that society at the commencement of 1812.

A more difficult theme, or one requiring loftier powers, could not have been selected. The reflecting mind regards this subject in accordance with some preconceived views. That Mr. HILLHOUSE felt this difficulty, is evident from a remark in his preface, that in selecting this theme, "he exposes his work to criticism on account of its theology, as well as its poetry; and they who think the former objectionable, will not easily be pleased with the latter." Other poets, too, had essayed their powers in describing the events of the Last Day. The public voice, however, has decided, that among all the poems on this great subject, that of Mr. HILLHOUSE stands unequalled. His object was, "to present such a view of the last grand spectacle as seemed the most susceptible of poetical embellishment;" and rarely have we seen grandeur of conception and simplicity of design so admirably united. His representation of the scene is vivid and energetic; while the manner in which he has grouped and contrasted the countless array of characters of every age, displays the highest degree of artistic skill. Each character he summons up appears before us, with historic costume and features faithfully preserved, and we seem to gaze upon him as a reality, and not merely as the bold imagery of the poet.

"For all appear'd

As in their days of earthly pride; the clank Of steel announced the warrior, and the robe Of Tyrian lustre spoke the blood of kings " His description of the last setting of the sun in the west, and the dreamer's farewell to the even. ing star, as it was fading forever from his sight,