Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share ;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness, and should sickness come and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then

I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
How injured, and how faithful I had been!

THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove;
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift
Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There, with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There, with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea:
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

GENIUS SLUMBERING.

HE sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;
He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame,

That once in transport drew his spirit on;
He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares
Who the wreathed laurel bears.

And yet, not all forgotten, sleeps he there;

There are who still remember how he bore Upward his daring pinions, till the air

Seem'd living with the crown of light he wore;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.

He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye
And the press'd lip, a darken'd glory plays;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,
There hovers still the light of other days;
Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.

He will not sleep forever, but will rise

Fresh to more daring labours; now, even now, As the close shrouding mist of morning flies,

The gather'd slumber leaves his lifted brow;
From his half-open'd eye, in fuller beams,
His waken'd spirit streams.

Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone;
The deadly charm departed; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,

Keen as the famish'd eagle darts her wing;
The goal is still before him, and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.

He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take-
They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way,
When he forgot the contest-shall they take,

Now he renews the race, the victor's bay! Still let them strive-when he collects his might, He will assert his right.

The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,

Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust Dimly a while, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher.

DECLINE OF THE IMAGINATION.

WHY have ye linger'd on your way so long, Bright visions, who were wont to hear my call, And with the harmony of dance and song

Keep round my dreaming couch a festival? Where are ye gone, with all your eyes of light,

And where the flowery voice I loved to hear, When, through the silent watches of the night, Ye whisper'd like an angel in my ear? O! fly not with the rapid wing of time,

But with your ancient votary kindly stay; And while the loftier dreams, that rose sublime In years of higher hope, have flown away: O! with the colours of a softer clime, Give your last touches to the dying day.

GENIUS WAKING.

SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound theeWhere is now thy fire?

Feebler wings are gathering round thee-
Shall they hover higher?

Can no power, no spell, recall thee
From inglorious dreams!

O, could glory so appal thee,

With his burning beams!
Thine was once the highest pinion
In the midway air;

With a proud and sure dominion,

Thou didst upward bear,
Like the herald, wing'd with lightning,
From the Olympian throne,

Ever mounting, ever brightening,
Thou wert there alone.

Where the pillar'd props of heaven
Glitter with eternal snows,
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Where no fountain flows-
Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm
Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.

O, what rare and heavenly brightness
Flow'd around thy plumes,
As a cascade's foamy whiteness
Lights a cavern's glooms!
Wheeling through the shadowy ocean,
Like a shape of light,
With serene and placid motion,

Thou wert dazzling bright.
From that cloudless region stooping,
Downward thou didst rush,
Not with pinion faint and drooping
But the tempest's gush.
Up again undaunted soaring,

Thou didst pierce the cloud,

When the warring winds were roaring
Fearfully and loud.

Where is now that restless longing

After higher things?

Come they not, like visions, thronging

On their airy wings?

Why should not their glow enchant thee
Upward to their bliss?

Surely danger cannot daunt thee

From a heaven like this?

But thou slumberest; faint and quivering
Hangs thy ruffled wing;

Like a dove in winter shivering,

Or a feebler thing.

Where is now thy might and motion,
Thy imperial flight?

Where is now thy heart's devotion?
Where thy spirit's light?

Hark! his rustling plumage gathers
Closer to his side;

Close, as when the storm-bird weathers

Ocean's hurrying tide.

Now his nodding beak is steady

Wide his burning eye

Now his open wings are ready,

And his aim-how high!

Now he curves his neck, and proudly
Now is stretch'd for flight-

Hark! his wings-they thunder loudly,
And their flash-how bright!
Onward-onward over mountains,
Through the rock and storm,
Now, like sunset over fountains,
Flits his glancing form.

Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee-
Thou hast reach'd thy heaven—
Lingering slumber hath not reft thee
Of the glory given.

With a bold, a fearless pinion,
On thy starry road,

None, to fame's supreme dominion,
Mightier ever trode.

NEW ENGLAND.

HAIL to the land whereon we tread.
Our fondest boast;

The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed,
A fearless host:

No slave is here; our unchain'd feet
Walk freely as the waves that beat
Our coas i

Our fathers cross'd the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;

They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;
With hearts unbent, and spirits brave,
They sternly bore

Such toils as meaner souls had quell'd;
But souls like these, such toils impell'd

There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore;

Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the port of Liberty,
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
Till time is o'er.

Ere I forget to think upon
My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.

Thou art the firm, unshaken rock,
On which we rest;

And, rising from thy hardy stock,
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free the oppress'd:

All, who the wreath of Freedom twine
Beneath the shadow of their vine,

Are bless'd.

We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand-

Let foreign navies hasten o'er,
And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their cannon's loudest roar,
And storm our land;

They still shall find our lives are given
To die for home;-and leant on Heaveu
Our hand.

MAY.

I FEEL a newer life in every gale;

The winds, that fan the flowers,

And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours,-

Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air,

And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there:

The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.

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; The tresses of the woods

With the light dallying of the west-wind play;
And the full-brimming floods,

As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.

TO SENECA LAKE.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

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,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

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.

THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.

Now the growing year is over,

And the shepherd's tinkling bell Faintly from its winter cover

Rings a low farewell :Now the birds of Autumn shiver, Where the wither'd beech-leaves quiver, O'er the dark and lazy river,

In the rocky dell.

Now the mist is on the mountains,
Reddening in the rising sun;

Now the flowers around the fountains
Perish one by one :-

Not a spire of grass is growing,
But the leaves that late were glowing,
Now its blighted green are strowing

With a mantle dun.

Now the torrent brook is stealing

Faintly down the furrow'd gladeNot as when in winter pealing,

Such a din is made,

That the sound of cataracts falling
Gave no echo so appalling,
As its hoarse and heavy brawling

In the pine's black shade.

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 givenMingling clouds of tempest driven O'er the mourning face of heaven, All is blackness there.

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

FAINTLY flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away;
Down to ocean gliding ever,
Keep thy calm unruffled way:
Time with such a silent motion,
Floats along, on wings of air,
To eternity's dark ocean,

Burying all its treasures there.
Roses bloom, and then they wither;
Cheeks are bright, then fade and die
Shapes of light are wafted hither-

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.

Born 1796

SAMUEL GRISWOLD GOODRICH is a native of Ridgefield, on the western border of Connecticut, and was born about the year 1796. His father was a respectable clergyman, distinguished for his simplicity of character, strong common sense, and eloquence. Our author was educated in the common schools of his native town, and soon after he was twenty-one years old, engaged in the business of publishing, in Hartford, where he resided for several years. In 1824, being in ill health, he visited Europe, and travelled over England, France, Germany, and Holland, devoting his attention particularly to the institutions for education; and on his return, having determined to attempt an improvement in books for the young, established himself in Boston, and commenced the trade of authorship. Since that time he has produced from twenty to thirty volumes, under the signature of "Peter Parley," which have passed through a great number of editions in this country and in England, and been translated into several foreign languages. Of some of these works more than fifty thousand copies are circulated annually. In 1824 Mr. GOODRICH Commenced "The Token," an annuary, of which he was the editor for fourteen years.

In this series

Died 1860.]

he published most of the poems of which he is known to be the author. They were all written while he was actively engaged in business. His "Fireside Education" was composed in sixty days, while he was discharging his duties as a member of the Massachusetts Senate, and superintending his publishing establishment; and his numerous other prose works were produced with equal rapidity. In 1837 he published "The Out-" cast, and Other Poems;" in 1841 "Sketches from a Student's Window," and in 1852 an edition of his "Poems" with pictorial illustrations.

Under President FILLMORE's administration Mr. GOODRICH was American consul for Paris, and he now (in the autumn of 1855) resides in New York.

Mr. GOODRICH has been a liberal patron of American authors and artists; and it is question-able whether any other person has done as much to improve the style of the book manufacture, or to promote the arts of engraving. It is believed that he has put in circulation more than two millions of volumes of his own productions; all of which inculcate pure morality, and cheerful views of life. His style is simple and unaffected; the flow of his verse melodious; and his subjects generally such as he is capable of treating most successfully.

BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING-BIRDS.

T.

I'LL tell you a fairy tale that's newHow the merry elves o'er the ocean flew, From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, As they were wont in the days of yoreAnd play'd their pranks one moonlit night, Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight.

II.

Ere the old world yet had found the new, The fairies oft in their frolics flew, To the fragrant isles of the CarribeeBright bosom-gems of a golden sea. Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy,So they danced raid the spicy groves unseen, And gay were their gambolings, I ween; For the fairies, like other discreet little elves, Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. No thought had they that in after time The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme; So, gayly doffing light stocking and shoe, They tripp'd o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales Of unslipper'd fairies that danced in the vales

But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurchAnd, besides, these elves don't belong to the church. If they danced-be it known-'t was not in the clime

Of your MATHERS and HOOKERS, where laughter was crime;

Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip! O, no! 't was the land of the fruit and the flowerWhere summer and spring both dwelt in one bower

Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough,

And the other with blossoms encircled its brow,— Where the mountains embosom'd rich tissues of

gold,

And the rivers o'er rubies and emeralds roll'd.
It was there, where the seasons came only to bless,
And the fashions of Eden still linger'd, in dress,
That these gay little fairies were wont, as I say,
To steal in their merriest gambols away.
But, dropping the curtain o'er frolic and fun,
Too good to be told, or too bad to be done,
I give you a legend from Fancy's own sketch,
Though I warn you he's given to fibbing-the

wretch!

But I learn by the legends of breezes and brooks, "Tis as true as the fairy tales told in the books.