He caught within his crimson bell
A droplet of its sparkling dew-
Joy to thee, Fay! thy task is done,

Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won-
Cheerly ply thy dripping oar,

And haste away to the elfin shore.

XXIII.

He turns, and, lo! on either side
The ripples on his path divide;

And the track o'er which his boat must pass
Is smooth as a sheet of polish'd glass.
Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave,
With snowy arms half-swelling out,
While on the gloss'd and gleamy wave
Their sea-green ringlets loosely float;
They swim around with smile and song;
They press the bark with pearly hand,
And gently urge her course along,

Toward the beach of speckled sand;
And, as he lightly leap'd to land,
They bade adieu with nod and bow,

Then gayly kiss'd each little hand, And dropp'd in the crystal deep below.

XXIV.

A moment stay'd the fairy there;

He kiss'd the beach and breathed a prayer;
Then spread his wings of gilded blue,
And on to the elfin court he flew;
As ever ye saw a bubble rise,

And shine with a thousand changing dyes,
Till, lessening far, through ether driven,
It mingles with the hues of heaven;
As, at the glimpse of morning pale,
The lance-fly spreads his silken sail,

And gleams with blendings soft and bright,
Till lost in the shades of fading night;
So rose from earth the lovely Fay-
So vanish'd, far in heaven away!

Up, Fairy! quit thy chick-weed bower,
The cricket has call'd the second hour,
Twice again, and the lark will rise
To kiss the streaking of the skies-
Up! thy charmed armour don,
Thou 'It need it ere the night be gone.

XXV.

He put his acorn helmet on;

It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down:
The corslet plate that guarded his breast
Was once the wild hee's golden vest;
His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,
Was formed of the wings of butterflies;
His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,
Studs of gold on a ground of green;
And the quivering lance which he brandish'd brigl,
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.
Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed;

He bared his blade of the bent grass blue;
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed,

And away like a glance of thought he flew
To skim the heavens, and follow far
The fiery trail of the rocket-star.

XXVI.

The moth-fly, as he shot in air,
Crept under the leaf, and hid her there;
The katy-did forgot its lay,

The prowling gnat fled fast away,
The fell mosqueto check'd his drone
And folded his wings till the Fay was gone,
And the wily beetle dropp'd las head,
And fell on the ground as if he were dead;
They crouch'd them close in the darksome shade,
They quaked all o'er with awe and fear,

For they had felt the blue-bent blade,

And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear; Many a time, on a summer's night,

When the sky was clear and the moon was

Up to the vaulted firmament
His path the fire-fly courser bent,
And at every gallop on the wind,
He flung a glittering spark behind;
He flies like a feather in the blast

Till the first light cloud in heaven is past.

But the shapes of air have begun their work,

And a drizzly mist is round him cast,

He cannot see through the mantle murk, He shivers with cold, but he urges fast;

Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade, He lashes his steed and spurs amain, For shadowy hands have twitch'd the rein,

And flame-shot tongues around him play'd, And near him many a fiendish eye

Glared with a fell malignity,

And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear,
Came screaming on his startled ear.

XXVIII.

His wings are wet around his breast,
The plume hangs dripping from his crest,
His eyes are blurr'd with the lightning's glare,
And his ears are stunn'd with the thunder's blare,
But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew,

He thrust before and he struck behind,
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through,
And gash'd their shadowy limbs of wind:
Howling the misty spectres flew,

They rend the air with frightful cries, For he has gain'd the welkin blue,

And the land of clouds beneath him lies,

208

XXIX.

Up to the cope careering swift,
In breathless motion fast,
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,
Or the sea-roc rides the blast,
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,
The sphered moon is past,
The earth but seems a tiny blot

On a sheet of azure cast.

O! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight,
To tread the starry plain of even,
To meet the thousand eyes of night,

And feel the cooling breath of heaven!
But the Elfin made no stop or stay
Till he came to the bank of the milky-way,
Then he check'd his courser's foot,

And watch'd for the glimpse of the planet-shoot.

Xxx.

Sudden along the snowy tide

That swell'd to meet their footsteps' fall,
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide,
Attired in sunset's crimson pall;
Around the Fay they weave the dance,
They skip before him on the plain,
And one has taken his wasp-sting lance,
And one upholds his bridle-rein;
With warblings wild they lead him on
To where, through clouds of amber seen,
Studded with stars, resplendent shone

The palace of the sylphid queen.
Its spiral columns, gleaming bright,
Were streamers of the northern light;
Its curtain's light and lovely flush
Was of the morning's rosy blush,
And the ceiling fair that rose aboon
The white and feathery fleece of noon.

XXXI.

But, O! how fair the shape that lay
Beneath a rainbow bending bright;
She seem'd to the entranced Fay

The loveliest of the forms of light;
Her mantle was the purple roll'da

At twilight in the west afar;

"T was tied with threads of dawning gold, And button'd with a sparkling star.

Her face was like the lily roon

That veils the vestal planet's hue;

Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon,

Set floating in the welkin blue.

Her hair is like the sunny beam,

And the diamond gems which round it gleam Are the pure drops of dewy even

That ne'er have left their native heaven.

And as he told in accents low
The story of his love and wo,

She felt new pains in her bosom rise,
And the tear-drop started in her eyes.
And "O, sweet spirit of earth," she cried,

66

Return no more to your woodland height, But ever here with me abide

In the land of everlasting light!
Within the fleecy drift we'll lie,
We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim;
And all the jewels of the sky

Around thy brow shall brig tly beam!
And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream
That rolls its whitening foam aboon,
And ride upon the lightning's gleam,
And dance upon the orbed moon!
We'll sit within the Pleiad ring,

We'll rest on Orion's starry belt, And I will bid my sylphs to sing

The song that makes the dew-mist melt; Their harps are of the umber shade,

That hides the blush of waking day, And every gleamy string is made

Of silvery moonshine's lengthen'd ray;
And thou shalt pillow on my breast,

While heavenly breathings float around,
And, with the sylphs of ether blest,
Forget the joys of fairy ground."

XXXIII.

She was lovely and fair to see
And the elfin's heart beat fitfully;
But lovelier far, and still more fair,
The earthly form imprinted there;
Naught he saw in the heavens above
Was half so dear as his mortal love,
For he thought upon her looks so meek,
And he thought of the light flush on her cheek;
Never again might he bask and lie

On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye,
But in his dreams her form to see,
To clasp her in his revery,

To think upon his virgin bride,

Was worth all heaven, and earth beside.

XXXIV.

"Lady," he cried, "I have sworn to-night, On the word of a fairy-knight,

To do my sentence-task aright;
My honour scarce is free from stain,

I may not soil its snows again;
Betide me weal, betide me wo,

Its mandate must be answer'd now."
Her bosom heaved with many a sigh,
The tear was in her drooping eye;
But she led him to the palace gate,

And call'd the sylphs who hover'd there,
And bade them fly and bring him straight
Of clouds condensed a sable car.
With charm and spell she bless'd it there,
From all the fiends of upper air;
Then round him cast the shadowy shroud,
And tied his steed behind the cloud;
And press'd his hand as she bade him fly
Fat the verge of the northern sky,

For by its wane and wavering light There was a star would fall to-night.

XXXV.

Borne afar on the wings of the blast,
Northward away, he speeds him fast,
And his courser follows the cloudy wain
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain.
The clouds roll backward as he flies,
Each flickering star behind him lies,
And he has reach'd the northern plain,
And back'd his fire-fly steed again,
Ready to follow in its flight
The streaming of the rocket-light.

The leaf harp sounds our roundelay,

The owlet's eyes our lanterns be;
Thus we sing, and dance, and play,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

But, hark! from tower on tree-top high,
The sentry-elf his call has made:
A streak is in the eastern sky,

Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!
The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring,
The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing,
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,
The cock has crow'd, and the Fays are gone.

XXXVI.

The star is yet in the vault of heaven,
But it rocks in the summer gale;
And now 'tis fitful and uneven,

And now 'tis deadly pale;

And now 't is wrapp'd in sulphur-smoke,
And quench'd is its rayless beam,
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke

It bursts in flash and flame.

As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance
That the storm-spirit flings from high,
The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue,

As it fell from the sheeted say.

As swift as the wind in its trail behind
The Elfin gallops along,

The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud,
But the sylphid charm is strong;
He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire,

While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze;
He watches each flake till its sparks expire,
And rides in the light of its rays.

But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed,
And caught a glimmering spark;
Then wheel'd around to the fairy ground,
And sped through the midnight dark.

Ouphe and Goblin! Imp and Sprite!
Elf of eve! and starry Fay!
Ye that love the moon's soft light,
Hither-hither wend your way;
Twine ye in a jocund ring,

Sing and trip it merrily,
Hand to hand, and wing to wing,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

Hail the wanderer again

With dance and song, and lute and lyre, Pure his wing and strong his chain,

And doubly bright his fairy fire. Twine ye in an airy round,

Brush the dew and print the lea; Skip and gambol, hop and bound, Round the wild witch-hazel tree.

The beetle guards our holy ground,
He flies about the haunted place,

And if mortal there be found,

He hums in his ears and flaps his face;

BRONX.

I sat me down upon a green bank-side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seem'd unwillingly to glide,

Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful

eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow

Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow.

Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling,
And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green,
Bright ising-stars the little beech was spangling,
The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen
Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded,
Left on some morn, when light flash'd in their eyes
unheeded.

The humbird shook his sun-touch'd wings around,
The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat;
The antic squirrel caper'd on the ground

Where lichens made a carpet for his feet; Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his ed fin's tiny twinkle.

There were dark cedars, with loose, mossy tresses, White-powder'd dog trees, and stiff hollies

flaunting

Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses,

Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropp'd lids the evening of lic wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of mort, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn,

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare

bosom:

Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling,

O! 'twas a ravishing spot, form' for a poet'

dwelling

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand
Again in the dull world of earthly blindness?
Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands,

Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness?
Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude,
To prison wandering thought and mar sweet soli-
tude!

Yet I will look upon thy face again,

My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men.

Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remember'd form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

I.

WHEN Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurl'd her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She call'd her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.

II.

Majestic monarch of the cloud,

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given

To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

III.

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,

The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,

Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn

To where thy sky-born glories burn; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud

Heave in wild wreathes the battle-shroud And gory sabres rise and fall

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink beneath

Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.

IV.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea

Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.

V.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given;
The stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

TO SARAH.

I.

ONE happy year has fled, SALL,

Since you were all my own;

The leaves have felt the autumn blight,

The wintry storm has blown.

We heeded not the cold blast,

Nor the winter's icy air;

For we found our climate in the heart, And it was summer there.

11.

The summer sun is bright, SALL,
The skies are pure in hue;

But clouds will sometimes sadden them,

And dim their lovely blue;

And clouds may come to us, SALL,

But sure they will not stay; For there's a spell in fond hearts To chase their gloom away.

III.

J sickness and in sorrow

l'hine eyes were on me still, And there was comfort in each glance To charm the sense of ill;

And were they absent now, SALL,
I'd seek my bed of pain,

And bless each pang that gave me back
Those looks of love again.

IV.

O, pleasant is the welcome kiss,

When day's dull round is o'er, And sweet the music of the step

That meets me at the door. Though worldly cares may visit us, I reck not when they fall, While I have thy kind lips, my SALL To smile away them all.

THE author of "Red Jacket, and Peter Castaly's Epistle to Recorder Riker," is a son of IsBAEL HALLECK, of Dutchess county, New York, and MARY ELIOT, his wife, of Guilford, Connecti- | cut, a descendant of JOHN ELIOT, the celebrated "Apostle of the Indians." He was born at Guilford, in August, 1795, and when about eighteen years of age became a clerk in one of the principal banking-houses in New York. He evinced a taste for poetry, and wrote verses, at a very early period, but until he came to New York never published any thing which in the maturity of his years he has deemed worthy of preservation. The "Evening Post," then edited by WILLIAM COLEMAN, was the leading paper of the city, and the only one in which much attention was given to literature. It had a large number of contributors, and youthful wits who gained admission to its columns regarded themselves as fairly started in a career of successful authorship. HALLECK'S first offering to the "Evening Post" was that piece of exquisite versification and refined sentiment of which the first line is

"There is an evening twilight of the heart." BRYANT, who was nearly a year older, about the same time published in the " North American Review" his noble poem of "Thanatopsis." COLEMAN gave HALLECK's lines to the printer as soon as he had read them, which was a great compliment for so fastidious an editor. He did not ascertain who wrote them for several months, and the author in the mean while had become so much of a literary lion that he then reprinted them with a preface asserting their merits.

One evening in the spring of 1819, as HALLECK was on the way home from his place of business, he stopped at a coffee-house then much frequented by young men, in the vicinity of Columbia College. A shower has just fallen, and a brilliant sunset was distinguished by a rainbow of unusual magnificence. In the group about the door, half a dozen had told what they would wish could their wishes be realized, when HALLECK, said, looking at the glorious spectacle above the horizon, "If I could have my wish, it should be to lie in the lap of that rainbow, and read Tom Campbell." A handsome young fellow, standing near, suddenly turned to him and exclaimed, "You and I must be acquainted: my name is DRAKE;" and from that hour till his death JoSEPH RODMAN DRAKE and FITZ-GREENE HALLECK were united in a most fraternal intimacy.

DRAKE had already written the first four of the once-celebrated series of humorous and satirical odes known as the "Croaker Pieces," and they had been published in the Evening Post."

H

now made HALLECK a partner, and the remain ing numbers were signed " Croaker & Co." The last one written by DRAKE was "The American Flag," printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and the last of the series, "Curtain Conversations," was furnished by HALLECK, on the twenty-fourth of the following July. These pieces related to scenes and events with which most readers in New York were familiar; they were written with great spirit and good-humour, and the curiosity of the town was excited to learn who were their authors; but the young poets kept their secret, and were unsuspected, while their clever performances were from time to time attributed to various well-known literary men. Near the close of the year HALLECK wrote in the same vein his longest poem, "Fanny," a playful satire of the fashions, follies, and public characters of the day. It contains from twelve to fifteen hundred lines, and was completed and printed within three weeks from its commencement.

The next year DRAKE died, of consumption, and HALLECK mourned his loss in those beautiful tributary verses which appeared soon after in the "Scientific Repository and Critical Review," beginning"Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days;
None knew thee but to love thee,

None named thee but to praise."

In 1822 and 1823 our author visited Great Britain and the continent of Europe. Among the souvenirs of his travels are two of his finest poems, "Burns," and "Alnwick Castle," which, with a few other pieces, he gave to the public in a small volume in 1827. His fame was now established, and he has ever since been regarded as one of the truest of our poets, and in New York, where his personal qualities, are best known, and his poems, from their local allusions, are read by everybody, he has enjoyed perpetual and almost unexampled popularity.

He was once, as he informs us in one of his witty and graceful epistles, "in the cotton trade and sugar line," but for many years before the death of the late JOHN JACOB ASTOR, he was the principal superintendent of the extensive affairs of that great capitalist. Since then he has resided chiefly in his native town, in Connecticut. He frequently visits New York, however, and the fondness and enthusiasm with which his name is cherished by his old associates was happily illus trated in the beginning of 1854 by a complimentary dinner which was then given him by mein bers of the Century Club.

It was Lord BYRON's opinion that a poet is al ways to be ranked according to his execution, and