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 pay 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 boisterous 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
hood,

The infant lightnings to their cradles creep,
And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep.
But there are storms, whose lightnings never glare,
Tempests, whose thunders never cease to roll—
The storms of love, when madden'd to despair,
The furious tempests of the jealous soul.
That kamsin of the heart, which few can bear,
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!
The first warm glow that mantles round the heart
Of boyhood! when all's new-the first dear vow
He ever breathed-the tear-drops that first start,
Pure from the unpractised eye-the overflow
Of waken'd passions, that but now impart
hope, a wish, a feeling yet unfelt,

bat mould to madness, or in mildness melt.

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.

"T is 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 shore— Playthings 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 't is, 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?
What forms his greatest antidote to sorrow?
Is 't wealth? Wealth can at last but gild his bier,
Or buy the pall that poverty must borrow.
Is 't love? Alas, love's cradled in a tear;

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 home~ A home, whence valour's voice from conquest's car No more shall rouse the lord-of Trafalgar.

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 carcer 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 reputa. tion; 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 arti cles 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,-slen der pecuniary means."

The volume was introduced by the following charac teristic address to the reader:-"The author of the fol lowing 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 criti cisms deprecated. The commonplace story of the impor tunities 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

spiritual life upon which he was about to enter. He had always regarded with reverence the Christian character and profession, and he was now united to the visible church,* and received the holiest of the sacraments. He lingered until the twenty-sixth of September, 1828, when he passed peacefully to the rest of those who know that their Redeemer lives."

The pathway of BRAINARD was aside from the walks of ambition, and the haunts of worldliness. He lived within himself, holding communion with his own thoughts, and suffering from deep and lasting melancholy. Like WILCOX, it is said, he had met with one of those disappointments in early life, which so frequently impress the soul with sadness; and though there was sometimes gayety in his manner and conversation, it was generally assumed, to conceal painful musings or to beguile

sorrow.

His person was small, and well formed; his countenance mild, and indicative of the kindness and gentleness of his nature; and in his eyes there was a look of dreamy listlessness and tenderness. He was fond of society, and his pleasing

conversation and amiable character won for him many ardent friends. He was peculiarly sensitive; and Mr. WHITTIER,* in a sketch of his life, re marks that in his gayest moments a co'dly-spoken word, or casual inattention, would check at once the free flow of his thoughts, cause the jest to die on his lips, and "the melancholy which had been lifted from his heart, to fall again with increased heaviness."

BRA NARD lacked the mental discipline and strong self-command which alone confer true power. He never could have produced a great work. His poems were nearly all written during the six years in which he edited the Mirror, and they bear marks of haste and carelessness, though some of them are very beautiful. He failed only in his humorous pieces; in all the rest his language is appropriate and pure, his diction free and harmonious, and his sentiments natural and sincere. His serious poems are characterized by deep feeling and delicate fancy; and if we had no records of his history, they would show us that he was a man of great gentleness, simplicity, and purity.

JERUSALEM.t

Foun lamps were burning o'er two mighty gravesGODFREY'S and BALDWIN'St-Salem's Christian kings;

And holy light glanced from Helena's naves,
Fed with the incense which the pilgrim brings,-

On this occasion, says the Reverend Mr. M'EWEN, as he was too feeble to go to the church and remain through the customary services, he arrived at and entered the sanctuary when these were nearly or quite through. Every one present (literally, almost) knew him,-the occasion of his coming was understood,-and when he appeared, pale, feeble, emaciated, and trembling in consequence of his extreme debility, the sensation it produced was at once apparent throughout the whole assembly. There seemed to be an instinctive homage paid to the grace of GoD in him; or, perhaps, the fact shows how readily a refined Christian community sympathizes with genius and virtue destined to an early tomb.

The following intelligence from Constantinople was of the eleventh October, 1821: "A severe earthquake is sail to have taken place at Jerusalem, which has destroyed great part of that city, shaken down the Mosque of Omar, and reduced the Holy Sepulchre to ruins from top to bottom"

GODFREY and BALDWIN were the first Christian kings at Jerusalem. The Empress HELENA, mother of CONSTANTINE the Great, built the church of the sepulchre on Mourt Calvary. The walls are of stone and the roof of cedar. The four lamps which lit it, are very costly. It is kept in repair by the offerings of pilgrims who resort to it. The mosque was originally a Jewish temple. The Emperor JULIAN undertook to rebuild the temple of Jernsalem at a very great expense, to disprove the prophecy of our Saviour, as it was understood by the Jews; but the work and the workmen were destroyed by an earthquake. The pools of Bethesda and Gihon-the tomb of the Virgin MARY, and of King JEHOSAPHAT-the pillar of ABSALOM- the tomb of ZACHARIAH-and the campo sunto, or holy field, which is supposed to have been purchased with the price of JUDAS's treason, are, or were lately, the most interesting parts of Jerusalem.

While through the panell'd roof the cedar flings Its sainted arms o'er choir, and roof, and dome, And every porphyry-pillar'd cloister rings To every kneeler there its "welcome home," As every lip breathes out, "O LORD, thy kingdom come."

A mosque was garnish'd with its crescent moons,

And a clear voice call'd Mussulmans to prayer. There were the splendours of Judea's thronesThere were the trophies which its conquerors

wear

All but the truth, the holy truth, was there :For there, with lip profane, the crier stood,

And him from the tall minaret you might hear, Singing to all whose steps had thither trod, That verse misunderstood, "There is no Gon but GOD."

Hark! did the pilgrim tremble as he kneel'd?

And did the turban'd Turk his sins confess? Those mighty hands the elements that wield,

That mighty Power that knows to curse or bless, Is over all; and in whatever dress His suppliants crowd around him, He can see Their heart, in city or in wilderness, And probe its core, and make its blindi ess flec, Owning Him very Gon, the only Deity. There was an earthquake once that rent thy fane, Proud JULIAN; when (against the prophecy Of Him who lived, and died, and rose again,

And from the boiling seas such wrath did flow, As saw not Shinar's plain, nor Babel's overthrow.

Anothe, earthquake comes. Dome, roof, and wall Tremble; and headlong to the grassy bank, And in the muddied stream the fragments fall,

While the rent chasm spread its jaws, and drank At one huge draught, the sediment, which sank In Salem's drained goblet. Mighty Power!

Thou whom we all should worship, praise, and thank,

Where was thy mercy in that awful hour, When hell moved from beneath, and thine own heaven did lower?

Say, Pilate's palaces--proud Herod's towers

Say, gate of Bethlehem, did your arches quake? Thy pool, Bethesda, was it fill'd with showers? Calm Gihon, did the jar thy waters wake? Tomb of thee, MARY-Virgin-did it shake! Glow'd thy bought field, Aceldama, with blood?

Where were the shudderings Calvary might Did sainted Mount Moriah send a flood, [make? To wash away the spot where once a Gon had stood? Lost Salem of the Jews-great sepulchre

Of all profane and of all holy thingsWhere Jew, and Turk, and Gentile yet concur To make thee what thou art! thy history brings Thoughts mix'd of joy and wo. The whole earth rings

With the sad truth which He has prophesied,

Who would have shelter'd with his holy wings Thee and thy children. You his power defied: You scourged him while he lived, and mock'd him as he died!

FROM that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain
That links the mountain to the mighty main,
Fresh from the rock and swelling by the tree,
Rushing to meet, and dare, and breast the sea-
Fair, noble, glorious river! in thy wave
The sunniest slopes and sweetest pastures lave;
The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar,
Springs from its home and leaps upon thy shore:-
The promontories love thee-and for this
Turn their rough cheeks and stay thee for thy kiss.
Stern, at thy source, thy northern guardians
Rude rulers of the solitary land,
[stand,

Wild dwellers by thy cold, sequester'd springs,
Of earth the feathers and of air the wings;

Their blasts have rock'd thy cradle, and in storm
Cover'd thy couch and swathed in snow thy form-.
Yet, bless'd by all the elemen's that sweep
The clouds above, or the unfathom'd deep,
The purest breezes scent thy blooming hills,
The gentlest dews drop on thy eddying rills,
By the moss'd bank, and by the aged tree,
The silver streamlet smoothest glides to thee.

The young oak greets thee at the water's edge,
Wet by the wave, though anchor'd in the ledge.
-Tis there the otter dives, the beaver feeds,
Where pensive osiers dip their willowy weeds,
And there the wild-cat purs amid her brood,
And trains them in the sylvan solitude,
To watch the squirrel's leap, or mark the mink
Paddling the water by the quiet brink ;-
Or to out-gaze the gray owl in the dark,
Or hear the young fox practising to bark.

Dark as the frost-nipp'd leaves that strew'd the ground,

The Indian hunter here his shelter found;
Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true,
Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe,
Spear'd the quick salmon leaping up the fall,
And slew the deer without the rifle-ball; [choose,
Here his young squaw her cradling tree would
Singing her chant to hush her swart pappoose;
Here stain her quills and string her trinkets rude,
And weave her warrior's wampum in the wood.
-No more shall they thy welcome waters bless,
No more their forms thy moon-lit banks shall press,
No more be heard, from mountain or from grove,
His whoop of slaughter, or her song of love.

Thou didst not shake, thou didst not shrink

One mighty sigh relieves thy icy breast,
And wakes thee from the calmness of thy rest.
Down sweeps the torrent ice-it may not stay
By rock or bridge, in narrow or in bay-
Swift, swifter to the heaving sea it goes,
And leaves thee dimpling in thy sweet repose.
-Yet as the unharm'd swellow skims his way,
And lightly drops his pinions in thy spray,
So the swift sail shall seek thy inland seas,
And swell and whiten in thy purer breeze,
New paddles dip thy waters, and strange oars
Feather thy waves and touch thy noble shores.

Thy noble shores! where the tall steeple shines,
At mid-day, higher than thy mountain pines;
Where the white school-house with its daily drill
Of sunburn'd children, smiles upon the hill;
Where the neat village grows upon the eye,
Deck'd forth in nature's sweet simplicity-
Where hard-won competence, the farmer's wealth,
Gains merit, honour, and gives labour health;
Where GOLDSMITH's self might send his exiled band
To fir 1 a new "Sweet Auburn" in our land
What Art can execute, or Taste devise,
Decks thy fair course and gladdens in thine eyes—

As broader sweep the bendings of thy stream,
To meet the southern sun's more constant beam.
Here cities rise, and sea-wash'd commerce hails
Thy shores and winds with all her flapping sails,
From tropic isles, or from the torrid main--
Where grows the grape,or sprouts the sugar-cane--
Or from the haunts where the striped haddock play,
By each cold, northern bank and frozen bay.
Here, safe return'd from every stormy sea,
Waves the striped flag, the mantle of the free,
--That star-lit flag, by all the breezes curl'd
Of yon vast deep whose waters grasp the world.
In what Arcadian, what Utopian ground
Are warmer hearts or manlier feelings found,
More hospitable welcome, or more zeal
To make the curious "tarrying" stranger feel
That, next to home, here best may he abide,
To rest and cheer him by the chimney-side;
Drink the hale farmer's cider, as he hears
From the gray dame the tales of other years.
Cracking his shag-barks, as the aged crone
-Mixing the true and doubtful into one-
Tells how the Indian scalp'd the helpless child,
And bore its shrieking mother to the wild,
Butcher'd the father hastening to his home,
Seeking his cottage-finding but his tomb.
How drums, and flags, and troops were seen on high,
Wheeling and charging in the northern sky,
And that she knew what these wild tokens meant,
When to the Old French War her husband went.
How, by the thunder-blasted tree, was hid
The golden spoils of far-famed ROBERT KIDD;
And then the chubby grandchild wants to know
About the ghosts and witches long ago,
That haunted the old swamp.

The clock strikes ten-
The prayer is said, nor unforgotten then
The stranger in their gates. A decent rule
Of elders in thy puritanic school.

[dream,

When the fresh morning wakes him from his And daylight smiles on rock, and slope, and stream, Are there not glossy curls and sunny eyes, As brightly lit and bluer than thy skies; Voices as gentle as an echo'd call, And sweeter than the soften'd waterfall That smiles and dimples in its whispering spray, Leaping in sportive innocence away :And lovely forms, as graceful and as gay As wild-brier, budding in an April day! -How like the leaves--the fragrant leaves it bears, Their sinless purposes and simple cares.

Stream of my sleeping fathers! when the sound Of coming war echoed thy hills around, How did thy sons start forth from every glade, Snatching the musket where they left the spade. How did their mothers urge them to the fight. Their sisters tell them to defend the right;How bravely did they stand, how nobly fall, The earth their coffin and the turf their pall; How did the aged pastor light his eye, When, to his flock, he read the purpose high And stern resolve, whate'er the toil may be, T'o pledge life, name, fame, all-for liberty. -Cold is the hand that penn'd that glorious pageStill in the grave the body of that sage

Whose lip of eloquence and heart of zeal
Made patriots act and listening statesmen feel-
Brought thy green mountains down upon their foes
And thy white summits melted of their snows,
While every vale to which his voice could come,
Rang with the fife and echoed to the drum.

Bold river! better suited are thy waves
To nurse the laurels clustering round thy graves,
Than many a distant stream, that soaks the mud
Where thy brave sons have shed their gallant blood,
And felt, beyond all other mortal pain,
They ne'er should see their happy home again.

Thou hadst a poet once,--and he could tell,
Most tunefully, whate'er to thee befell;
Could fill each pastoral reed upon thy shore-
But we shall hear his classic lays no more
He loved thee, but he took his aged way,
By Erie's shore, and PERRY's glorious day,
To where Detroit looks out amidst the wood,
Remote beside the dreary solitude.

Yet for his brow thy ivy leaf shall spread,
Thy freshest myrtle lift its berried head,
And our gnarl'd charter-oak put forth a bough,
Whose leaves shall grace thy TRUMBULL'S ho-
nour'd brow.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WOODWARD, AT EDINBURGH.

"The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord-is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze.'

ANOTHER! 'tis a sad word to the heart,

That one by one has lost its hold on life, From all it loved or valued, forced to part

In detail. Feeling dies not by the knife That cuts at once and kills--its tortured strife Is with distill'd affliction, drop by drop

Oozing its bitterness. Our world is rife With grief and sorrow! all that we would prop, Or would be propp'd with, falls--when shall the ruin stop?

The sea has one, and Palestine has one,

And Scotland has the last. The snooded maid Shall gaze in wonder on the stranger's stone, And wipe the dust off with her tartan plaidAnd from the lonely tomb where thou art laid, Turn to some other monument--nor know

Whose grave she passes, or whose name she read: Whose loved and honour'd relics lie below; Whose is immortal joy, and whose is mortal wo. There is a world of bliss hereafter--else

Why are the bad above, the good beneath The green grass of the grave? The mower fells Flowers and briers alike. But man shall breathe (When he his desolating blade shall sheathe And rest him from his work) in a pure sky,

Above the smoke of burning worlds;--and Death On scorched pinions with the dead shall lie, When time, with all his years and centuries has pass'd by.

*Professor FISHER, lost in the "Albion," and Rev. LEVI PARSONS, missionary to Palestine, who died at Alexandria.