XXIX. Up to the cope careering swift, On a sheet of azure cast. O! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, And feel the cooling breath of heaven! And watch'd for the glimpse of the planet-shoot. Sudden along the snowy tide That swell'd to meet their footsteps' fall, The palace of the sylphid queen. But, O! how fair the shape that lay The loveliest of the forms of light; At twilight in the west afar; 'Twas tied with threads of dawning gold, And button'd with a sparkling star. Her face was like the lily roon That veils the vestal planet's hue; Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon, Set floating in the welkin blue. Her hair is like the sunny beam, And the diamond gems which round it gleam Are the pure drops of dewy even That ne'er have left their native heaven. XXXII. She raised her eyes to the wondering sprite, And they leap'd with smiles, for well I we Never before in the bowers of light Had the form of an earthly Fay been seen. Long she look'd in his tiny face; Long with his butterfly cloak she play'd; She smooth'd his wings of azure lace, And handled the tassel of his blade; And as he told in accents low She felt new pains in her bosom rise, In the land of everlasting light! We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim; And all the jewels of the sky Around thy brow shall brig tly beam! And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream That rolls its whitening foam aboon, And ride upon the lightning's gleam, And dance upon the orbed moon! We'll sit within the Pleiad ring, We'll rest on Orion's starry belt, And I will bid my sylphs to sing The song that makes the dew-mist melt; Their harps are of the umber shade, That hides the blush of waking day, And every gleamy string is made Of silvery moonshine's lengthen'd ray; While heavenly breathings float around, XXXIII. She was lovely and fair to see To think upon his virgin bride, Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. XXXIV. "Lady," he cried, I have sworn to-night, On the word of a fairy-knight, To do my sentence-task aright; I may not soil its snows again; Its mandate must be answer'd now." And call'd the sylphs who hover'd there, For by its wane and wavering light There was a star would fall to-night. XXXV. Borne afar on the wings of the blast, The leaf harp sounds our roundelay, The owlet's eyes our lanterns be; Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade! XXXVI. The star is yet in the vault of heaven, And now 't is deadly pale; And now 'tis wrapp'd in sulphur-smoke, As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance As it fell from the sheeted say. As swift as the wind in its trail behind The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud, While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze; But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed, Ouple and Goblin! Imp and Sprite! Sing and trip it merrily, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. Hail the wanderer again With dance and song, and lute and lyre, Pure his wing and strong his chain, And doubly bright his fairy fire. Twine ye in an airy round, Brush the dew and print the lea; Skip and gambol, hop and bound, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. The beetle guards our holy ground, And if mortal there be found, He hums in his ears and flaps his face; BRONX. I sat me down upon a green bank-side, Like parting friends, who linger while they seve Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistfu eddy. Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow. Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branch.es lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around, Where lichens made a carpet for his feet; Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his ed fin's tiny twinkle. There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, White-powder'd dog trees, and stiff hollies flaunting Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of her wedding. The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sound excelling, O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form' for a poet' dwelling. And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude! Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remember'd form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy THE AMERICAN FLAG. I. WHEN Freedom from her mountain height And set the stars of glory there. II. Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, III. Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, To where thy sky-born glories burn ; Heave in wild wreathes the battle-shroud And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. IV. Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. V. Flag of the free heart's hope and home! And all thy hues were born in heaven. Where breathes the foe but falls before us With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! TO SARAH. I. ONE happy year has fled, SALL, The leaves have felt the autumn blight, The wintry storm has blown. We heeded not the cold blast, Nor the winter's icy air; For we found our climate in the heart, And it was summer there. 11. The summer sun is bright, SALL, But clouds will sometimes sadden them, And dim their lovely blue; But sure they will not stay; III. I sickness and in sorrow l'hine eyes were on me still, And there was comfort in each glance Io charm the sense of ill; And were they absent now, SALL, I'd seek my bed of pain, And bless each pang that gave me back Those looks of love again. IV. O, pleasant is the welcome kiss, When day's dull round is o'er, And sweet the music of the step That meets me at the door. Though worldly cares may visit us, I reck not when they fall, While I have thy kind lips, my SALL, To smile away them all. now made HALLECK a partner, and the remain ing numbers were signed Croaker & Co." The last one written by DRAKE was " The American Flag," printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and the last of the series, "Curtain Conversations," was furnished by HALLECK, on the twenty-fourth of the following July. These pieces related to scenes and events with which most readers in New York were familiar; they were written with great spirit and good-humour, and the curiosity of the town was excited to learn who were their authors; but the young poets kept their secret, and were unsuspected, while their clever per THE author of "Red Jacket, and Peter Castay's Epistle to Recorder Riker," is a son of IsBAEL HALLECK, of Dutchess county, New York, and MARY ELIOT, his wife, of Guilford, Connectiout, a descendant of JOHN ELIOT, the celebrated Apostle of the Indians." He was born at Guilford, in August, 1795, and when about eighteen years of age became a clerk in one of the principal banking-houses in New York. He evinced a taste for poetry, and wrote verses, at a very early Deriod, but until he came to New York never published any thing which in the maturity of his years ne has deemed worthy of preservation. The "Evening Post," then edited by WILLIAM COLE-formances were from time to time attributed to MAN, was the leading paper of the city, and the only one in which much attention was given to literature. It had a large number of contributors, and youthful wits who gained admission to its columns regarded themselves as fairly started in a career of successful authorship. HALLECK'S first offering to the "Evening Post" was that piece of exquisite versification and refined sentiment of which the first line is "There is an evening twilight of the heart." BRYANT, who was nearly a year older, about the same time published in the "North American Review" his noble poem of "Thanatopsis." COLEMAN gave HALLECK'S lines to the printer as soon as he had read them, which was a great compliment for so fastidious an editor. He did not ascertain who wrote them for several months, and the author in the mean while had become so much of a literary lion that he then reprinted them with a preface asserting their merits. One evening in the spring of 1819, as HALLECK was on the way home from his place of business, he stopped at a coffee-house then much frequented by young men, in the vicinity of Columbia College. A shower has just fallen, and a brilliant sunset was distinguished by a rainbow of unusual magnificence. In the group about the door, half a dozen had told what they would wish could their wishes be realized, when HALLECK, said, looking at the glorious spectacle above the horizon, "If I could have my wish, it should be to lie in the lap of that rainbow, and read Tom Campbell." A handsome young fellow, standing near, suddenly turned to him and exclaimed, You and I must be acquainted: my name is DRAKE;" and from that hour till his death JoSEPH RODMAN DRAKE and FITZ-GREENE HALLECK were united in a most fraternal intimacy. DRAKE had already written the first four of the once-celebrated series of humorous and satirical ɔdes known as the "Croaker Pieces," and they had been published in the "Evening Post." He various well-known literary men. Near the close of the year HALLECK wrote in the same vein his longest poem, "Fanny," a playful satire of the fashions, follies, and public characters of the day. It contains from twelve to fifteen hundred lines, and was completed and printed within three weeks from its commencement. The next year DRAKE died, of consumption, and HALLECK mourned his loss in those beautiful tributary verses which appeared soon after in the " Scien tific Repository and Critical Review," beginning"Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days; None knew thee but to love thee, None named thee but to praise." In 1822 and 1823 our author visited Great Britain and the continent of Europe. Among the souvenirs of his travels are two of his finest poems, "Burns," and "Alnwick Castle," which, with a few other pieces, he gave to the public in a small volume in 1827. His fame was now established, and he has ever since been regarded as one of the truest of our poets, and in New York, where his personal qualities, are best known, and his poems, from their local allusions, are read by everybody, he has enjoyed perpetual and almost unexampled popularity. He was once, as he informs us in one of his witty and graceful epistles, "in the cotton trade and sugar line," but for many years before the death of the late JOHN JACOB ASTOR, he was the principal superintendent of the extensive affairs of that great capitalist. Since then he has resided chiefly in his native town, in Connecticut. He frequently visits New York, however, and the fondness and enthusiasm with which his name is cherished by his old associates was happily illustrated in the beginning of 1854 by a compliment. ary dinner which was then given him by mem bers of the Century Club. It was Lord BYRON's opinion that a poet is al ways to be ranked according to his execution, and sight into the principles of art, and a fine use of its resources; and after all that has been written about nature, strength, and originality, the true secret of fame, the real magic of genius, is not force, not passion, not novelty, but art. Look all through MILTON: look at the best passages of SHAKSPEARE; look at the monuments, "all Greek and glorious," which have come down to us from ancient times: what strikes us principally, and it might almost be said only, is the wonderfully arti not according to his branch of the art. "The poet who executes best," said he, "is the highest, whatever his department, and will be so rated in the world's esteem." We have no doubt of the justness of that remark; it is the only principle from which sound criticism can proceed, and upon this basis the reputations of the past have been made up. Considered in this light, Mr. HALLECK must be pronounced not merely one of the chief ornaments of a new literature, but one of the great masters in a language classical and immortal forficial character of the composition; it is the printhe productions of genius which have illustrated and enlarged its capacities. There is in his compositions an essential pervading grace, a natural brilliancy of wit, a freedom yet refinement of sentiment, a sparkling flow of fancy, and a power of personification, combined with such high and careful finish, and such exquisite nicety of taste, that the larger part of them must be regarded as models almost faultless in the classes to which they belong. They appear to me to show a genuine in ciple of their immortality, and without it no poem EXTRACT FROM "THE RECORDER." PETER CASTALY COMPARETH THE RECORDER My dear RECORDER, you and I Have floated down life's stream together, And kept unharmed our friendship's tie Through every change of Fortune's sky, .... Her pleasant and her rainy weather. The other makes him more- a fool. His slaves' mad gift, refused to wear, The RIKER put his fool's cap on, And found it fitted to a hair. The CESAR passed the Rubicon And passed it with his wife and daughters. EXTRACT FROM "FANNY." WEEHAWKEN. WEHAWKEN! in thy mountain scenery yet, And never has a summer's morning smiled O'er crags. that proudly tower above the deep, And clings to the green turf with desperate force, The currents in their veins their wonted course, Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him; That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze |