THE late JAMES GORDON BROOKS was born at Red Hook, near the city of New York, on the third day of September, 1801. His father was an officer in the revolutionary army, and, after the achievement of our independence, a member of the national House of Representatives. Our author was educated at Union College, in Schenectady, and was graduated in 1819. In the following year he commenced studying the law with Mr. Justice EMOTт, of Poughkeepsie; but, though he devoted six or seven years to the acquisition of legal knowledge, he never sought admission to the bar. In 1823, he removed to New York, where he was for several years an editor of the Morning Courier, one of the most able and influential journals in this country.

Mr. BROOKS began to write for the press in 1817. Two years afterward he adopted the signature of "Florio," by which his contributions to the periodicals were from that time known. In 1828, he was married. His wife, under the signature of Norna," had been for several years a

writer for the literary journals, and, in 1829, a collection of the poetry of both was published, entitled "The Rivals of Este, and other Poems, by James G. and Mary E. Brooks." The poem which gave its title to the volume was by Mrs. BROOKS. The longest of the pieces by her husLand was one entitled "Genius," which he had delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, in 1827. He wrote but little poetry after the appearance of this work.

In 1830 or 1831, he removed to Winchester, in Virginia, where, for four or five years, he edited a political and literary gazette. He returned to the state of New York, in 1838, and established himself in Albany, where he remained until the 20th day of February, 1841, when he died.

The poems of Mr. BROOKS are spirited and smoothly versified, but diffuse and carelessly written. He was imaginative, and composed with remarkable ease and rapidity; but was too indifferent in regard to his reputation ever to rewrite or revise his productions.

GREECE-1832.

LAND of the brave! where lie inurn'd
The shrouded forms of mortal clay,
In whom the fire of valour burn'd,
And blazed upon the battle's fray:
Land, where the gallant Spartan few

Bled at Thermopyle of yore,
When death his purple garment threw

On Helle's consecrated shore!

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul-entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she sung-
Till every grove and every hill,

And every stream that flow'd along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song.
Land of dead heroes! living slaves!

Shall glory gild thy clime no more?
Her banner float above thy waves

Where proudly it hath swept before? Hath not remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm,

And strike for freedom once again? No! coward souls, the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, The light which beam'd on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play;

And thou art but a shadow now,
With helmet shatter'd-spear in rust-
Thy honour but a dream--and thou
Despised-degraded in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old

Dash'd down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told

How fatal was the despot's doom?The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay

Where death hath hush'd them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill

A glory shines of ages fled;
And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living, but the dead!
But 'tis the dim, sepulchral light,

Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, As moonbeams on the brow of night, When tempests sweep upon their way

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance,
Behold, thy banner waves afar;
Behold, the glittering weapons glance
Along the gleaming front of war!
A gallant chief, of high emprize,
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise
In might-in majesty reveal'd.

In vain, in vain the hero calls-
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud!
His banner totters--see! it falls

In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud :
Thy children have no soul to dare

Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare,

Which gleams a moment, and expires.

Lost land! where Genius made his reign,
And rear'd his golden arch on high;
Where Science raised her sacred fane,
Its summits peering to the sky;
Upon thy clime the midnight deep

Of ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep

The sons of science and of song.

Thy sun hath set-the evening storm
Hath pass'd in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,

And spread its pall upon the sky!
Gone is thy glory's diadem,

And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

TO THE DYING YEAR.

THOU desolate and dying year!

Emblem of transitory man, Whose wearisome and wild career,

Like thine, is bounded to a span; It seems but as a little day

Since nature smiled upon thy birth, And Spring came forth in fair array, To dance upon the joyous earth.

Sad alteration! now how lone,

How verdureless is nature's breast,
Where ruin makes his empire known,
In autumn's yellow vesture dress'd;
The sprightly bird, whose carol sweet
Broke on the breath of early day,
The summer flowers she loved to greet;
The bird, the flowers, O! where are they?

Thou desolate and dying year!
Yet lovely in thy lifelessness

As beauty stretch'd upon the bier,

In death's clay-cold and dark caress; There's loveliness in thy decay,

Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, Like memory's mild and cheering ray Beaming upon the night of ill.

Yet, yet the radiance is not gone,

Which shed a richness o'er the scene, Which smiled upon the golden dawn, When skies were brilliant and serene; O! still a melancholy smile

Gleams upon Nature's aspect fair, To charm the eye a little while,

Ere ruin spreads his mantle there!

Thou desolate and dying year!

Since time entwined thy, vernal wreath, How often love hath shed the tear,

And knelt beside the bed of death; How many hearts, that lightly sprung

When joy was blooming but to die, Their finest chords by death unstrung,

Have yielded life's expiring sigh,

And, pillow'd low beneath the clay,

Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to buri. The proud, the gentle, and the gay,

Gather'd unto the mouldering urn; While freshly flow'd the frequent tear For love bereft, affection fled; For all that were our blessings here, The loved, the lost, the sainted dead!

Thou desolate and dying year!

The musing spirit finds in thee Lessons, impressive and serene, Of deep and stern morality;

Thou teachest how the germ of youth, Which blooms in being's dawning day, Planted by nature, rear'd by truth, Withers, like thee, in dark decay.

Promise of youth' fair as the form

Of Heaven's benign and golden bow, Thy smiling arch begirds the storm, And sheds a light on every wo; Hope wakes for thee, and to her tong e A tone of melody is given, As if her magic voice were strung

With the empyreal fire of heaven. And love which never can expire,

Whose origin is from on high, Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire,

From the pure fountains of the sky; That ray which glows and brightens stil Unchanged, eternal and divine; Where seraphs own its holy thrill,

And bow before its gleaming shrine. Thou desolate and dying year!

Prophetic of our final fall;

Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are seat, Thy beauties shrouded in the pall; And all the garniture that shed

A brilliancy upon thy prime, Hath like a morning vision fled

Unto the expanded grave of time.

Time! Time! in thy triumphal flight,

How all life's phantoms fleet away; Thy smile of hope, and young delight, Fame's meteor-beam, and Fancy's ray They fade; and on the heaving tide,

Rolling its stormy waves afar,

Are borne the wreck of human pride,
The broken wreck of Fortune's war.

There, in disorder, dark and wild,

Are seen the fabrics once so high; Which mortal vanity had piled As emblems of eternity!

And deem'd the stately piles, whose forms Frown'd in their majesty sublime, Would stand unshaken by the storms

That gather'd round the brow of Time.

Thou desolate and dying year!

Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine; Like evening shadows disappear,

And leave the spirit to repine. The stream of life, that used to pour Its fresh and sparkling waters on. While Fate stood watching on the shore And number'd all the moments goneWhere hath the morning splendour flown Which danced upon the crystal stream. Where are the joys to childhood known,

When life was an enchanted dream? Enveloped in the starless night

Which destiny hath overspread; Enroll'd upon that trackless flight

Where the death-wing of time hath sped!

! thus hath life its even-tide
Of sorrow, loneliness, and grief;
And thus, divested of its pride,

It withers like the yellow leaf:
O! such is life's autumnal bower,
When plunder'd of its summer bloom;
And such is life's autumnal hour,
Which heralds man unto the tomb!

TO THE AUTUMN LEAF.

THOU faded leaf! it seems to be

But as of yesterday,

When thou didst flourish on the tree
In all the pride of May:
Then t'was the merry hour of spring,
Of nature's fairest blossoming,

On field, on flower, and spray;

It promised fair; how changed the scene
To what is now, from what hath been!

So fares it with life's early spring;
Hope gilds each coming day.
And sweetly doth the syren sing
Her fond, delusive lay:

Then the young, fervent heart beats high
While passion kindles in the eye,

With bright, unceasing play;
Fair are thy tints, thou genial hour,
Yet transient as the autumn flower.
Thou faded leaf! how like to thee

Is beauty in her morning pride,
When life is but a summer sea,

And hope illumes its placid tide:
Alas! for beauty's autumn hour,
Alas! for beauty's blighted flower,

When hope and bliss have died!
Her pallid brow, her cheek of grief,
Have thy sad hue, thou faded leaf!
Autumnal leaf! thus honour's plume,

And valour's laurel wreath must fade; Must lose the freshness, and the bloom

On which the beam of glory play'd;

The banner waving o'er the crowd,
Far streaming like a silver cloud,
Must sink within the shade,
Where dark oblivion's waters flow
O'er human weal and human wo.
Autumnal leaf! there is a stern

And warning tone in thy decay
Like thee must man to death return
With his frail tenement of clay
Thy warning is of death and doom,
Of genius blighted in its bloom,
Of joy's beclouded ray;
Life, rapture, hope, ye are as brief
And fleeting as the autumn leaf!

THE LAST SONG.

STRIKE the wild harp yet once again!
Again its lonely numbers pour;
Then let the melancholy strain

Be hush'd in death for evermore.
For evermore, for evermore,

Creative fancy, be thou still;
And let oblivious Lethe pour
Upon my lyre its waters chill.
Strike the wild harp yet once again!
Then be its fitful chords unstrung,
Silent as is the grave's domain,

And mute as the death-moulder'd tongue.
Let not a thought of memory dwell
One moment on its former song;
Forgotten, too, be this farewell,

Which plays its pensive strings along!
Strike the wild harp yet once again!
The saddest and the latest lay;
Then break at once its strings in twain,
And they shall sound no more for aye:
And hang it on the cypress tree:

The hours of youth and song have pass'd,
Have gone, with all their witchery;
Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.

JOY AND SORROW.

Jor kneels, at morning's rosy prime,
In worship to the rising sun;
But Sorrow loves the calmer time,
When the day-god his course bath run:
When Night is on her shadowy car,
Pale sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep.
And, guided by the evening star,

She wanders forth to muse and weep.
Joy loves to cull the summer-flower,
And wreathe it round his happy brow;
But when the dark autumnal hour

Hath laid the leaf and blossoms how;
When the frail bud hath lost its worth,

And Joy hath dash'd it from his crest,
Then Sorrow takes it from the earth,
Te witer on her wither'd breast.

[Born 1801.

THIS popular song-writer is a native of Philadelphia. In common with many prominent authors of the present time, he commenced his literary career by contributions to the journals. When about fifteen years of age he wrote verses for the "New York Gazette," and he subsequently filled cccasionally" the poet's corner" in the "American," at that time under the direction of Mr. JoHNSON VERPLANCK. In 1823, with the late Mr. WooDWORTH, he established the "New York Mirror," a weekly miscellany which for nearly nineteen years was conducted with much taste and ability. In 1827 his play, in five acts, entitled "Brier Cliff, a tale of the American Revolution," was brought out at the Chatham Theatre by Mr. WALLACK, and acted forty nights successively. I have been informed that its popularity was so great that it was played at four theatres in New York, to full houses, on the same evening, and that it yielded the author a profit of three thousand five hundred dollars, a larger sum, probably, than was ever paid for any other dramatic composition in the United States.

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In 1836 General MORRIS published a volume of amusing prose writings under the title of "The Little Frenchman and his Water Lots;" in 1838 The Deserted Bride and other Poems," of which an enlarged edition, illustrated by WIER and CHAPMAN, appeared in 1843; and in 1852 a complete collection of his Poetical Works." The composition which is understood to rank highest in his own estimation is the poetry of "The Maid of Saxony," an opera with music by Mr. CHARLES HORN, produced at the Park Theatre in 1842. In 1843, in conjunction with Mr. WILLIS, he reestablished "The Mirror," and he is now associated with that popular author in conducting "The Home Journal."

If there is any literary work which calls for a special gift of nature, perhaps it is the song. In terms of a sounder theory, I may say, that its successful accomplishment, beyond almost any other composition, demands an intelligent insight into the principles upon which its effect depends, and a capacity, if not to combine with imposing strength, yet to select with the nicest judgment. Other productions often gratify long and highly, in spite of considerable defects, while the song, to succeed at all, must be nearly perfect. It implies a taste delicately skilled in the fine influences of language. It has often shunned the diligence of men who have done greater things. Starting from some common perception, by almost a crystalline process of accretion, it should grow up into a poem. Its first note should find the hearer in sympathy with it, and its last should leave him moved and wondering. Throughout, it must have a affi

Died 1804.]

nity to some one fixed idea. Its propriety is, not so much to give expression to a feeling existing in the bosom of the author, as to reproduce that feeling in the heart of the listener. The tone of the composition ought therefore to be, as much as is possible, below the force of the feeling which it would inspire. It should be simple, entire, and glowing.

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The distinction and difficulty of the song are illustrated by the genius of JoNSON, MARLOWE, and DRYDEN; by the fame of MOORE, and the failure of BYRON. Several of the songs of MORRIS, whether judged of by their success, or by the application of any rules of criticism, are nearly faultless. They are in a very chaste style of art. They have the simplicity which is the characteristic of the classic models, and the purity which was once deemed an indispensable quality in the lyric poet. They are marked by neatness of anguage, free from every thing affected or finical; a natural elegance of sentiment, and a correct moral purpose. His best effusions have few marks of imitation; they are like each other, but no English song can be named from which, in character and tone, they are not different. "The Chieftain's Daughter" is an example of the narrative song, in which the whole story is told, in a few lines, without omission and without redundancy; "When other friends are round thec," is a beautiful expression of affection; «Land, Ho!" is an exceedingly spirited and joyous nautical piece; and in Near the Lake," the very delicate effect which the author has contemplated is attained with remarkable precision. In sentiment, as in sound, there are certain natural melodies, which seem to be discovered rather than contrived, and which, as they are evolved from time to time by the felicity or skill of successive artists, are sure to be received with unbounded popularity. The higher and more elaborate productions of genius are best appreciated by the thoughtful analysis of a single critic; but the appropriate test of the merit of these simple, apparently almost spontaneous effusions, is the response which they meet with from the common heart of man. lodies of MOZART and AUBER, doubtless, enchanted their ears who first heard them played by the composers, but we know them to be founded in the enduring truth of art, only because they have made themselves a home in the streets of every city of Europe and America, and after long experience have been found to be among the natural formulas by which gaiety and melancholy express themselves in every rank and in every land. The song of " Woodman, spare that Tree," has touched one of those cords of pervading nature which fraternize multitudes of different nations.

The me

Mr. N. P. WILLIS, who has been for twenty years associated with General MORRIS in various literary labors, in one of his letters gives characteristically the following estimate of his literary and personal qualities:

"MORRIS is the best-known poet of the country, by acclamation, not by criticism. He is just what poets would be if they sang. like birds, without criticism; and it is a peculiarity of his fame, that it seems as regardless of criticism as a bird in the air. Nothing can stop a song of his. It is very easy to say that they are easy to do. They have a mo. mentum, somehow, that it is difficult for others to give, aud that speeds them to the far goal of popularity-the best proof consisting in the fact that he can, at any moment, get fifty dollars for a song unread, when the whole remainder of the American Parnassus could not sell one to the same buyer for a shilling. It may, or may not, be one secret of his popularity, but it is the truth-that MORRIS's heart is at the level of most other people's, and his poetry flows out by that door. He stands breast-high in the common stream of sympathy, and the fine oil of his poetic feeling goes from

him upon an element it is its nature to float upon, and which carries it safe to other bosoms, with little need of deep-diving or high-flying. His sentiments are simple, honest, truthful, and familiar; his language is pure and eminently musical, and he is prodigally full of the poetry of everyday feeling. These are days when poets try experiments; and while others succeed by taking the world's breath away with flights and plunges, MORRIS uses his feet to walk quietly with nature. Ninety-nine people in a hun dred, taken as they come in the census, would find more to admire in MORRIS's songs, than in the writings of any other American poet; and that is a parish in the poetical episcopate well worthy a wise man's nurture and prizing.

"As to the man-MORRIS. my friend-I can hardly venture to burn incense on his moustache,' as the French say-write his praises under his very nose-but as far off as Philadelphia, you may pay the proper tribute to his loyal nature and manly excellencies. His personal qualities have made him universally popular, but this overflow upon the world does not impoverish him for his friends. I have outlined a true poet, and a fine fellow-fill up the picture to your liking."

I NEVER HAVE BEEN FALSE TO THEE.

I NEVER have been false to thee!
The heart I gave thee still is thine;
Though thou hast been untrue to me,
And I no more may call thee mine!
I've loved as woman ever loves,

With constant soul in good or ill; Thou 'st proved, as man too often proves, A rover but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoops

To bind thee captive in my train! Love's not a flower, at sunset droops,

But smiles when comes her god again! Thy words, which fall unheeded now,

Could once my heart-strings madly thrill! Love's golden chain and burning vow Are broken-but I love thee still.

Once what a heaven of bliss was ours, When love dispelled the clouds of care, And time went by with birds and flowers, While song and incense filled the air! The past is mine-the present thineShould thoughts of me thy future fill, Think what a destiny is mine,

To lose-but love thee, false one, still.

WOMAN.

AH, woman! in this world of ours,

What boon can be compared to thee? How slow would drag life's weary hours,

Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,

If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own.

My mother! at that holy name

Within my bosom there's a gush

Uf feeling, which no tine can tame-
A feeling, which, for years of fame,

I would not, could not, crush; And sisters! ye are dear as life; But when I look upon my wife,

My heart blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend
In mother, sister, wife, and friend.
Yes, woman's love is free from guile,

And pure as bright Aurora's ray;
The heart will melt before her smile,
And base-born passions fade away;
Were I the monarch of the earth,
Or master of the swelling sea,

I would not estimate their worth,
Dear woman! half the price of thee!

WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER.
WE were boys together,

And never can forget
The school-house near the heather,
In childhood where we met;
The humble home to memory dear,

Its sorrows and its joys;

Where woke the transient smile or tear,
When you and I were boys.

We were youths together,

And castles built in air, Your heart was like a feather,

And mine weighed down with care; To you came wealth with manhood's prime, To me it brought alloysForeshadowed in the primrose time, When you and I were boys.

We're old men together

The friends we loved of yore. With leaves of autumn weather,

Are gone for evermore.

How blest to age the impulse given,

The hope time ne'er destroys

Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven, When you and I were boys.