THOUGHT is deeper than all speech; Man by man was never seen: To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known: Mind with mind did never meet: We are columns left alone, Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scatter'd lie; All is thus but starlight here. What is social company But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scatter'd stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led Which they never drew from earth; We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one. MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. On, still sweet summer days! Oh, moonlight nights, And how,oh Night,bring'st thou the sphere of sleep. That Rome in later days might yet be free? And, from that home driven out by tyranny, Didst turn to see thy fatherland once more, Bearing affection's dearest ties with theeAnd as the vessel bore thee to our shore, And hope rose to fulfilment-on the deck When friends seem'd almost beckoning unto thee: Oh, God! the fearful storm-the splitting wreckThe drowning billows of the dreary sea! Oh, many a heart was stricken dumb with grief, We who had known thee here-had met thee there Where Rome threw golden light on every leaf Life's volume turned in that enchanted airOh, friend! how we recall the Italian days Amid the Cæsar's ruined palace hallsThe Coliseum and the frescoed blaze Of proud St. Peter's dome-the Sistine wallsThe lone Campagna and the village green— The Vatican-the music and dim light Of gorgeous temples-statues, pictures, seen With thee: those sunny days return so bright, Now thou art gone! Thou hast a fairer world Than that bright clime. The dreams that fill'd thee Now find divine completion, and, unfurl'd, Thy spirit wings, find out their own high sphere. Farewell! thought-gifted, noble-hearted one! We, who have known thee, know thou art not lost; The star that set in storms still shines upon The o'ershadowing cloud, and when we sorrow In the blue spaces of God's firmament [most Beams out with purer light than we have known, Above the tempest and the wild lament Of those who weep the radiance that is flown. [here HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. [Born, 1813.] THE TUCKERMAN family is of German origin, and the name is still common in the states of Germany, where, however, it is spelled with a double n. In a history of the country of Braunselweig and Luneberg, by WILLIAM HANEMANN, published in Luneberg in 1827, allusion is made to one of the kindred of the TUCKERMANS in America, PETER TUCKERMAN, who is mentioned as the last abbot of the monastery of Riddagshausen. He was chosen by the chapter in 1621, and at the same time held the appointment of superintendent or court preacher at Wolfenbuttill. By the mother's side, Mr. TUCKERMAN is of Irish descent. The name of his mother's family is KEATING. In MACAULAY'S recent history he thus speaks of one of her ancestors, as opposing a military deputy of JAMES II., in his persecution of the Protestant English in Ireland, in 1686: "On all questions which arose in the privy council, TYRCONNEL showed similar violence and partiality. JoHN KEATING, chief-justice of the common pleas, a man distinguished for ability, integrity, and loyalty, represented with great mildness that perfect equality was all that the general could reasonably ask for his own church." Mr. TUCKERMAN is a nephew of the late Rev. Dr. JOSEPH TUCKERMAN, a memoir of whom has recently appeared in England, and who is generally known and honoured as the originator of the "Ministry at Large," an institution of Christian benevolence and eminent utility. His mother was also related to and partly educated with another distinguished Unitarian clergyman, JOSEPH STEVENS BUCKMINSTER, whose memory is yet cherished in Boston by all lovers of genius and character. Mr. TUCKERMAN was born in Boston, on the twentieth of April, 1813. After preparing for college, the state of his health rendered it necessary for him to relinquish his studies and seek a milder climate. In September, 1833, he sailed from New York for Havre, and after a brief sojourn in Paris, proceeded to Italy, where he remained until the ensuing summer. In the spring after his return he gave the results of his observation to the public, in a volume entitled "The Italian SketchBook," of which a third and considerably augmented edition appeared in New York in 1849. Mr. TUCKERMAN resumed and for a time prosecuted his academical studies, but again experiencing the injurious effects of a sedentary life and continued mental application, he embarked in October, 1837, for the Mediterranean; visited Gibraltar and Malta, made the tour of Sicily, and after a winter's residence in Palermo, crossed over to the continent. The winter of 1838 he passed chiefly in Florer e and returned to the United States in the course of the ensuing summer. In 1839 he published “Isa. bel, or Sicily, a Pilgrimage," in which, under the guise of a romance, he gives many interesting descriptions and reflections incident to a tour in Sicily. This work was reprinted in London, in 1846. In 1845 he finished his "Thoughts on the Poets," in which he has discussed the characteristics of the chief masters of modern song. This work has passed through several editions. In 1848 he gave to the press his "Artist Life, or Sketches of eminent American Painters ;" in 1849, "Characteristics of Literature, illustrated by the Genius of Distinguished Men;" in 1850, "The Optimist," and a Life of Commodore TALBOT;" in 1851, a second series of "Characteristics of Literature;" in 1853 The Diary of a Dreamer," "A Memorial of GREENOUGH," and "Mental Portraits;" and in 1854, "A Month in England." A collection of his "Poems" appeared in 1851, but it embraces only a small proportion of those he had published in the magazines and newspapers. " Mr. TUCKERMAN's poems are in a great variety of measures; they are, for the most part, expres sions of graceful and romantic sentiment, but are often fruits of his reflection and illustrations of his taste. The little piece called "Mary" is a delightful echo of emotions as common as culture of mind and refinement of feeling; and among his sonnets are some very pleasing examples of this kind of writing. In these works he has occasionally done injustice to his own fine powers by the carelessness with which he has adopted familiar ideas, images, and forms of expression, from other writers. Considering the nature of the poetic principle, the author of an Essay on American Poetry which ap peared in 1841, observes: "He who looks on Lake George, or sees the sun rise on Mackinaw, or listens to the grand music of a storm, is divested, for a time, of a portion of the alloy of his nature." The alteration Mr. TUCKERMAN makes in the paraphrase of this in his highly-finished production, The Spirit of Poetry," published three years afterwards. is unquestionably an improvement: Who that has rocked upon Lake George's tide, When its clear ripples in the moonlight glide And who Niagara's loveliness has known, The rainbow diadem, the emerald zone, Nor felt thy spell each baser thought control." Hypercritical readers may fancy that the grammatical relations of the last word of the second line here copied demand that it should be written glided, but it will not be denied that the substitution of "Niagara" for "a storm" renders the pas WHAT shade has fallen this loved threshold o'er JOHN W. FRANCIS, jr., eldest son of the eminent and renerable JOHN W. FRANCIS, M.D., LL. D. of New York, died on the twentieth of January, 1855, of typhus fever, brought on by extreme devotion to medical studies and attendance upon the poor. He was a youth of rare promise and great accomplishments; and perhaps there was never another occasion when one so young received the tribute of funeral honours from so large and distinguished an assemblage as that which accompanied his remains to St. Thomas's Church, where appropriate services were conducted in a very impressive manner by Dr. HAWKS, an ald personal friend of the family. from the more immediate vocabulary of common life, and hence to be preferred on the principles announced by Mr. WORDSWORTH; but though those useful industrials who attempt to obliterate the evidences of age in our seedy habiliments, frequently display in conspicuous letters the verb "renovate" upon their signboards, it should not be forgotten that they intend by it a larger promise than that of simply "mending," as Mr. TUCKERMAN seems to suppose. Of Mr. TUCKERMAN'S character as an essayist, some more particular observations may be found in my "Prose Writers of America." He has resided for several years in the city of New York. When up the aisle familiar to thy tread, For wisdom's banquet thou so well relied, The blest assurance of a short farewell, The New York Hospital. THE HOLY LAND. THROUGH the warm noontide, I have roam'd Oft listen'd to the night-wind's sigh. Before the breeze of autumn flee. Along Pompeii's lava-street, With curious eye, I've wander'd lone, And mark'd Segesta's temple-floor With the rank weeds of ages grown. I've clamber'd Etna's hoary brow, And sought the wild Campagna's gloom; I've hail'd Geneva's azure tide, And snatch'd a weed from VIRGIL's tomb. Why all unsated yearns my heart To seek once more a pilgrim shrine? Oh, for a glance at those wild hills That gleams beneath Judea's skies! Upon the Jordan's moonlit strand! Upon each thorn is gleaming now, And rest beside Samaria's well? Who would not stand beneath the spot And kiss the ground where JESUS wept? Gethsemane who would not seek, And pluck a lily by the way? Through Bethany devoutly walk, And on the mount of Olives pray? On Calvary's celestial height! TO AN ELM. BRAVELY thy old arms fling Their countless pennons to the fields of air, Their panoply of green still proudly wear. As some rude tower of old, Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form, To battle sternly with the winter storm. In Nature's mighty fane, Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky; Lone patriarch of the wood! Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise, The locust knows thee well, And when the summer-days his notes prolong, Hid in some leafy cell, Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song. Oft, on a morn in spring, The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray, To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay. How bursts thy monarch wail, When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, And, bared to meet the gale, Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife! The sunset often weaves Upon thy crest a wreath of splendour rare, Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air. Sacred thy roof of green To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free: Turn with familiar gladness unto thee. O, hither should we roam, To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade; Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade. With blessings at thy feet, Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest; Thy verdant, calm retreat Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast. When, at the twilight hour, Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass Then lovers haste to thee, With hearts that tremble like that shifting light To them, O brave old tree, Thou art Joy's shrine-a temple of delight! MARY. WHAT though the name is old and oft repeated, What though a thousand beings bear it now, Ar starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing, Celestial halos from thy gentle name: We inly paint as we would have things beThe fanciful springs ever from the real, AS APHRODITE rose from out the sea. Who smiled upon me kindly day by day, In a far land where I was sad and lone? Whose presence now is my delight away? Both angels must the same bless'd title own. What spirits round my weary way are flying, What fortunes on my future life await, Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing, Are all unknown-in trust I bide my fate; But if one blessing I might crave from Heaven, "I would be that MARY should my being cheer, Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven, Be my dear household word, and my last accent here. "YOU CALL US INCONSTANT." You call us inconstant-you say that we cease Our homage to pay, at the voice of caprice; That we dally with hearts till their treasures are ours, As bees drink the sweets from a cluster of flowers; For a moment's refreshment at love's fountain stay, Then turn, with a thankless impatience, away. And think you, indeed, we so cheerfully part With hopes that give wings to the o'erwearied heart, And throw round the future a promise so bright That life seems a glory, and time a delight? From our pathway forlorn can we banish the dove, And yield without pain the enchantments of love? You know not how chill and relentless a wave Reflection will cast o'er the soul of the brave-How keenly the clear rays of duty will beam, And startle the heart from its passionate dream, To tear the fresh rose from the garland of youth, 66 By the tender appeal of that beauty, beware How you woo her thy desolate fortunes to share! O pluck not a lily so shelter'd and sweet, And bear it not off from its genial retreat. Enrich'd with the boon thy existence would be, But hapless the fate that unites her to thee !" Thus, dearest, the spell that thy graces entwined, No fickle heart breaks, but a resolute mind; The pilgrim may turn from the shrine with a smile, Yet, believe me, his bosom is wrung all the while, And one thought alone lends a charm to the pastThat his love conquer'd selfishness nobly at last. GREENOUGH'S WASHINGTON. THE quarry whence thy form majestic sprung But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore, Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stain'd; His gaze around is cast, As if the joys of Freedom, newly-gain'd, Before his vision pass'd; As if a nation's shout of love and pride And his calm soul was lifted on the tide As if the crystal mirror of his life With scenes of patient toil and noble strife, As if the lofty purpose of his soul Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight Whose matchless truth has made his name divina And human freedom sure, His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine And it is well to place his image there, Let us go up with high and sacred love And as, with solemn grace, he points above, |