EDMUND DORR GRIFFIN was born in the celebrated valley of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, on the tenth day of September, 1804. During his infancy his parents removed to New York, but on account of the delicacy of his constitution, he was educated, until he was twelve years old, at various schools in the country. He entered Columbia College, in New York, in 1819, and until he was graduated, four years afterwards, maintained the highest rank in the successive classes. During this period most of his Latin and English poeins were composed. He was admitted to deacon's orders, in the Episcopal Church, in 1826, and

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING ITALY.

"Deh! fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte."-FILICAIA.

WOULD that thou wert more strong, at least less fair,
Land of the orange grove and myrtle bower!
To hail whose strand, to breathe whose genial air,
Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power;
To look upon whose mountains in the hour
When thy sun sinks in glory, and a veil
Of purple flows around them, would restore

The sense of beauty when all else might fail.

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair,

Parent of fruits, alas! no more of men! Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare, The yellow harvests loads the scarce till'd plain. Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon

From tree to tree depending, and the flowers Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading

soon,

E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Home of the beautiful, but not the brave! Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave: Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, Nor spoil those charms which partial Nature gave, By art's weak aids or fashion's vain grimace. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Thou nurse of every art, save one alone, The art of self-defence! Thy fostering care

Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, And bids e'en canvass speak; thy magic tone, Infused in music, now constrains the soul With tears the power of melody to own, [trol. And now with passionate throbs that spurn conWould that thou wert less fair, at least more strong,

Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean!

after spending two years in the active discharge of the duties of his profession, set out on his travels. He passed through France, Italy, Switzerland, England, and Scotland, and returned to New York in the spring of 1830. He was then appointed an associate professor in Columbia College, but resigned the office after a few months, in consequence of ill health, and closed a life of successful devotion to learning, and remarkable moral purity, on the first day of September, in the same year. His travels in Europe, sermons, and miscellaneous writings were published in two large octavo volumes, in 1831.

Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong, No memory of the brave, of what has been? Yon broken arch once spoke of triumph, then

That mouldering wall too spoke of brave defence: Shades of departed heroes, rise again!

Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence!

O, Italy! my country, fare thee well!

For art thou not my country, at whose breast Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me

dwell,

The fathers of my mind? whose fame impress'd E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest

With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams, E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest,

Lovelier than I had seen thee in my dreams? Then fare thee well, my country, loved and lost: Too early lost, alas! when once so dear; I turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast, And urge the feet forbid to linger here. But must I rove by Arno's current clear,

And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood, And wander on the mount, now waste and drear, Where CESAR's palace in its glory stood;

And see again Parthenope's loved bay,

And Paestum's shrines, and Baiae's classic shore, And mount the bark, and listen to the lay

That floats by night through Venice-never Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar- [more? It washes not thy feet, that envious sea, But waits, with outstretch'd arms, to waft me o'er To other lands, far, far, alas, from thee.

Fare-fare thee well once more. I love thee not
As other things inanimate. Thou art
The cherish'd mistress of my youth; forgot
Thou never canst be while I have a heart.
Launch'd on those waters, wild with storm and wind,
I know not, ask not, what may be my lot;
For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind,
Brooding in gloom on that one bitter thought.

DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, BY VENUS.

THOUGH old in cunning, as in years,
He is so small, that like a child
In face and form, the god appears,

And sportive like a boy, and wild;
Lightly he moves from place to place,
In none at rest, in none content;
Delighted some new toy to chase—
On childish purpose ever bent.
Beware! to childhood's spirit gay

Is added more than childhood's power And you perchance may rue the hour That saw you join his seeming play.

He quick is anger'd, and as quick

His short-lived passion's over past,
Like summer lightnings, flashing thick,
But flying ere a bolt is cast.
I've seen, myself, as 't were together,

Now joy, now grief assume its place,
Shedding a sort of April weather,

Sunshine and rain upon his face.
His curling hair floats on the wind,
Like Fortune's, long and thick before,
And rich and bright as golden ore:
Like hers, his head is bald behind.

His ruddy face is strangely bright,
It is the very hue of fire,
The inward spirit's quenchless light,
The glow of many a soft desire.
He hides his eye that keenly flashes,

But sometimes steals a thrilling glance
From 'neath his drooping silken lashes,
And sometimes looks with eye askance;
But seldom ventures he to gaze

With looks direct and open eye;
For well he knows-the urchin sly-
But one such look his guile betrays.

His tongue, that seems to have left just then
His mother's breast, discourses sweet,

And forms his lisping infant strain

In words scarce utter'd, half-complete; Yet, wafted on a winged sigh,

And led by Flattery, gentle guide, Unseen into the heart they fly,

Its coldness melt, and tame its pride.
In smiles that hide intended wo,

His ruddy lips are always dress'd,
As flowers conceal the listening crest
Of the coil'd snake that lurks below.
In carriage courteous, meek, and mild,

Humble in speech, and soft in look,
He seems a wandering orphan child,

And asks a shelter in some nook Or corner left unoccupied :

But, once admitted as a guest, By slow degrees he lays aside

That lowly port and look distress'dThen insolent assumes his reign,

Displays his captious, high-bred airs, His causeless pets and jealous fears, His fickle fancy and unquiet brain.

EMBLEMS.

Yox rose, that bows her graceful head to hail
The welcome visitant that brings the morn,
And spreads her leaves to gather from the gale
The coolness on its early pinions borne,
Listing the music of its whisper'd tale,

And giving stores of perfume in return—
Though fair she seem, full many a thorn doth hide;
Perhaps a worm pollutes her bosom's pride.
Yon oak, that proudly throws his arms on high,
Threshing the air that flies their frequent strokes,
And lifts his haughty crest towards the sky,

Daring the thunder that its height provokes, And spreads his foliage wide, a shelter nigh, From noonday heats to guard the weary flocksThough strong he seem, must dread the bursting And e'en the malice of the feeble worm. The moon, that sits so lightly on her throne, Gliding majestic on her silent way,

[storm,

And sends her silvery beam serenely down, 'Mong waving boughs and frolic leaves to play, To sleep upon the bank with moss o'ergrown,

Or on the clear waves, clearer far than theySeems purity itself; but if again

We look, and closely, we perceive a stain.
Fit emblems all, of those unworthy joys

On which our passions and our hopes dilate:
We wound ourselves to seize on Pleasure's toys,
Nor see their worthlessness until too late;
And Power, with all its pomp and all its noise,
Meets oft a sudden and a hapless fate;
And Fame of gentle deeds and daring high,
Is often stain'd by blots of foulest dye.
Where then shall man, by his Creator's hand
Gifted with feelings that must have an aim,
Aspiring thoughts and hopes, a countless band;
Affections glowing with a quenchless flame,
And passions, too, in dread array that stand,
To aid his virtue or to stamp his shame:
Where shall he fix a soul thus form'd and given?
Fix it on Gon, and it shall rise to Heaven.

TO A LADY.

LIKE target for the arrow's aim,

Like snow beneath the sunny heats, Like wax before the glowing flame,

Like cloud before the wind that fleets, I am 'tis love that made me so, And, lady, still thou sayst me no. The wound's inflicted by thine eyes,

The mortal wound to hope and me, Which naught, alas, can cicatrize, ⚫

Nor time, nor absence, far from thee. Thou art the sun, the fire. the wind, That make me such; ah, then be kind! My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite; Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense, My wishes-ne'er did passion light

A flame more pure or more intense. Love all these arms at once employs, And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys.

JONATHAN HUNTINGTON BRIGHT was born in | Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804. At an early age he went to New York, where he resided several years, after which he removed to Albany, and subsequently to Richmond, in Virginia, where he was married. In the autumn of 1836 he sailed for New Orleans, and soon after his arrival in that

city was induced to ascend the Mississippi, to take part in a mercantile interest at Manchester, where he died, very suddenly, in the thirty-third year of his age. He was for several years a writer for the public journals and literary magazines, under the signature of "Viator.' His poetry has never been published collectively.

THE VISION OF DEATH.

THE moon was high in the autumn sky,
The stars waned cold and dim,
Where hoarsely the mighty Oregon
Peals his eternal hymn;

And the prairie-grass bent its seedy heads
Far over the river's brim.

An impulse I might not defy,

Constrain'd my footsteps there,

When through the gloom a red eye burn'd
With fix'd and steady glare;
And a huge, misshapen form of mist
Loom'd in the midnight air.

Then out it spake: "My name is Death!"
Thick grew my blood, and chill-

A sense of fear weigh'd down my breath,
And held my pulses still;

And a voice from that unnatural shade
Compell'd me to its will.

"Dig me a grave! dig me a grave!"

The gloomy monster said,

"And make it deep, and long, and wide,

And bury me my dead."

A corpse without sheet or shroud, at my feet,
And rusted mattock laid.

With trembling hand the tool I spann'd,
'Twas wet with blood, and cold,
And from its slimy handle hung

Toil on toil on! at the judgment-day
Ye'll have a glorious crop!"

Now, wheresoe'er I turn'd my eyes,

"T was horrible to see

How the grave made bare her secret work,
And disclosed her depths to me;

While the ground beneath me heaved and roll d
Like the billows of the sea.

The spectre skinn'd his yellow teeth

66

Ye like not this, I trow :

Six thousand years your fellow-man

Has counted me his foe,

And ever when he cursed I laugh'd,
And drew my fatal bow.
"And generations all untold

In this dark spot I've laid-
The forest ruler and the young

And tender Indian maid;
And moulders with their carcasses
Behemoth of the glade.

"Yet here they may no more remain ;
I fain would have this room:
And they must seek another rest,

Of deeper, lonelier gloom;
Long ages since I mark'd this spot
To be the white man's tomb.
"Already his coming steps I hear,
From the east's remotest line,
While over his advancing hosts

The forward banners shine :

And where he builds his cities and towns, I ever must build mine."

Anon a pale and silvery mist

Was girdled round the moon:

Slowly the dead unclosed their eyes,
On midnight's solemn noon.
"Ha!" mutter'd the mocking sprite, "I fear
We've waken'd them too soon!

"Now marshal all the numerous host
In one concentred band,

315

And hurry them to the west," said he, "Where ocean meets the land: They shall regard thy bidding voice,

And move at thy command."

Then first I spake-the sullen corpse

Stood on the gloomy sod,

Like the dry bones the prophet raised,
When bidden by his Gon;

A might company, so vast,
Each on the other trod.

They stalk'd erect as if alive,

Yet not to life allied,

But like the pestilence that walks,
And wasteth at noontide,
Corruption animated, or

The grave personified.

The earth-worm drew his slimy trail
Across the bloodless cheek,

And the carrion bird in hot haste came
To gorge his thirsty beak;
But, scared by the living banquet, fled,
Another prey to seek.

While ever as on their way they moved,
No voice they gave, nor sound,

And before and behind, and about their sides,
Their wither'd arms they bound;

As the beggar clasps his skinny hands

His tatter'd garments round.

On, on we went through the livelong night,
Death and his troop, and I;

We turn'd not aside for forest or stream
Or mountain towering high,

But straight and swift as the hurricane sweeps
Athwart the stormy sky.

Once, once I stopp'd, where something gleam'd,
With a bright and star-like ray,
And I stoop'd to take the diamond up
From the grass in which it lay;
"Twas an eye that from its socket fell,
As some wretch toil'd on his way.

At length our army reach'd the verge
Of the far-off western shore;
Death drove them into the sea, and said,
"Ye shall remove no more.
The ocean hymn'd their solemn dirge,
And his waters swept them o'er.

The stars went out, the morning smiled With rosy tints of light,

The bird began his early hymn,

And plumed his wings for flight:

And the vision of death was broken with The breaking up of night.

HE WEDDED AGAIN.

ERE death had quite stricken the bloom from her

cheek,

Or worn off the smoothness and gloss of her brow, When our quivering lips her dear name could not speak,

And our hearts vainly strove to God's judgment

to bow,

He estranged himself from us, and cheerfully then
Sought out a new object, and wedded again.
The dust had scarce settled itself on her lyre,

And its soft, melting tones still held captive the car, While we look'd for her fingers to glide o'er the wire,

And waited in fancy her sweet voice to hear; He turn'd from her harp and its melody then, Sought out a new minstrel and wedded again. The turf had not yet by a stranger been trod, Nor the pansy a single leaf shed on her grave, The cypress had not taken root in the sod, [gave;

Nor the stone lost the freshness the sculptor first He turn'd from these mournful remembrances then, Wove a new bridal chaplet, and wedded again.

His dwelling to us, O, how lonely and sad! When we thought of the light death had stolen

away,

Of the warm hearts which once in its keeping it had,
And that one was now widow'd and both in decay;
But its deep desolation had fled even then-
He sought a new idol, and wedded again.

But can she be quite blest who presides at his board?
Will no troublesome vision her happy home shade,
Of a future love luring and charming her lord,

When she with our lost one forgotten is laid?. She must know he will worship some other star then, Seek out a new love, and be wedded again.

SONG.

SHOULD Sorrow o'er thy brow

Its darken'd shadows fling, And hopes that cheer thee now, Die in their early spring; Should pleasure at its birth

Fade like the hues of even,
Turn thou away from earth,-
There's rest for thee in heaven!
If ever life shall seem

To thee a toilsome way,
And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;
If, like the wearied dove,

O'er shoreless ocean driven,
Raise thou thine eye above,-
There's rest for thee in heaven!
But, O! if always flowers
Throughout thy pathway bloom,
And gayly pass the hours,

Undimn'd by earthly gloom;
Still let not every thought
To this poor world be given,
Not always be forgot

Thy better rest in heaven!
When sickness pales thy check,
And dims thy lustrous eye,
And pulses low and weak

Tell of a time to dicSweet hope shall whisper then, "Though thou from earth be riven, There's bliss beyond thy ken,

There's rest for thee in heaven!"

COLONEL JAMES CURRY of Virginia served in the continental army during the greater part of the revolutionary war, and was taken prisoner with the forces surrendered by General LINCOLN at Charleston in 1780. After the peace he emigrated to Ohio, distinguished himself in civil affairs, rose to be a judge, and was one of the electors of President who gave the vote of that state for JAMES MONROE. His son, OTWAY CURRY, was born in what is now Greenfield, Highland county, on the twenty-sixth of March, 1804, and having received such instruction as was offered in the common school, and declining an opportunity to study the law, he proceeded to Chilicothe, and there worked several years as a carpenter, improving his mind meanwhile by industrious but discursive reading during his leisure hours, so that at the end of his apprenticeship he had a familiar knowledge of the most popular contemporary literature, and a capacity for writing which was creditably illustrated from time to time in essays for the press.

He now removed to Cincinnati, where he found more profitable employment, and in 1827 published in the journals of that city, under the signature of "Abdallah," several poems which attracted considerable attention, and led to his acquaintance with WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER and other young men of congenial tastes. At this period he was a frequent player on the flute; his music, as well as his poetry, was pensive and dreamy; and his personal manners were singularly modest and engaging. On the seventeenth of December, 1828, the young carpenter was married, and setting out on his travels, he worked at various places in the lower part of the valley of the Mississippi, sending back occasional literary performances to his friends in Cincinnati,

THE GREAT HEREAFTER.*

"T is sweet to think when struggling The goal of life to win,

That just beyond the shores of time
The better years begin.

When through the nameless ages
I cast my longing eyes,

Before me, like a boundless sea,
The Great Hereafter lies.

Along its brimming bosom

Perpetual summer smiles; And gathers, like a golden robe,

Around the emerald isles.

*IN the great hereafter I see the fulfilment of my desires. Yea, amid all this turmoil and humiliation I enter already upon its rest and glory."-The Huguenot.

which kept alive their friendly interest, and greatly increased his good reputation.

Dissatisfied with his experiences in the South, he returned to Ohio, and for some time turned his attention to farming, in his native town. In 1836 and 1837 he was elected to the legislature, and while attending to his duties at Columbus engaged with Mr. GALLAGHER in the publication of "The Hesperian," a monthly magazine, of which the first number was issued in May, 1838. In 1839 he removed to Maysville, the seat of justice for Union county, where he was admitted to the bar. In 1842 he was again elected to the legislature, and during the session of the following winter, "The Hesperian" having been discontinued, purchased the "Torch Light," a newspaper printed at Xenia, Green county, which he edited two years, on the expiration of which he retired to Maysville, and entered upon the prac tice of the law. In 1850 he was chosen a menber of the State Convention for forming a new Constitution, in 1851 he bought the "Scioto Gazette," a journal published at Chilicothe; and in the spring of 1854 returned again to Maysville, was made District Attorney, and in what seemed to be an opening carcer of success, died suddenly, on the fifteenth of February, 1855.

Mr. CURRY wrote much, in prose as well as in verse, and always with apparent sincerity and earnestness. He was many years an active member of the Methodist church, and his poems are frequently marked by a fine religious enthusiasm, which appears to have been as characteristic of his temper as their more strictly poetical qualities were of his intellect. In dying he remarked to a friend that one of his earliest compositions, entitled "Kingdom Come," embodied the belief and hope of his life and death.

There in the blue long distance,
By lulling breezes fanned,

I seem to see the flowering groves
Of old Beulah's land.

And far beyond the islands
That gem the wave serene,
The image of the cloudless shore
Of holy Heaven is seen.
Unto the Great Hereafter-
A foretime dim and dark-
I freely now and gladly give
Of life the wandering bark.

And in the far-off haven,
When shadowy seas are passed,
By angel hands its quivering sails
Shall all be furled at last!