SAMUEL GILMAN. [Born, about 1791.] "Lectures" of Dr. THOMAS BROWN. About the same time he translated in a very elegant manner several of the satires of BOILEAU, which he also printed in the "North American Review." After his removal to Charleston he completed his version of BOILEAU, and sent the MS. to Mr. MURRAY, of London, for publication, but by some mischance it was lost, and no efforts have since availed for its recovery. In 1829 he gave to the public his "Memoirs of a New England Village Choir," a little book remarkable for quiet and natural humor, presenting a picture, equally truthful and amusing, of village life in New England in the first quarter of this century. He has more recently published elaborate and thoughtful papers in the reviews, on " The Influence of One National Literature upon Another," "The Writings of EDWARD EVERETT," and other subjects, besides literary and theological discourses, biographies, essays, and translations, all executed with taste and scholar SAMUEL GILMAN, D.D. was born in Gloucester, Massachusetts, where his father had been successfully engaged in commerce, until the capture of several vessels in which he was interested, by the French, in 1798, reduced him to bankruptcy, with loss of health perhaps, for he died soon after, leaving a widow with four small children. Among these SAMUEL was the only son, and his mother, determining to educate him in the best nanner possible, placed him in the family of the Reverend STEPHEN PEABODY, of Atkinson, New Hampshire, a remarkable character, of whom Dr. GILMAN has given an interesting account in an article in "The Christian Examiner" for 1847, entitled "Reminiscences of a New England Clergyman at the Close of the Last Century." Having been prepared for college by Mr. PEABODY, he entered Harvard in 1807, in the same class with N. L. FROTHINGHAM and EDWARD EVERETT. He was graduated in 1811, and was afterwards, from 1817 to 1819, connected with the college as a tutor; but in thely finish. latter year he was married to Miss CAROLINE HOWARD, who, as Mrs. GILMAN, has been so creditably distinguished in literature, and removed to Charleston, South Carolina, where he has ever since resided, as pastor of the Unitarian church of that city. Of Dr. GILMAN's earlier writings none received more attention than a series of able papers contributed to the "North American Review," while he was a tutor at Cambridge, on the philosophical Among the original poems of Dr. GILMAN, the most noticeable are the " History of the Ray of Light," which is reprinted in the second volume of Mr. KETTELL'S Specimens of American Poetry." and his "Poem read before the Phi Beta Kappa Society" of Harvard College. Some of his minor pieces have been deservedly popular, and may be found in numerous school-books and choice selections of literature. THE SILENT GIRL. SHE seldom spake; yet she imparted Her air, her look, her rest, her actions, Were voice enough for her: Why need a tongue, when those attractions Our inmost hearts could stir? She seldom talked, but, uninvited, And oft her hands our ears delighted, And oft when converse round would lan guish, Ask'd or unasked, she read Some tale of gladness or of anguish, And so our evenings sped. She seldom spake; but she would listen Her cheek would change, her eye would glisten. Who did not understand and love her, Little she spake; but dear attentions She checked our wants by kind preventions, And, twining, she would give her mother The same to father, sister, brother, All round-nor would one miss. She seldom spake-she speaks no longer; 'Tis well for us that ties no stronger Awaken memory's woes. For oh! our hearts would sure be broken, Already drained of tears, If frequent tones, by her outspoken, Still lingered in our ears. CHARLES SPRAGUE. [Born, 1791.] CHARLES SPRAGUE was born in Boston, on the twenty-sixth day of October, in 1791. His father, who still survives, was one of that celebrated band who, in 1773, resisted taxation by pouring the tea on board several British ships into the sea. Mr. SPRAGUE was educated in the schools of his native city, which he left at an early period to acquire in a mercantile house a practical knowledge of trade. When he was about twenty-one years of age, he commenced the business of a merchant on his own account, and continued in it, I believe, until he was elected cashier of the Globe Bank, one of the first establishments of its kind in Massachusetts. This office he now holds, and he has from the time he accepted it discharged its duties in a faultless manner, notwithstanding the venerable opinion that a poet must be incapable of successfully transacting practical affairs. In this period he has found leisure to study the works of the greatest authors, and particularly those of the masters of English poetry, with which, probably, very few contemporary writers are more familiar; and to write the admirable poems on wh is based his own reputation. of the most vigorous and beautiful lyrics in the English language. The first poet of the world, the greatness of his genius, the vast variety of his scenes and characters, formed a subject well fitted for the flowing and stately measure chosen by our author, and the universal acquaintance with the writings of the immortal dramatist enables every one to judge of the merits of his composition. Though to some extent but a reproduction of the creations of SHAKSPEARE, it is such a reproduction as none but a man of genius could effect. The longest of Mr. SPRAGUE's poems is entitled "Curiosity." It was delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, in August, 1829. It is in the heroic measure, and its diction is faultless. The subject was happily chosen, and admitted of a great variety of illustrations. The descriptions of the miser, the novel-reader, and the father led by curiosity to visit foreign lands, are among the finest passages in Mr. SPRAGUE'S Writings. "Curiosity" was published in Calcutta a few years ago, as an original work by a British officer, with no other alterations than the omission of a few American names, and the insertion of others in their places, as Scorт for COOPER, and CHALMERS for CHANNING; and in this form it was reprinted in London, where it was much praised in some of the critical gazettes. The poem delivered at the centennial celebration of the settlement of Boston, contains many The first productions of Mr. SPRAGUE which attracted much attention, were a series of brilliant prologues, the first of which was written for the Park Theatre, in New York, in 1821. Prize theatrical addresses are proverbially among the most worthless compositions in the poetic form. Their brevity and peculiar character prevents the develop-spirited passages, but it is not equal to "Curiosity' ment in them of original conceptions and striking ideas, and they are usually made up of commonplace thoughts and images, compounded with little skill. Those by Mr. SPRAGUE are certainly among the best of their kind, and some passages in them are conceived in the true spirit of poetry. The following lines are from the one recited at the opening of a theatre in Philadelphia, in 1822. "To grace the stage, the bard's careering mind Hate shuts his soul when dove-eyed Mercy pleads; The ode recited in the Boston theatre, at a pageant in honour of SHAKSPEARE, in 1823, is one or "The Shakspeare Ode." Its versification is easy and various, but it is not so carefully finished as most of Mr. SPRAGUE'S productions. "The Winged Worshippers," "Lines on the Death of M. S. C.," "The Family Meeting," "Art," and several other short poems, evidence great skill in the use of language, and show him to be a master of the poetic art. They are all in good taste; they are free from turgidness; and are pervaded by a spirit of good sense, which is unfortunately wanting in much of the verse written in this age. Mr. SPRAGUE has written, besides his poems, an essay on drunkenness, and an oration, pronounced at Boston on the fiftieth anniversary of the declaration of independence; and I believe he contributed some papers to the "New England Magazine," while it was edited by his friend J. T. BUCKINGHAM. The style of his prose is florid and much less carefully finished than that of his poetry. He mixes but little in society, and, I have been told, was never thirty miles from his native city. His leisure hours are passed among his books; with the few "old friends, the tried, the true," who travelled with him up the steeps of manhood; or in the quiet of his own fireside. His poems show the strength of his domestic and social affections. CURIOSITY.* IT came from Heaven-its power archangels knew, When this fair globe first rounded to their view; It regn'd in Eden-when that man first woke, On all, by turns, his charter'd glance was cast, It reign'd in Eden-in that heavy hour And hung its mystic apples to her view: Eat," breathed the fiend, beneath his serpent guise, Ye shall know all things; gather, and be wise!" Sweet on her ear the wily falsehood stole, And roused the ruling passion of her soul. 66 Ye shall become like Gon,"-transcendent fate! That Gon's command forgot, she pluck'd and ate; Ate, and her partner lured to share the crime, Whose wo, the legend saith, must live through time. For this they shrank before the Avenger's face, For this He drove them from the sacred place; For this came down the universal lot, To weep, to wander, die, and be forgot. It came from Heaven-i reigned in Eden's shades It roves on earth, and every walk invades: To all that's lofty, all that's low it turns, * Delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard University, in 1829 Next it assails him in his top's strange hum, Nor yet alone to trys and tales confined, Who formed a pathway for the obedient sun, In all finds GoD, and finds that Gon all love. Turn to the world-its curious dwellers view, Like PAUL'S Athenians, seeking something new. Be it a bonfire's or a city's blaze, The gibbet's victim, or the nation's gaze, Yet kindred minds alone their flights shall trace, As the sad rumour runs- The man's reprieved!" CHARLES SPRAGUE. Does LANGDON preach ?-(I veil his quiet name Cant's veriest ranter crams a house, if new, Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage, Then ten of CHANNING'S lectures can reclaim; Gods! who can grace yon desecrated dome, Not theirs the blame who furnish forth the treat, Pray Heaven, if yet indeed the stage must stand, Perchance the listeners, to their instinct true, Turn to the Press-its teeming sheets survey, Harangues, and hail-storms, brawls, and broken Where half-fledged bards, on feeble pinions, seek Where cruel eulogists the dead restore, And, though ere Christmas both may be forgot, Yet, sweet or bitter, hence what fountains burst. 'Tis this sustains that coarse, licentious tribe hand, To rouse the angry passions of the land. So the black falsehood flies from ear to ear, While goodness grieves, but, grieving, still must hear. All are not such? O no, there are, thank Heaven, A nobler troop, to whom this trust is given; Who, all unbribed, on Freedom's ramparts stand, Faithful and firm, bright warders of the land. By them still lifts the Press its arm abroad, To guide all-curious man along life's road; To cheer young Genius, Pity's tear to start, In Truth's bold cause to rouse each fearless heart; O'er male and female quacks to shake the rod, And scourge the unsex'd thing that scorns her Gon; To hunt Corruption from his secret den, And show the monster up, the gaze of wondering To find a name-the heralds never penn'd; If glorious BYRON drugg'd his muse with gin; Once more I dare the fight, if thou succeed;" So with each new-born nothing rolls the day, cry, Day unto day repeats it till we die. To this the breakfast owes its sweetest zest, press'd. What gives each tale of scandal to the street, The itchen's wonder, and the parlour's treat! See the pert housemaid to the keyhole fly, When husband storms, wife frets, or lovers sigh; See Tom your pockets ransack for each note, And read your secrets while he cleans your coat; See, yes, to listen see even madam deign, When the smug seamstress pours her ready strain. This wings that lie that malice breeds in fear, No tongue so vile but finds a kindred ear; Swift flies each tale of laughter, shame, or folly, Caught by Paul Pry and carried home to Polly; On this each foul calumniator leans, And nods and hints the villany he means; Full well he knows what latent wildfire lics In the close whisper and the dark surmise; A muffled word, a wordless wink has woke A warmer throb than if a DEXTER Spoke; And he, o'er EVERETT'S periods who would nod, To track a secret, half the town has trod. O thou, from whose rank breath nor sex can save, Nor sacred virtue, nor the powerless grave,- We hear, indeed, but shudder while we hear The churl, who holds it heresy to think, |