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THOUGHT is deeper than all speech;
Feeling deeper than all thought:
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.
We are spirits clad in veils :

Man by man was never seen:
All our deep communing fails

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,
After so drear a storm how can ye shine!
Oh, smiling world of many-hued delights,
How canst thou 'round our sad hearts still entwine
The accustomed wreaths of pleasure! How, oh Day,
Wakest thou so full of beauty! Twilight deep,
How diest thou so tranquilly away!

And how,oh Night,bring'st thou the sphere of sleep.
For she is gone from us-gone, lost forever-
In the wild billows swallowed up and lost-
Gone, full of love, life, hope, and high endeavor,
Just when we would have welcom'd her the most.
Was it for this-oh, woman, true and pure,
That life thro' shade and light had form'd thy mind
To feel, imagine, reason, and endure—
To soar for truth, to labour for mankind?
Was it for this sad end thou borest thy part
In deeds and words for struggling Italy,-
Devoting thy large mind and larger heart

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.

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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.

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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:

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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

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WHAT shade has fallen this loved threshold o'er
Without glad presage never crossed before?
Why through the past does startled memory range,
Then shrink to meet the desolating change?
Hushed is the dwelling, cold the hearthstone now.
Whose glow plays not upon thy manly brow:
For cordial grasp of hands the pleading eye,
For lettered talk the faintly smothered sigh,
For looks intent to solve, respond, or cheer,
Thine wan from pain, ours agonized with fear;
For bland philosophy and genial wit,
Wont round this group instinctively to flit,
Half-uttered prayers, the stillness of dismay
In dread suspense exhaust the winter day.
The keenest pang humanity can feel
Came in that hour of nature's mute appeal,
As waned expression to its last eclipse,
And speech grew palsied on thy frigid lips;
Yet thought and love before the parting sigh,
Converged and flickered in thy glazing eye.
The artist-friend, whose triumph thou believed
Ere fame ordained or genius had achieved,
Crouched by the form, now stilled in death's
embrace,

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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,
Moved the long train by white-robed pastors led,
And at the altar, where thou oft hast bowed,
We tearful knelt, and laid thee in thy shroud;
When those deep tones on which with youthfu.
pride,

For wisdom's banquet thou so well relied,
Breathed the last prayer that mortal rites delay,
In faltering accents o'er thy senseless clay;
The sternest wept, and even worldly men
Felt the poor refuge of ambition then.
The Christmas garlands still with verdure hung
The temple where thy funeral hymn was sung,
And as it echoed, like a holy spell,

The blest assurance of a short farewell,
A flood of sunshine broke upon our sight,
And wreathed the mourners with supernal light
In golden mists the peaceful cadence died,
And Nature hailed what Faith has prophesied!
Ah! might Grief nestle in this sacred air,
Shielded from view and unprofaned by care!
How grates the discord of the teeming street,
The rush of steeds, and tramp of busy feet;
How vain the stir, how pitiless the glare,
To those who sorrow's aching badges wear!
Yet even here our brother's worth appears,
To fill with honour his remembered years;
In yonder pile*—the wretch's last retreat,
Where Charity and Science nobly meet,
With steadfast heart, with love-inspired brain,
And patient zeal, he ministered to pain.
Welcome the vistas of the hills and sea,
Whose pure enchantments ever solaced thee,
As from the city's strife our dark array,
Emerged to meet the forest and the bay:
There is a balm in Nature's open face
That over anguish casts a soothing grace;
The winds mourn with us, and the fading day
Serenely whispers-all must pass away;
Each herb and tree with promise are imbued,
Withered to bloom, despoiled to be renewed;
From every knoll a boundless void we see,
So, love bereft, appears the world to thee:
Here where the portals of the East arise,
And falls the earliest greeting from the skies,
Our heavy burden in the earth we lay,
Far heavier that our hearts must bear away!

The New York Hospital.

THE HOLY LAND.

THROUGH the warm noontide, I have roam'd
Where CESAR's palace-ruins lie,
And in the Forum's lonely waste

Oft listen'd to the night-wind's sigh.
I've traced the moss-lines on the walls
That Venice conjured from the sea,
And seen the Colosseum's dust

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?
One other land I would explore-
The sacred fields of Palestine.

Oh, for a glance at those wild hills
That round Jerusalem arise!
And one sweet evening by the lake

That gleams beneath Judea's skies!
How anthem-like the wind must sound
In meadows of the Holy Land-
How musical the ripples break

Upon the Jordan's moonlit strand!
Behold the dew, like angels' tears,

Upon each thorn is gleaming now,
Blest emblems of the crown of love
There woven for the Sufferer's brow.
Who does not sigh to enter Nain,
Gr in Capernaum to dwell;
Inhale the breeze from Galilee,

And rest beside Samaria's well?

Who would not stand beneath the spot
Where Bethlehem's star its vigil kept?
List to the plash of Siloa's pool,

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?
How dear were one repentant night
Where MARY's tears of love were shed!
How blest, beside the Saviour's tomb,
One hour's communion with the dead!
What solemn joy to stand alone

On Calvary's celestial height!
Or kneel upon the mountain-slope
Once radiant with supernal light!
I cannot throw my staff aside,
Nor wholly quell the hope divine
That one delight awaits me yet-
A pilgrimage to Palestine.

TO AN ELM.

BRAVELY thy old arms fling

Their countless pennons to the fields of air,
And, like a sylvan king,

Their panoply of green still proudly wear.

As some rude tower of old,

Thy massive trunk still rears its rugged form,
With limbs of giant mould,

To battle sternly with the winter storm.

In Nature's mighty fane,

Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky;
How long the pilgrim train
That with a benison have pass'd thee by!

Lone patriarch of the wood!

Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise,
Of fresh and dauntless mood,
Spreading thy branches to the open skies.

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,
And there securely swing,

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,
While the fresh-murmuring leaves

Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air.

Sacred thy roof of green

To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free:
Gay youth and age serene

Turn with familiar gladness unto thee.

O, hither should we roam,

To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade;
Beneath thy emerald dome

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
Under thy ancient bower

The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream
And when the moonbeams fall
Through thy broad canopy upon the grass,
Making a fairy hall,

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,
And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted-
What though 'tis hallow'd by a poet's vow?
We ever love the rose, and yet its blooming
Is a familiar rapture to the eye;
And yon bright star we hail, although its looming
Age after age has lit the northern sky.

Ar starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing,
As garden odours to the desert blown,
In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing,
Like patriot music or affection's tone-
Thus, thus, for aye, the name of MARY spoken
By lips or text, with magic-like control,
The course of present thought has quickly broken,
And stirr'd the fountains of my inmost soul.
The sweetest tales of human weal and sorrow,
The fairest trophies of the limner's fame,
To my fond fancy, MARY, seem to borrow

Celestial halos from thy gentle name:
The Grecian artist glean'd from many faces,
And in a perfect whole the parts combined,
So have I counted o'er dear woman's graces
To form the MARY of my ardent mind.
And marvel not I thus call my ideal-

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,
And lay it with tears on the altar of truth?
We pass from the presence of beauty, to think--
As the hunter will pause on the precipice brink-
"For ME shall the bloom of the gladsome and fair
Be wasted away by the fetters of care?
Shall the old, peaceful nest, for my sake be forgot,
And the gentle and free know a wearisome lot?

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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
Has peopled earth with grace,
Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,
A bright and peerless race;

But from its sleeping veins ne'er rose before
A shape of loftier name

Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore,
The noblest son of Fame.

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
With music fill'd the air,

And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
Of deep and grateful prayer;

As if the crystal mirror of his life
To fancy sweetly came,

With scenes of patient toil and noble strife,
Undimm'd by doubt or shame;

As if the lofty purpose of his soul
Expression would betray-
The high resolve Ambition to control,
And thrust her crown away!
Oh, it was well in marble firm and white
To carve our hero's form,

Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight
Our star amid the storm!

Whose matchless truth has made his name divina And human freedom sure,

His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine
While man and time endure!

And it is well to place his image there,
Beneath the dome he blest;
Let meaner spirits who its councils share.
Revere that silent guest!

Let us go up with high and sacred love
To look on his pure brow,

And as, with solemn grace, he points above,
Renew the patriot's vow?

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