JAMES OCIS ROCKWELL was born in Lebanon, an agricultural town in Connecticut, in 1807. At an early age he was apprenticed to a printer, in Utica, and in his sixteenth year he began to write verses for the newspapers. Two years afterward he went to New York, and subsequently to Boston, in each of which cities he laboured as a journeyman compositor. He had now acquired consideraole reputation by his poetical writings, and was engaged as associate editor of the "Statesman,” an old and influential journal published in Boston, with which, I believe, he continued until 1829, when he became the conductor of the Providence Patriot," with which he was connected at the time of his death.

He was poor, and in his youth he had been left nearly to his own direction. He chose to learn the business of printing, because he thought it would afford him opportunities to improve his mind; and his education was acquired by diligent study during the leisure hours of his apprenticeship. When he removed to Providence, it became necessary for him to take an active part in the discussion of political questions. He felt but little interest in public affairs, and shrank instinctively from the strife of partisanship; but it seemed the only avenue to competence and reputation, and he embarked in it with apparent ardour. Journalism, in the hands of able and honourable men, is the noblest of callings; in the hands of the ignorant and mercenary, it is among the meanest. There are at all times connected with the press, persons of the baser sort, who derive their support and chief enjoyment from ministering to the worst passions; and by some of this class ROCKWELL'S private character was assailed, and he was taunted with his obscure parentage, defective education, and former vocation, as if to have elevated his position in society, by perseverance and the force of mind, were a ground of accusation. He had too little energy in his nature to regard such assaults with the indifference they merited; and complained in some of his letters that they "robbed him of rest and of all pleasure." With constantly increasing reputation, however, he continued his editorial labours until the summer of 1831, when. at the early age of twenty-four years, he was suddenly called to a better world. He felt unwell, one morning, and, in a brief paragraph, apologized for the apparent neglect of his gazette. The next number of it wore the sign of mourning for his death. A friend of ROCKWELL'S, in a notice of him published in the "Southern Literary Messenger," mentions as the inmediate cause of his death, that he "was troubled at the thought of some obliga

Reverend CHARLES W. EVEREST, of Meriden Con

necticut.

tion which, from not receiving money ther, duc u him, he was unable to meet, and shrank from the prospect of a debtor's prison." That it was in some way a result of his extreme sensitiveness, was generally believed among his friends at the time. WHITTIER, who was then editor of the "New England Weekly Review," soon after wrote the following lines to his memory:

"The turf is smooth above him! and this rair
Will moisten the rent roots, and summon back
The perishing life of its green-bladed grass,
And the crush'd flower will lift its head again
Smilingly unto heaven, as if it kept

No vigil with the dead. Well-it is meet
That the green grass should tremble, and the flowers
Blow wild about his resting place. His mind
Was in itself a flower but half-disclosed--
A bud of blessed promise which the storin
Visited rudely, and the passer by

Smote down in wantonness. But we may trust
That it hath found a dwelling, where the sun
Of a more holy clime will visit it,
And the pure dews of mercy will descend,
Through Heaven's own atmosphere, upon its head.
"His form is now before me, with no trace
Of death in its fine lineaments, and there
Is a fint crimson on his youthful cheek,
And his free lip is softening with the smile
Which in his eye is kindling. I can feel
The parting pressure of his hand, and hear
His last 'God bless you! Strange-that he is thers
Distinct before me like a breathing thing,
Even when I know that he is with the dead,
And that the damp earth hides him. I would not
Think of him otherwise-his image lives
Within my memory as he seem'd before
The curse of blighted feeling, and the toil
And fever of an uncongenial strife, had left
Their traces on his aspect. Peace to him!
He wrestled nobly with the weariness
And trials of our being-smiling on,
While poison mingled with his springs of life,
And wearing a calm brow, while on his heart
Anguish was resting like a hand of fire-
Until at last the agony of thought
Grew insupportable, and madness came
Darkly upon him,-and the sufferer died!

"Nor died he unlamented! To his grave
The beautiful and gifted shall go up,
And muse upon the sleeper. And young lips
Shall murmur in the broken tones of grief-
His own sweet melodies-and if the ear
Of the freed spirit heedeth aught beneath
The brightness of its new inheritance,
It may be joyful to the parted one
To feel that earth remembers him in love!"

The specimens of ROCKWELL's poetry which have fallen under my notice show him to have possessed considerable fancy and deep feeling His imagery is not always well chosen, and his ver sification is sometimes defective; but his thoughts are often original, and the general effect of his pieces is striking. His later poems are his best, and probably he would have produced works of much merit had he lived to a maturer age.

THE SUM OF LIFE.

SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights
All waste away in anxious care,
Estranged from all of life's delights,
Unlearn'd in all that is most fair-
Who sailest not with easy glide,
But delvest in the depths of tide,

And strugglest in the foam;

2 come and view this land of graves, Death's northern sea of frozen waves,

And mark thee out thy home.

Lover of woman, whose sad heart

Wastes like a fountain in the sun,
Clings most, where most its pain does start,
Dies by the light it lives upon;

Come to the land of graves; for here
Are beauty's smile, and beauty's tear,
Gather'd in holy trust;

Here slumber forms as fair as those
Whose cheeks, now living, shame the rose,
Their glory turn'd to dust.

Lover of fame, whose foolish thought

Steals onward o'er the wave of time,
Tell me, what goodness hath it brought,
Atoning for that restless crime?

The spirit-mansion desolate,
And open to the storms of fate,

The absent soul in fear;

Bring home thy thoughts and come with me, And see where all thy pride must be:

Searcher of fame, look here!

And, warrior, thou with snowy plume,
That goest to the bugle's call,
Come and look down; this lonely tomb

Shall hold thee and thy glories all:
The haughty brow, the manly frame,
The daring deeds, the sounding fame,
Are trophies but for death!
And millions who have toil'd like thee,
Are stay'd, and here they sleep; and see,
Does glory lend them breath?

ΤΟ ΑΝΝ.

THOU wert as a lake that lieth

In a bright and sunny way;

I was as a bird that flieth

O'er it on a pleasant day;

When I look'd upon thy features

Presence then some feeling lent;

But thou knowest, most false of creatures,
With thy form thy image went.

With a kiss my vow was greeted,
As I knelt before thy shrine;

But I saw that kiss repeated
On another lip than mine;
And a solemn vow was spoken

That thy heart should not be changed;
But that binding vow was broken,
And thy spirit was estranged.

I could blame thee for awaking Thoughts the world will but deride; Calling out, and then forsaking

Flowers the winter wind will chide; Guiling to the midway ocean Barks that tremble by the shore But I hush the sad emotion, And will punish thee no more.

THE LOST AT SEA.

WIFE, who in thy deep devotion
Puttest up a prayer for one
Sailing on the stormy ocean,

Hope no more-his course is done. Dream not, when upon thy pillow,

That he slumbers by thy side; For his corse beneath the billow Heaveth with the restless tide.

Children, who, as sweet flowers growing.
Laugh amid the sorrowing rains,
Know ye many clouds are throwing
Shadows on your sire's remains?
Where the hoarse, gray surge is rolling
With a mountain's motion on,
Dream ye that its voice is tolling

For your father lost and gone?

When the sun look'd on the water,
As a hero on his grave,
Tinging with the hue of slaughter
Every blue and leaping wave,
Under the majestic ocean,

Where the giant current roll'd,
Slept thy sire, without emotion,
Sweetly by a beam of gold;

And the silent sunbeams slanted,

Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendours haunted Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, Sparkled through his raven hair; But the sleep that knows no dreaming Bound him in its silence there.

So we left him; and to tell thee
Of our sorrow and thine own,
Of the wo that then befell thee,
Come we weary and alone.
That thine eye is quickly shaded,

That thy heart-blood wildly flows, That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, Are the fruits of these new woes.

Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring
Linger on your mother's face-
Know ye that she is expiring,
That ye are an orphan race?
Gon be with you on the morrow,
Father, mother,-both no more;
One within a grave of sorrow,
One upon the ocean's floor!

THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY.

SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose
By the warm skies and winds of June forsaken;
Or like the sun, when dimm'd with clouds it goes
To its clear ocean-bed, by light winds shaken:
Or like the moon, when through its robes of snow
It smiles with angel meekness—or like sorrow
When it is soothed by resignation's glow,

Or like herself,-she will be dead to-morrow.

How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl! And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl

That floats around her; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam,

Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted!

O, bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye
To look upon so fair a type of heaven;
She could not dwell beneath a winter sky,

And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, And now she lies in ruins-look and weep!

How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow.

TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN.

GRAVE of waters gone to rest!
Jewel, dazzling all the main!
Father of the silver crest!

Wandering on the trackless plain,
Sleeping mid the wavy roar,

Sailing mid the angry storm, Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, Piling to the clouds thy form! Wandering monument of rain,

Prison'd by the sullen north!
But to melt thy hated chain,

Is it that thou comest forth?
Wend thee to the sunny south,
To the glassy summer sea,
And the breathings of her mouth

Shall unchain and gladden thee!

Roamer in the hidden path,

'Neath the green and clouded wave! Trampling in thy reckless wrath,

On the lost, but cherish'd brave; Parting love's death-link'd embraceCrushing beauty's skeletonTell us what the hidden race

With our mourned lost have done!

Floating isle, which in the sun

Art an icy coronal;
And beneath the viewless dun,
Throw'st o'er barks a wavy pall;
Shining death upon the sea!

Wend thee to the southern main; Warm skies wait to welcome thee! Mingle with the wave again!

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

WHEN the summer sun was in the west,

Its crimson radiance fell,

Some on the blue and changeful sea,

And some in the prisoner's cell. And then his eye with a smile would bean, And the blood would leave his brain, And the verdure of his soul return., Like sere grass after rain!

But when the tempest wreathed and strea A mantle o'er the sun,

He gather'd back his woes again,

And brooded thereupon;

And thus he lived, till Time one day
Led Death to break his chain:
And then the prisoner went away,
And he was free again!

TO A WAVE.

LIST! thou child of wind and sea,
Tell me of the far-off deep,
Where the tempest's breath is free,
And the waters never sleep!
Thou perchance the storm hast aided,
In its work of stern despair,
Or perchance thy hand hath braided,
In deep caves, the mermaid's hair.

Wave! now on the golden sands,
Silent as thou art, and broken,
Bear'st thou not from distant strands
To my heart some pleasant token!
Tales of mountains of the south,
Spangles of the ore of silver;
Which, with playful singing mouth,

Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer?
Mournful wave! I deem'd thy song

Was telling of a floating prison, Which, when tempests swept along, And the mighty winds were risen, Founder'd in the ocean's grasp.

While the brave and fair were dying, Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds, as thou wert flying?

Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock

Where the pride of kings reposes, Crown'd with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire, green, and rose Or with joyous, playful leap,

Hast thou been a tribute flinging,

Up that bold and jutty steep,

Pearls upon the south wind stringing?

Faded Wave! a joy to thee,

Now thy flight and toil are over! O, may my departure be

Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover! When this soul's last pain or mirth On the shore of time is driven, Be its lot like thine on earth,

To be lost away in heaven'

MICAH P FLINT, a son of the Reverend TIMOTHY FLINT, the well-known author of "Francis Berrian," was born in Lunenburg, Massachusetts; at an early age accompanied his father to the valley of the Mississippi; studied the law, and was admitted to the bar at Alexandria; and had hopes of a successful professional career, when arrested by the inness which ended in his early death. He published in Boston, in 1826, "The Hunter, and other Poems," which are described in the preface as the productions of a very young man, and results of lonely meditations in the southwestern

| forests, during intervals of professional studies "The Hunter" is a narrative, in three cantos, of "adventures in the pathless woods." The situa tions and incidents are poetical, but the work is, upon the whole, feebly executed. "Sorotaphian," an argument for urn-burial, subsequently reprinted with some improvements in "The Western Monthly Magazine," lines "On Passing the Grave of My Sister," and several other poems, illustrated the growth of the author's mind, and justified the sanguine hopes of his father that he would "become the pride of his family."

ON PASSING THE GRAVE OF MY SISTER.

ON yonder shore, on yonder shore,

Now verdant with the depths of shade,
Beneath the white-arm'd sycamore,

There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear.-A brother weeps.-
"T is there the faded floweret sleeps.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,

And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan

Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmur'd at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.

In sounds that seems like sorrow's own,
Their funeral dirges faintly creep;
Then deepening to an organ tone,

In all their solemn cadence sweep,
And pour, unheard, along the wild,
Their desert anthem o'er a child.
She came, and pass'd. Can I forget,

How we whose hearts had hailed her birth, Ere three autumnal suns had set,

Consign'd her to her mother earth!
Joys and their memories pass away;
But griefs are deeper plough'd than they.
We laid her in her narrow cell,

We heap'd the soft mould on her breast; And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell

Upon her lonely place of rest.
May angels guard it; may they bless
Her slumbers in the wilderness.
Sne sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

For all unheard, on yonder shore,
The sweeping flood, with torrent moan,
At evening lifts its solemn roar,
As in one broad, eternal tide,
The rolling waters onward glide.
There is no marble monument,

There is no stone with graven lie,

To tell of love and virtue blent

In one almost too good to die. We needed no such useless trace To point us to her resting-place. She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

But midst the tears of April showers, The genius of the wild hath strown

His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers, And cast his robes of vernal bloom In guardian fondness o'er her tomb. She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;

Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd, And still the summer vines are thrown, In annual wreaths across her breast, And still the sighing autumn grieves, And strews the hallow'd spot with leaves.

AFTER A STORM.

THERE was a milder azure spread Around the distant mountain's head; And every hue of that fair bow,

Whose beauteous arch had risen there
Now sank beneath a brighter glow,

And melted into ambient air.
The tempest which had just gone bv,
Still hung along the eastern sky,
And threatened, as it rolled away.
The birds, from every dripping spray,
Were pouring forth their joyous mirth;
The torrent, with its waters brown,
From rock to rock came rushing down,
While, from among the smoky hills,
The voices of a thousand rills

Were heard exulting at its birth.
A breeze came whispering through the wood
And, from its thousand tresses, shook
The big round drops that trembling stood,
Like pearls, in every leafv nook.