FORTUNATUS COSBY, a son of Mr. Justice CosBY, for many years one of the most eminent lawyers of Louisville, Kentucky, was born at Harrod's Creek, Jefferson county, in that state, on the second of May, 1802; graduated at Yale College in 1819; married a young lady of New England in 1825; and has since been known as a lover of literature, and a poet, though too careless of his fame as an author to collect the many waifs he has from time to time contributed to the periodicals, some of which have been widely published under the names of other writers. In his later years he has resided in Washington.

Mr. COSBY has sung with natural grace and genuine feeling of domestic life, and of the charms of nature, as seen in the luxuriant west, where, in his own time, forests of a thousand years have disappeared before the axe of the settler, and cities. with all the institutions of cultivated society, have taken the places of wigwams and hunting-camps. Among the longer effusions which he has printed anonymously, besides the following fine ode “To the Mocking Bird," (written about the year 1826,) may be mentioned "The Traveler in the Desert," "A Dream of Long Ago," "Fireside Fancies," and The Solitary Fountain."

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TO THE MOCKING BIRD.* BIRD of the wild and wondrous song, I hear thy rich and varied voice Swelling the greenwood depths among, Till hill and vale the while rejoice. Spell-bound, entranced, in rapture's chain, I list to that inspiring strain; I thread the forest's tangled maze

The thousand choristers to see,
Who, mingled thus, their voices raise
In that delicious minstrelsy;

I search in vain each pause between-
The choral band is still unseen.

"T is but the music of a dream,

An airy sound that mocks the car; But hark again! the eagle's screamIt rose and fell, distinct and clear! And list! in yonder hawthorn bush, The red bird, robin, and the thrush! Lost in amaze I look around,

Nor thrush nor eagle there behold: But still that rich ærial sound,

Like some forgotten song of old That o'er the heart has held control, Falls sweetly on the ravished soul.

And yet the woods are vocal still,

The air is musical with song; O'er the near stream, above the hill,

The wildering notes are borne along; But whence that gush of rare delight? And what art thou, or bird, or sprite?Perched on yon maple's topmost bough, With glancing wings and restless feet, Bird of untiring throat, art thou

Sole songster in this concert sweet!

In earlier editions of this volume erroneously attributed to Mr. ALFRED B. MEEK.

So perfect, full, and rich, each part,
It mocks the highest reach of art.

Once more, once more, that thrilling strain!-
Ill-omened owl, be mute, be mute!-
Thy native tones I hear again,

More sweet than harp or lover's lute;
Compared with thy impassioned tale,
How cold, how tame the nightingale.
Alas! capricious in thy power,

Thy "wood-note wild" again is fled:
The mimic rules the changeful hour,

And all the "soul of song" is dead!
But no-to every borrowed tone
He lends a sweetness all his own!

On glittering wing, erect and bright,

With arrowy speed he darts aloft,
As though his soul had ta'en its flight,
In that last strain, so sad and soft,
And he would call it back to life,
To mingle in the mimic strife!
And ever, to each fitful lay,

His frame in restless motion wheels,
As though he would indeed essay

To act the ecstacy he feelsAs though his very feet kept time To that inimitable chime!

And ever, as the rising moon

Climbs with full orb the trees above, He sings his most enchanting tune,

While echo wakes through all the grove; His descant soothes, in care's despite, The weary watches of the night; The sleeper from his couch starts up, To listen to that lay forlorn; And he who quaffs the midnight cup Looks out to see the purple morn! Oh, ever in the merry spring, Sweet mimic, let me hear thee sing!

JAMES WILLIAM MILLER was a young man of singular refinement, and most honorable character, "with the single defect of indecision," which, according to his biographer, “attended almost every action in his chequered existence," so that, young as he was when he died, "he had been engaged in as many as eight different pursuits, none of which was prosecuted with sufficient perseverance to command success." In 1828, after having passed some time in the desultory study of the law, at Middleborough, near Boston, he suddenly determined to make a desperate effort to acquire fortune, or at least a competence, in the West Indies; and after visiting several of the islands, finally settled upon one of those which are subject to Spain, and though his health was feeble and precarious, was prosecuting his plans with great energy, and prospects of abundant success, when

he died-his brain and heart and body overtasked -in 1829, at the age of twenty-seven years. Mr. N. P. WILLIS describes him, in his "American Monthly Magazine," for October, 1830, as having been "a man of exceeding sensitiveness, and great delicacy, both of native disposition and culture;" and "of the kind of genius which is out of place in common life, and which, at the same time that it interests and attracts you, excites your fear and pity."

Mr. MILLER was for a short time associated with JOHN NEAL in the editorship of "The Yankee," and he wrote for this and other periodicals, many poems, simple and touching in sentiment, for the most part, but with indications of his constitutional carelessness, which after his death were collected and published, with a graceful and appreciative memoir.

A SHOWER.

'THE pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
By fits it plashing falls

On twangling leaf and dimpling pool-
How sweet its warning calls!
They know it-all the bosomy vales,
High slopes, and verdant meads;
The queenly elms and princely oaks
Bow down their grateful heads.

The withering grass, and fading flowers,
And drooping shrubs look gay;
The bubbly brook, with gladlier song,
Hies on its endless way!

All things of earth, all grateful things!
Put on their robes of cheer;

They hear the sound of the warning burst,
And know the rain is near.

It comes! it comes! the pleasant rain!
I drink its cooler breath;

It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers,
And roses' fragrant death;

It hath kiss'd the tomb of the lilly pale,
The beds where violets die,

And it bears its life on its living wings-
I feel it wandering by.

* "He left this country abruptly, to run a wild hazard of life for which his delicate habits unfitted him-for a reward most distant and visionary.... The country he was going to was rude and sickly; the pursuits he was to engage in were coarse and repulsive; the language, the people, new to him; the prospects of success too distant for anything but desperation."-Notice b, N. P. Willis.

་

And yet it comes the lightning's flash
Hath torn the lowering cloud;
With a distant roar, and a nearer crash,
Out bursts the thunder loud;

It comes with the rush of a god's descent
On the hush'd and trembling earth,
To visit the shrines of the hallow'd groves
Where a poet's soul had birth.

With a rush as of a thousand steeds,
Is the mighty god's descent;
Beneath the weight of his passing tread,
The conscious groves are bent.
His heavy tread-it is lighter now-
And yet it passeth on;

And now it is up, with a sudden lift-
The pleasant rain hath gone.

The pleasant rain!-the pleasant rain!
It hath passed above the earth,

I see the smile of the opening cloud,
Like the parted lips of mirth.
The golden joy is spreading wide
Along the blushing west,

And the happy earth gives back her smiles,
Like the glow of a grateful breast.

As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart,
That knoweth all its need,

So came the good of the pleasant rain,
O'er hill and verdant mead.

It shall breathe this truth on the human ear,
In hall and cotter's home,

That to bring the gift of a bounteous Heaven, The pleasant rain hath come.

MR. GREENE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since

remained. One of his earliest metrical compositions was the familiar piece entitled "Old Grimes," which was written in the year in which he entered the university.

His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, and have never been published in a collected form.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

O'ER a low couch the setting sur
Had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony
A dying warrior lay,
The stern, old Baron RUDIGER,

Whose fame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil

Its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say
My days of life are o'er,
That I shall mount my noble steed
And lead my band no more;
They come, and to my beard they dare

To tell me now, that I,

Their own liege lord and master born,—
That I-ha! ha!-must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft
Before the Paynim spear,-
Think ye he's entered at my gate,
Has come to seek me here?
I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him,
When the fight was raging hot,-
I'll try his might-I'll brave his power;
Defy, and fear him not.

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,-
And fire the culverin,-

Bid each retainer arm with speed,-
Call every vassal in;

Up with my banner on the wall,—
The banquet board prepare,-
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armour there!"

A hundred hands were busy then,—
The banquet forth was spread,—
And rung the heavy oaken floor
With many a martial tread,
While from the rich, dark tracery

Along the vaulted wall,

Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, ant! spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall.

But I defy him:-let him come !"
Down rang the massy cup,
While from its sheath the ready blade
Came flashing halfway up;

And, with the black and heavy plumes
Scarce trembling on his head,
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair,
Old RUDIGER sat, dead.

TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE.

THE dawn has broke, the morn is up,
Another day begun;

And there thy poised and gilded spear
Is flashing in the sun,

Upon that steep and lofty tower

Where thou thy watch hast kept, A true and faithful sentinel,

While all around thee slept.

For years, upon thee, there has pour'd
The summer's noon-day heat,

And through the long, dark, starless night,
The winter storms have beat;
But yet thy duty has been done,

By day and night the same,

Still thou hast met and faced the storm,
Whichever way it came.

No chilling blast in wrath has swept
Along the distant heaven,

But thou hast watch'd its onward course,
And distant warning given;
And when mid-summer's sultry beams
Oppress all living things,

Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes
With health upon its wings.

How oft I've seen, at early dawn,

Or twilight's quiet hour,
The swallows, in their joyous glee,

Come darting round thy tower,
As if, with thee, to hail the sun
And catch his earliest light,
And offer ye the morn's salute,"
Or bid ye both,-good-night.

And when, around thee or above,
No breath of air has stirr'd,

Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight
Of each free, happy bird,

Till, after twittering round thy head

In many a mazy track,

The whole delighted company

Have settled on thy back.

Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth,
A gentle breeze has sprung,
And, prompt to mark its first approach,
Thy eager form hath swung,
I've thought I almost heard thee say,
As far aloft they flew,-

Now all away!-here ends our play,
For I have work to do!"

Men slander thee, my honest friend,
And call thee, in their pride,
An emblem of their fickleness,
Thou ever-faithful guide.
Each weak, unstable human mind
A "weathercock" they call;
And thus, unthinkingly, mankind
Abuse thee, one and all.

They have no right to make thy name
A by-word for their deeds :--
They change their friends, their principles,
Their fashions, and their creeds;

Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known
Thus causelessly to range;

But when thou changest sides, canst give
Good reason for the change.

Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course
The thoughtless oft condemn,

Art touch'd by many airs froin heaven
Which never breathe on them,-
And moved by many impulses

Which they do never know,

Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod
The dusty paths below.

Through one more dark and cheerless night
Thou well hast kept thy trust,

And now in glory o'er thy head

The morning light has burst. And unto earth's true watcher, thus, When his dark hours have pass'd, Will come "the day-spring from on high," To cheer his path at last.

Bright symbol of fidelity,

Still may I think of thee:

And may the lesson thou dost teach
Be never lost on me ;-
But still, in sunshine or in storm,
Whatever task is mine,

May I be faithful to my trust,
As thou hast been to thine.

ADELHEID.

WHY droop the sorrowing trees,
Swayed by the autumn breeze,
Heavy with rain?

Drearily, wearily,
Move as in pain?
Weeping and sighing,

They ever seem crying,

"Adelheid! Adelheid!" evening and morn: Adelheid! Adelheid! where has she gone?"

With their arms bending there,
In the cold winter air,

Icy and chill,

Trembling and glistening,
Watching and listening,
Awaiting her still,

With the snow round their feet,
Still they the name repeat-
"Adelheid! Adelheid! here is her home:
Adelheid! Adelheid! when will she come?'

With the warm breath of Spring

Now the foliage is stirr'd;

On the pathway below them

A footstep is heard.

OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old mar
We never shall see more:

He used to wear a long, black coat,
All button'd down before.

His heart was open as the day,

His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray--
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,

His breast with pity burn'd;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true:
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.
Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes
He pass'd securely o'er,
And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.
But good old GRIMES is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest-
The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbours he did not abuse —
Was sociable and gay:

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,

Nor make a noise, town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.

OH, THINK NOT THAT THE BOSOM'S LIGHT.

OH think not that the bosom's light
Must dimly shine, its fire be low,
Because it doth not all invite

To feel its warmth and share its glow.
The altar's strong and steady blaze
On all around may coldly shine,
But only genial warmth conveys

To those who gather near the shrine.
The lamp within the festal hall

Doth not more clear and brightly burn
Than that, which shrouded by the pall,
Lights but the cold funereal urn.

The fire which lives through one brief hour,
More sudden beat perchance reveals
Than that whose tenfold strength and power
Its own unmeasured depth conceals.
Brightly the summer cloud may glide

But bear no heat within its breast,
Though all its gorgeous folds are dyed
In the full glories of the west:
'Tis that which through the darken'd sky,
Surrounded by no radiance, sweeps―
In which, conceal'd from every eye,
The wild and vivid lightning sleeps.

Do the dull flint, the rigid steel,

Which thou within thy hand mayst hold, Unto thy sight or touch reveal

The hidden power which they enfold?
But take those cold, unyielding things,
And beat their edges till you tire,
And every atom forth that springs
Is a bright spark of living fire:
Each particle, so dull and cold

Until the blow that woke it came,
Did still within it slumbering hold
A power to wrap the world in flame.
What is there, when thy sight is turn'd
To the volcano's icy crest,

By which the fire can be discern'd
That rages in its silent breast;
Which hidden deep, but quenchless still,
Is at its work of sure decay,
And will not cease to burn until

It wears its giant heart away.
The mountain's side upholds in pride
Its head amid the realms of snow,
And gives its bosom depth to hide

The burning mass which lies below.
While thus in things of sense alone
Such truths from sense lie still concear'd
How can the living heart be known,
Its secret, inmost depths reveal'd?
Oh, many an overburden'd soul

Has been at last to madness wrought,
While proudly struggling to control
Its burning and consuming thought—
When it had sought communion long,
And had been doom'd in vain to seek
For feelings far too deep and strong

For heart to bear or tongue to speak!