THE OLD TREE. AND is it gone, that venerable tree, I knew its mighty strength had known decay, But dreamt not that its frame would fall, ere mine The great reformist, that each day removes Its roots have long since felt the ruthless plough- To whom, in youth, iny very dreams were true? ΤΟ 'Twas eve; the broadly shining sun Awoke a ripple on the sea. Nor, in a more tumultuous sound, Were the world's audible breath ngs drown'd; The low, strange hum of herbage growing, That clothed them with their transient bear ELYSIUM. SHE dwelleth in Elysium; there, Her memory is purified, And she seems never to have sigh'd: And palpable and pure, the part • TO H THE firstlings of my simple song In worship rears its flame. No happier hours recall Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore To one who ever loved thee more Than fickle Fortune's all. And now, farewell!-and although here Men hate the source of pain, I hold thee and thy follies dear, Nor of thy faults complain. For my misused and blighted powers, I will accuse thee not: The fool who could from self depart, I reck of mine the less, because A doubtful question of its cause An ancient notion, that time flings Our pains and pleasures from his wings With much equality And that, in reason, happiness UNWISE, or most unfortunate, Thou art not, wert not mine! That, commonly, some triumph must How I have lived imports not now; Else I might chide thee that my life Yes, life; for times beyond the line Of vanity the crown, None shall attend a sadder stram, Till MEMNON's statue stand again To mourn the setting sun,Nor sweeter, if my numbers seem To share the na ure of their theme. SERENADE. Look out upon the stars, my love, And shame them with thine eyes, On which, than on the lights above, There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony Of blending shades and light; Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, With looks, whose brightness well might mak THE WIDOW'S SONG. I BURN no incense, hang no wreath Such cannot cheer the place of death, But only mock its gloom. Here odorous smoke and breathing flower No grateful influence shed; They lose their perfume and their power, And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, A disembodied sense, to feed On fragrance, near its urn- SONG. I NEED not name thy thrilling name, I pledge thee in the grape's pure soul, FORTUNATUS COSBY. [Born 1802.] FORTUNATUS COSBY, a son of Mr. Justice CosBY, for many years one of the most eminent lawyers of Louisville, Kentucky, was born at Harrod's Creek, Jefferson county, in that state, on the second of May, 1802; graduated at Yale College in 1819; married a young lady of New England in 1825; and has since been known as a lover of literature, and a poet, though too careless of his fame as an author to collect the many waifs he has from time to time contributed to the periodicals, some of which have been widely published under the names of other writers. In his later years he has resided in Washington. Mr. COSBY has sung with natural grace and genuine feeling of domestic life, and of the charms of nature, as seen in the luxuriant west, where, in his own time, forests of a thousand years have disappeared before the axe of the settler, and cities, with all the institutions of cultivated society, have taken the places of wigwams and hunting-camps. Among the longer effusions which he has printed anonymously, besides the following fine ode "To the Mocking Bird,” (written about the year 1826,) may be mentioned "The Traveler in the Desert," "A Dream of Long Ago," "Fireside Fancies," and The Solitary Fountain." TO THE MOCKING BIRD.* BIRD of the wild and wondrous song, I hear thy rich and varied voice Swelling the greenwood depths among, Till hill and vale the while rejoice. Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain, I list to that inspiring strain; I thread the forest's tangled maze The thousand choristers to see, I search in vain each pause between- 'Tis but the music of a dream, An airy sound that mocks the ear; But hark again! the eagle's screamIt rose and fell, distinct and clear! And list! in yonder hawthorn bush, The red bird, robin, and the thrush! Lost in amaze I look around, Nor thrush nor eagle there behold: But still that rich ærial sound, Like some forgotten song of old That o'er the heart has held control, Falls sweetly on the ravished soul. And yet the woods are vocal still, The air is musical with song; O'er the near stream, above the hill, The wildering notes are borne along; But whence that gush of rare delight? And what art thou, or bird, or sprite?— Perched on yon maple's topmost bough, With glancing wings and restless feet, Bird of untiring throat, art thou Sole songster in this conce-t sweet! In earlier editions of this volume erroneously attributed to Mr. ALFRED B. MEEK. So perfect, full, and rich, each part, Once more, once more, that thrilling strain !-- More sweet than harp or lover's lute; Thy "wood-note wild" again is fled: On glittering wing, erect and bright, With arrowy speed he darts aloft, His frame in restless motion wheels, To act the ecstacy he feelsAs though his very feet kept time To that inimitable chime! And ever, as the rising moon Climbs with full orb the trees above, He sings his most enchanting tune, While echo wakes through all the grove His descant soothes, in care's despite, The weary watches of the night; The sleeper from his couch starts up, To listen to that lay forlorn; And he who quaff's the midnight cup Looks out to see the purple morn! Oh, ever in the merry spring, Sweet mimic, let me hear thee sing! JAMES WILLIAM MILLER. [Born about 1802. Died 1829.J JAMES WILLIAM MILLER was a young man of singular refinement, and most honorable character, with the single defect of indecision," which, according to his biographer, " attended almost every action in his chequered existence," so that, young as he was when he died, "he had been engaged in as many as eight different pursuits, none of which was prosecuted with sufficient perseverance to command success." In 1828, after having passed some time in the desultory study of the law, at Middleborough, near Boston, he suddenly determined to make a desperate effort to acquire fortune, or at least a competence, in the West Indies; and after visiting several of the islands, finally settled upon one of those which are subject to Spain, and though his health was feeble and precarious, was prosecuting his plans with great energy, and prospects of abundant success, when he died-his brain and heart and body overtasked -in 1829, at the age of twenty-seven years. Mr. N. P. WILLIS describes him, in his American Monthly Magazine," for October, 1830, as having been "a man of exceeding sensitiveness, and great delicacy, both of native disposition and culture;" and "of the kind of genius which is out of place in common iife, and which, at the same time that it interests and attracts you, excites your fear and pity." Mr. MILLER was for a short time associated with JOHN NEAL in the editorship of The Yankee," and he wrote for this and other periodicals, many poems, simple and touching in sentiment, for the most part, but with indications of his constitutional carelessness, which after his death were collected and published, with a graceful and appreciative memoir. A SHOWER. THE pleasant rain!—the pleasant rain! On twangling leaf and dimpling pool- The withering grass, and fading flowers, All things of earth, all grateful things! They hear the sound of the warning burst, It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain! It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers, It hath kiss'd the tomb of the lilly pale, And it bears its life on its living wings- * "He left this country abruptly, to run a wild hazard of life for which his delicate habits unfitted him-for a reward most distant and visionary.... The country he was going to was rude and sickly; the pursuits he was to engage In were coarse and repulsive; the language, the people, new to him; the prospects of success too distant for anything but desperation."-Notice by N. P. Willis. And yet it comes the lightning's flash It comes with the rush of a god's descent With a rush as of a thousand steeds, And now it is up, with a sudden lift- The pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain! I see the smile of the opening cloud, And the happy earth gives back her smiles, As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart, So came the good of the pleasant rain, It shall breathe this truth on the human ear, That to bring the gift of a bounteous Heaven The pleasant rain hath come. ALBERT G. GREENE. [Born, 1802.] MR GREENE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since remained. One of his earliest metrical composi tions was the familiar piece entitled "Old Grimes," which was written in the year in which he entered the university. His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals and have never been published in a collected form. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'ER a low couch the setting sur Whose fame had ne'er been bent Its iron strength had spent. "They come around me here, and say My days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed And lead my band no more; Their own liege lord and master born,- "And what is death? I've dared him oft "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,And fire the culverin, Bid each retainer arm with speed,- Up with my banner on the wall,— Along the vaulted wall, Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, an spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, With girded falchion, sate. "Fill every beaker up, my men, Pour forth the cheering wine; There's life and strength in every drop Thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true?— "Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword,— And let me hear your faithful steel Clash once around my board: I hear it faintly-Louder yet!What clogs my heavy breath? Up all, and shout for RUDIGER, 'Defiance unto Death!' Bowl rang to bowl,--steel clang'd to steel, And shook the flags on high :- But I defy him :-let him come!" And, with the black and heavy plumes - |