Ever mounting, ever brightening, O, what rare and heavenly brightness With serene and placid motion, Thou wert dazzling bright. Thou didst pierce the cloud, When the warring winds were roaring Where is now that restless longing After higher things? Come they not, like visions, thronging Why should not their glow enchant thee Surely danger cannot daunt thee But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Like a dove in winter shivering, Or a feebler thing. Where is now thy might and motion, Hark! his rustling plumage gathers Close, as when the storm-bird weathers Ocean's hurrying tide. Now his nodding beak is steady— And his aim-how high! Now he curves his neck, and proudly Hark! his wings-they thunder loudly, Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee- There is no other land like thee, Thou art the shelter of the free; Ere I forget to think upon Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, And, rising from thy hardy stock, All, who the wreath of Freedom twine Are bless'd. We love thy rude and rocky shore, Let foreign navies hasten o'er, They still shall find our lives are given P MAY. I FEEL a newer life in every gale; The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Of hours that glide unfelt away The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls And where his whispering voice in music falls, The bright ones of the valley break The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes. Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; With the light dallying of the west-wind play; TO SENECA LAKE. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er. Now the mist is on the mountains, Now the flowers around the fountains Not a spire of grass is growing, But the leaves that late were glowing, With a mantle dun. Now the torrent brook is stealing Faintly down the furrow'd glade- Such a din is made, Darkly blue the mist is hovering Round the clifted rock's bare heightAll the bordering mountains covering With a dim, uncertain light :Now, a fresher wind prevailing, Wide its heavy burden sailing, Deepens as the day is failing, Fast the gloom of night. Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding Through the still and hazy air, Like a sheeted spectre gliding In a torch's glare: Few the hours, her light is given- THE FLIGHT OF TIME. FAINTLY flow, thou falling river, Burying all its treasures there. Then, like visions hurry by: Quick as clouds at evening driven O'er the many-colour'd west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest. IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE. O! IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending: Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending Glory that never shall fade, never, O! never away. O! it is sweet for our country to die--how softly reposes Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love, Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands of roses, Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above. Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perish'd: HEBE awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile; There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherish'd; Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile. Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; Not to the isles of the bless'd, over the blue, rolling sea; But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted forever; I feel it-though the flesh is weak, I feel And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled, The spirit, whose strong influence can free The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead Cold night of mortal darkness; from the bed Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call, And, kindling in the blaze around him shed, Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall, And gives to GoD his strength, his heart, his mind, his all. Our home is not on earth; although we sleep, How awful is that hour, when conscience stings The hoary wretch, who, on his death-bed hears, Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years, And, screaming like a vulture in his ears, There shall assemble the good, there the wise, Tells, one by one, his thoughts and deeds of shame; valiant, and free. How wild the fury of his soul careers! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame. HOME. Mr place is in the quiet vale, The chosen haunt of simple thought; I seek not Fortune's flattering gale, I better love the peaceful lot. I leave the world of noise and show, I ask, in life's unruffled flow, Fancy can charm and feeling bless With sweeter hours than fashion knows; There is no calmer quietness Than home around the bosom throws. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. [Born, 1795.] THE author of "Fanny," "Burns," "Marco Bozzaris," etc., was born at Guilford in Connecticut, in August, 1795. In his eighteenth year he removed to the city of New York, where he has since resided. It is said that he evinced a taste for poetry, and wrote verses, at a very early period; but the oldest of his effusions that I have seen are those under the signatures of "Croaker," and Croaker & Co.," published in the New York Evening Post, in 1819. In the production of these pleasant satires* he was associated with Doctor DRAKE, the author of the "Culprit Fay," a man of brilliant wit and delicate fancy, with whom he was long intimate. DRAKE died in 1820, and his friend soon after wrote for the New York Review, then edited by BRYANT, the lines to his memory, beginning— "Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days; Nor named thee but to praise." Near the close of the year 1819, HALLECK published "Fanny," his longest poem, which has since passed through numerous editions, though its authorship has never been publicly avowed. It is a humorous satire, containing from twelve to fifteen hundred lines, and was written and printed in three weeks from its commencement. In 1827 he published a small volume, containing "Alnwick Castle," "Marco Bozzaris," and a few other pieces, which had previously appeared in various miscellanies; and in 1836, an edition of all his serious poems then written, including "Burns," "Red Jacket," "The Field of the Grounded Arms," and those before alluded to. The last and most complete collection of his works appeared early in the present year. Mr. HALLECK is the only one of our poets who possesses a decided local popularity. With the subjects of "Fanny," the "Croakers," and some of his other pieces, every person in New York is in some degree acquainted, and his name is cherished in that city with fondness and enthusiasm. His humorous poems are marked with an uncommon ease of versification, a natural, unstudied flow of language, and a careless playfulness and felicity of jest. "Sometimes," remarks Mr. BRYANT, "in the midst of a strain of harmonious diction, and soft and tender imagery, he surprises by an irresistible stroke of ridicule, as if he took pleasure in showing the reader that the poetical vision he had raised was but a cheat. Sometimes, * The curiosity of the town was greatly excited to know by whom these pieces had been written, and they were ascribed, at different times, to various literary gentlemen, while the real authors proved, for a long while, entirely unsuspected.-WILLIAM LEGGETT.—The Critic. with that aerial facility which is his peculiar endowment, he accumulates graceful and agreeable images in a strain of irony so fine, that did not the subject compel the reader to receive it as irony, he would take it for a beautiful passage of serious poetry-so beautiful, that he is tempted to regret that he is not in earnest, and that phrases so exquisitely chosen, and poetic colouring so brilliant, should be employed to embellish subjects to which they do not properly belong. At other times, he produces the effect of wit by dexterous allusion to contemporaneous events, introduced as illustrations of the main subject, with all the unconscious gracefulness of the most animated and familiar conversation. He delights in ludicrous contrasts, produced by bringing the nobleness of the ideal world into comparison with the homeliness of the actual; the beauty and grace of nature with the awkwardness of art. He venerates the past and laughs at the present. He looks at them through a medium which lends to the former the charm of romance, and exaggerates the deformity of the latter. His poetry, whether serious or sprightly, is remarkable for the melody of the numbers. It is not the melody of monotonous and strictly regular measurement. His verse is constructed to please an ear naturally fine, and accustomed to a range of metrical modulation. It is as different from that painfully-balanced versification, that uniform succession of iambics, closing the scene with the couplet, which some writers practise, and some critics praise, as the note of the thrush is unlike that of the cuckoo. He is familiar with those general rules and principles which are the basis of metrical harmony; and his own unerring taste has taught him the exceptions which a proper attention to variety demands. He understands that the rivulet is made musical by obstructions in its channel. In no poet can be found passages which flow with more sweet and liquid smoothness; but he knows very well that to make this smoothness perceived, and to prevent it from degenerating into monotony, occasional roughness must be interposed." HALLECK's serious poems are as admirable as his satirical. There are few finer martial lyrics than Marco Bozzaris;" "Burns" and "Red Jacket" are distinguished for manly vigour of thought and language; and several of his shorter pieces have rarely been excelled in melodiousness of versification or quiet beauty of imagery. HALLECK has generally been engaged in commercial pursuits. He was once in "the cotton trade, and sugar line;" but I believe he has for several years been the principal superintendent of the affairs of the great capitalist, Mr. ASTOR. He is a bachelor, and is as popular among his friends for his social qualities, as he is with the world as a poet. BURNS. TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822. WILD rose of Alloway! my thanks, Thou mindst me of that autumn noon, When first we met upon "the banks And braes o' bonny Doon." Like thine, beneath the thorn tree's bough, My sunny hour was glad and brief, We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou Art wither'd-flower and leaf. And will not thy death-doom be mine- Not so his memory, for whose sake My bosom bore thee far and long, The memory of BURNS-a name That calls, when brimm'd her festal cup, A nation's glory-be the rest I've stood beside the cottage-bed Where the bard-peasant first drew breath: A straw-thatch'd roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument-that tells to heaven Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that spot, The pride that lifted BURNS from earth, The rich, the brave, the strong; Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, Despair-thy name is written on The roll of common men. There have been loftier themes than his, Purer and holier fires: Yet read the names that know not death; His is that language of the heart, In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek; And his that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. And who hath heard his song, nor knelt O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, O'er Reason's dark, cold hours; On fields where brave men "die or do," In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, From throne to cottage hearth; What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When "Scots wha hac wi' WALLACE bled," Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung! Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And dreams of youth, and truth, and love, With "Logan's" banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call. Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, And BURNS-though brief the race he ran, The image of his God. Though care, and pain, and want, and wo, He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, And moved, in manhood and in youth, Pride of his fellow-men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye, And on his manly brow. |