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Till life's last pulse, O triply dear,

A loftier strain is due to thee; But constant memory's votive tear

Thy sacred epitaph must be.


Spirit! Thou Spirit of subtlest air,

Whose power is upon the brain,
When wondrous shapes, and dread and fair,

As the film from the eyes

At thy bidding flies,
To sight and sense are plain!
Thy whisper creeps where leaves are stirrd;

'Thou sighest in woodland gale;
Where waters are gushing thy voice is heard;

And when stars are bright,

At still midnight,
Thy symphonies prevail !
Where the forest ocean, in quick commotion,

Is waving to and fro,
Thy form is seen, in the masses green,

Dimly to come and go.
From thy covert peeping, where thou layest sleeping

Beside the brawling brook,
Thou art seen to wake, and thy flight to take

Fleet from thy lonely nook.
Where the moonbeam has kiss'd
The sparkling tide,
In thy mantle of mist
Thou art seen to glide.
Far o'er the blue waters
Melting away,
On the distant billow,
As on a pillow,
Thy form to lay.
Where the small clouds of even
Are wreathing in heaven
Their garland of roses,
O'er the purple and gold,
Whose hangings enfold
The hall that encloses
The couch of the sun,
Whose empire is done,
There thou art smiling,
For thy sway is begun;
Thy shadowy sway,
The senses beguiling,

When the light fades away,
And thy vapour of mystery o'er nature ascending,

The heaven and the earth,

The things that have birth, And the embryos that float in the future are plending. From the land, on whose shores the billows break The sounding waves of the mighty lake; From the land where boundless meadows be, Where the buffalo ranges wild and free; With silvery coat in his little isle, Where the beaver plies his ceaseless toil ; The land where pigmy forms abide, Thou leadest thy train at the eventide ;

And the wings of the wind are left behind,
So swift through the pathless air they glide.
Then to the chief who has fasted long,
When the chains of his slumber are heavy and strong
Spirit! thou comest; he lies as dead,
His weary lids are with heaviness weigh’d;
But his soul is abroad on the hurricane's pinion,
Where foes are met in the rush of fight,
In the shadowy world of thy dominion
Conquering and slaying, till morning light
Then shall the hunter who waits for thee,
The land of the game rejoicing see;
Through the leafless wood,
O'er the frozen flood,
And the trackless snows his spirit goes,
Along the sheeted plain,
Where the hermit bear, in his sullen lair,
Keeps his long fast, till the winter hath passe?
And the boughs have budded again.
Spirit OF DREAMS! all thy visions are true,
Who the shadow hath seen, he the substance soull

Thine the riddle, strange and dark,
Woven in the dreamy brain :-
Thine to yield the power to mark
Wandering by, the dusky train;
Warrior ghosts for vengeance crying,
Scalped on the lost battle's plain,
Or who died their foes defying,
Slow by lingering tortures slain.
Thou, the war-chief hovering near,
Breathest language on his ear;
When his winged words depart,
Swift as arrows to the heart;
When his eye the lightning leaves;
When each valiant bosom heaves;
Through the veins when hot and glowing
Rage like liquid fire is flowing;
Round and round the war pole whirling,
Furious when the dancers grow;
When the maces swift are hurling
Promised vengeance on the foe •
Thine assurance, Spirit true!
Glorious victory gives to view!
When of thought and strength despoil'd,
Lies the brave man like a child;
When discolour'd visions fly,
Painful o'er his glazing eye,
And wishes wild through his darkness rove,
Like flitting wings through the tangled grove,-
Thine is the wish; the vision thine,
And thy visits, Spirit! are all divine!
When the dizzy senses spin,
And the brain is madly reeling,
Like the Pów-wah, when first within
The present spirit feeling;
When rays are flashing athwart the gloom,
Like the dancing lights of the northern heaven,
When voices strange of tumult come
On the ear, like the roar of battle driven,
The Initiate then shall thy wonders see,
And thy priest, О Spirit! is full of thee!


(Born, 1799. Died, 1847.)

WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY was born at Exeter, Massachusetts, where he resided until his death, New Hampshire, on the ninth of July, 1799 ; was on the twenty-eighth of May, 1847. He was a graduated at Cambridge in 1816; and in 1820 be- voluminous and elegant writer in theology, natural came pastor of a Unitarian Society in Springfield, I history, literary and historical criticism, and poetry.


For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,

And nature's self to dust return; Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn; But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace

The beauty of the world below.

God of the earth's extended plains !

The dark, green fields contented lie; Tne mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky; The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams,

With joyous music in their flow. God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summon's up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dash'd like foam,

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calm'd by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. Gon of the forest's solemn shade!

The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green,

And fight their battles with the storm.


It seems but yesterday, my love,

Thy little heart beat high ; And I had almost scorn'd the voice

That told me thou must die. I saw thee move with active bound,

With spirits wild and free; And infant grace and beauty gave

Their glorious charm to thee.

Gon of the light and viewless air !

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry,

Breathe forth the language of thy power. Gop of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue,

Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,

Each gilderd cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives

The beauty of its praise to thee.
Gop of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warın day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.

Far on the sunny plains, I saw

Thy sparkling footsteps fly,
Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird

That cleaves the morning sky;
And often, as the playful breeze

Waved back thy shining hair, Thy cheek display'd the red rose-tint

That health had painted there. And then, in all my thoughtfulness,

I could not but rejoice
To hear, upon the morning wind,

The music of thy voice,
Now, echoing in the rapturous laugh,

Now sad, almost to tears, "T was like the sounds I used to hear,

In old and happier years.
Thanks for that memory to thee,

My little, lovely boy,
That memory of my youthful bliss,

Which time would fuin destroy.



I listen'd, as the mariner

Suspends the out-bound oar, To taste the farewell gale that breathes

From off his native shore.

With trembling hand, I vainly tried

Thy dying eyes to close;
And almost envied, in that hour,

Thy calm and deep repose ;
For I was left in loneliness,

With pain and grief oppress'd, And thou wast with the sainted,

Where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now;

But let me not repine, Because a spirit, loved so well,

Is earlier bless'd than mine; My faith may darken as it will,

I shall not much deplore, Since thou art where the ills of life

Can never reach thee more.

So gentle in thy loveliness!

Alas! how could it be,
That death would not forbear to lay

His icy hand on thee;
Nor spare thee yet a little while,

In childhood's opening bloom,
While many a sail and weary soul

Was longing for the tomb!
Was mine a happiness too pure

For erring man to krow?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy

My paradise below?
Enchanting as the vision was,

It sunk away as soon
As when, in quick and cold eclipse,

The sun grows dark at noon.
I loved thee, and my heart was bless'd;

But, ere the day was spent,
I saw thy light and graceful form

In drooping illness bent,
And shudder'd as I cast a look

Upon thy fainting head; The mournful cloud was gathering there,

And life was almost fled.


Upon the far-off mountain's brow

The angry storm has ceased to beat; And broken clouds are gathering now

In sullen reverence round his feet; I saw their dark and crowded bands

In thunder on his breast descending; But there once more redeem'd he stands,

And heaven's clear arch'is o'er him bending,

I've seen him when the morning sun

Burn'd like a bale-fire on the height; I've seen him when the day was done,

Bathed in the evening's crimson light. I've seen him at the midnight hour,

When all the world were calmly sleeping Like some stern sentry in his tower,

His weary watch in silence keeping.

Days pass'd; and soon the seal of death

Made known that hope was vain;
I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp

Would never burn again;
The cheek was pale; the snowy lips

Were gently thrown apart;
And life, in every passing breath,

Seem'd gushing from the heart. I knew those marble lips to mine

Should never more be press'd, And floods of feeling, undefined,

Roll'd wildly o'er my breast;
Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms

Seem'd moving in the gloom,
As if death's dark array were come,

To bear thee to the tomb.

And there, forever firm and clear,

His lofty turret upward springs; He owns no rival summit near,

No sovereign but the King of kings. Thousands of nations have pass'd by,

Thousands of years unknown to story, And still his aged walls on high

He rears, in melancholy glory.
The proudest works of human hands

Live but an age before they fall;
While that severe and hoary tower

Outlasts the mightiest of them all. And man himself, more frail, by far,

Than even the works his hand is raising, Sinks downward, like the falling star

That flashes, and expires in blazing.

And when I could not keep the tear

From gathering in my eye, Thy little hand press'd gently mine,

In token of reply;
To ask one more exchange of love,

Thy look was upward cast,
And in that long and burning kiss

Thy happy spirit pass'd.
I never trusted to have lived

To bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony,

It ought not so to be; I hoped that thou within the grave

My weary head shouldst lay, And live, beloved, when I was gone,

For many a happy day.

And all the treasures of the heart,

Its loves and sorrows, joys and fears, Its hopes and memories, must depart

To sleep with unremember'd years. But still that ancient rampart stands

Unchanged, though years are passing o'er hını ; And time withdraws his powerless hands,

While ages melt away before him.


So should it be--for no heart beats

Within his cold and silent breast; To him no gentle voice repeats

The soothing words that make us blest. And more than this—his deep repose

Is troubled by no thoughts of sorrow; He hath no weary eyes to close,

No cause to hope or fear to-morrow. Farewell! I go my distant way;

Perchance, in some succeeding years, The eyes that know no cloud to-day,

May gaze upon thee dim with tears. Then may thy calm, unaltering form

Inspire in me the firm endeavour Like thee, to meet each lowering storm,

Till life and sorrow end forever.

Lift high the curtain's drooping fold.

And let the evening sunlight in;
I would not that my heart grew cold

Before its better years begin.
"T is well; at such an early hour,

So calm and pure, a sinking ray Should shine into the heart, with power

To drive its darker thoughts away. The bright, young thoughts of early days

Shall gather in my memory now, And not the later cares, whose trace

Is stamp'd so deeply on my brow, What though those days return no more?

The sweet remembrance is not vain, For Heaven is waiting to restore

The childhood of my soul again. Let no impatient mourner stand

In hollow sadness near my bed, But let me rest upon the hand,

And let me hear that gentle tread Of her, whose kindness long ago,

And still, unworn away by years, Has made my weary eyelids flow

With grateful and admiring tears. I go, but let no plaintive tone

The moment's grief of friendship tell : And let no proud and graven stone

Say where the weary slumbers well. A few short hours, and then for heaven!

Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ; For who would mourn the warning given

Which calls us from a world like this?



'Tis the high festival of night!
The earth is radiant with delight;
And, fast as weary day retires,
The heaven unfolds its secret fires,
Bright, as when first the firmament
Around the new-made world was bent,
And infant seraphs pierced the blue,
Till rays of heaven came shining through.
And mark the heaven's reflected glow :
On many an icy plain below;
And where the streams, with tinkling clash,
Against their frozen barriers dash,
Like fairy lances feetly cast,
The glittering ripples hurry past;
And floating sparkles glance afar,
Like rivals of some upper star.
And see, beyond, how sweetly still
The snowy moonlight wraps the hill,
And many an aged pine receives
The steady brightness on its leaves,
Contrasting with those giant forms,
Which, rifled by the winter storms,
With naked branches, broad and high,
Are darkly painted on the sky.
From every mountain's towering head
A white and glistening robe is spread,
As if a melted silver tide
Were gushing down its lofty side ;
The clear, cold lustre of the moon
Is purer than the burning noon;
And day hath never known the charm
That dwells amid this evening calm.

Beyond the western evening light'

It melts in deepening gloom; So calmly Christians sink away,

Descending to the tomb. The wind breathes low; the withering leaf

Scarce whispers from the tree; So gently flows the parting breath,

When good men cease to be. How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed !
"T is like the peace the Christian gives

To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud

The sunset beam is cast'
"T is like the memory left behind

When loved ones breathe their last.
And now, above the dews of night,

The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those

Whose eyes are bathed in tears.
But soon the morning's happier light

Its glory shall restore;
And eyelids that are seal'd in death

Shall wake, to close no more.

The idler, on his silken hed,
May talk of nature, cold and dead;
But we will gaze upon this scene,
Where some transcendent power hath been,
And made these streams of beauty flow
In gladness on the world below,
Till nature breathes from every part
The rapture of her mighty heart.


[Born, 1799. Died, 1811.)

GrenVILLE MELLEN was the third son of the iate Chief Justice PrestISS MELLEY, LL. D., of Maine, and was born in the town of Biddeford, in that state, on the nineteenth day of June, 1799. He was educated at Harvard College, and after leaving that seminary became a law-student in the office of his father, who had before that time removed to Portland. Soon after being admitted to the bar, he was married, and commenced the practice of his profession at North Yarmouth, a pleasant village near his native town. Within three years—in October, 1828_his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, died, and his only child followed her to the grave in the succeeding spring. From this time his character was changed. He had before been an ambitious and a happy man. The remainder of his life was clouded with melancholy.

I believe Mr. MELLES did not become known as a writer until he was about twenty-five years old. He was then one of the contributors to the Cambridge United States Literary Gazette." In the early part of 1827, he published a satire entitled “Our Chronicle of Twenty-six," and two years afterward, “Glad Tales and Sad Tales," a collection of prose sketches, which had previously been printed in the periodicals. «The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Valley, and other Poems," appeared in 1834. The principal poem in this volume is founded on the history of Saint Alban, the first Christian martyr in England. It is in the measure of the “ Faery Queene," and has some creditable passages; but, as a whole, it hardly rises above mediocrity. In the “Buried Valley” he describes the remarkable avalanche near the Notch in the White Mountains, by which the Willey family were destroyed, many years ago. In a poem entitled “The Rest of Empires,” in the same collection, he laments the custom of the elder bards to immortalize the deeds of conquerors alone, and contrasts their prostitution of the influence of poetry with the nobler uses to which it is applied in later days, in the following lines, which are characteristic c! his best manner :

“We have been taught, in oracles of old, or the enskied divinity of song; That Poetry and Music, hand in hand, Came in the light of inspiration forth, And claim'd alliance with the rolling heavens. And were those peerless bards, wb se strains have come In an undying echo to the world, Whose numbers floated round the Grecian isles, And made melodious all the hills of Rome, Were they inspired 1-Alas, for Poetry! That her great ministers, in early time, Bung for the brave alone--and bade the soul Battle for heaven in the ranks of war! It was the treason of the godlike art That pointed glory to the sword and spear, And left the heart to moulder in its mail :

It was the menial service of the bard -
It was the basest bondage of his powers,
In later times to consecrate a feast,
And sing of gallantry in hall and bower,
To courtly knights and ladies......

“But other times have strung new lyre
And other music greets us. Poetry
Comes robed in siniles, and, in low breathing sounds,
Takes counsel, like a friend, in our still hours,
And points us to the stars-the waneless stars-
That whisper an hereafter to our souls.
It breathes upon our spirits a rich halu,
And, with its tender tones and melody,
Draws mercy from the warrior-and proclaims
A morn of bright and universal love
To those who journey with us through the vale;
It points to moral greatness-deeds of mind,
And the high struggles, worthy of a man.
Have we no niinstrels in our echoing balls,
No wild CADWALLON, with his wilder etrain,
Pouring his war-songs upon helmed ears?
We have sounds stealing from the far retreats
or the bright company of gifted men,
Who pour their mellow music round our age,
And point us to our duties and our hearts;
The poet's constellation beams around-
A pensive CowPER lives in all his lines,
And Milton hymns us on to hope and heaven!”

After spending five or six years in Boston, Mr. MELLEx removed to New York, where he resided nearly all the remainder of his life. He wrote much for the literary magazines, and edited several works for his friend, Mr. ColMax, the publisher. In 1839, he established a Monthly Miscellany, but it was abandoned after the publication of a few numbers. His health had been declining for several years; his disease finally assumed the form of consumption, and he made a voyage to Cuba, in the summer of 1840, in the hope that he would derive advantage from a change of climate, and the sea air. He was disappointed; and learning of the death of his father, in the following spring, he returned to New York, where he died, on the fifth of September, 1841.

Mr. MELLEx was a gentle-hearted, amiable man, social in his feelings, and patient and resigned in the long period of physical suffering which precoded his death. As a poet, he enjoyed a higher reputation in his lifetime than his works will preserve. They are without vigour of thought or language, and are often dreamy, mystic, and unintelligible. In his writings there is no evidence of creative genius; no original, clear, and manly thought ; no spirited and natural descriptions of life or nature; no humour, no pathos, no passion; nothing that appeals to the common sympathies of mankind. The little poem entitled « The Bu. gle,” although “it whispers whence it stole its spoils,” is probably superior to any thing else he wrote. It is free from the affectations and unmeaning epithets which distinguish nearly all his works.

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