ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. [Born, 1818.] MR. COXE is the eldest son of the Reverend SAMUEL H. CoxE, D. D., of Brooklyn. He was born in Mendham, in New Jersey, on the tenth day of May, 1818. At ten years of age he was sent to a gymnasium at Pittsfield, in Massachusetts, and he completed his studies preparatory to entering the University of New York, under the private charge of Doctor BusH, author of "The Life of Mohammed," etc. While in the univer sity he distinguished himself by his devotion to classic learning, and particularly by his acquaintance with the Greek poets. In his freshman year he delivered a poem before one of the undergraduates' societies, on " The Progress of Ambition," and in the same period produced many spirited metrical pieces, some of which appeared in the periodicals of the time. In the autumn of 1837 he published his first volume, "Advent, a Mystery," a poem in the dramatic form, to which was prefixed the following dedication : FATHER, as he of old who reap'd the field, The first young sheaves to Him did dedicate And if of hours well saved from revels late cantos of This work was followed in the spring of 1838 by "Athwold, a Romaunt;" and in the summer of the same year were printed the first and second Saint Jonathan, the Lay of a Scald." These were intended as introductory to a novel in the stanza of "Don Juan," and four other cantos were afterward written, but wisely destroyed by the author on his becoming a candidate for holy orders, an event not contemplated in his previous studies. He was graduated in July, and. on the occasion delivered an eloquent valedictory oration. From this period his poems assumed a devotional cast, and were usually published in the periodicals of the church. His "Athanasion" was pronounced before the alumni of Washington College, in Connecticut, in the summer of 1840. It is an irregular ode, and contains passages of considerable merit, but its sectarian character will prevent its receiving general applause. The following allusion to Bishop BERKELEY is from this porm: Oft when the eve-star, sinking into day, Among them "The Blues" and "The Hebrew Muse." a The American Monthly Magazine." Taught, from sweet childhood, to revere in thee Earth's every virtue, writ in poesie, Nigh did I leap, on CLIO's calmer line, To see thy story with our own entwine. On Yale's full walls, no pictured shape to me Like BERKELEY's seem'd, in priestly dignity, Such as he stood, fatiguing, year by year, In our behoof, duil prince and cavalier; And dauntless still, as erst the Genoese; Such as he wander'd o'er the Indy seas To vex'd Bermoothes, witless that he went Mid isles that beckon'd to a continent. Such there he seem'd, the pure, the undefiled! And meet the record! Though, perchance, I smiler That those, in him, themselves will glorify, Who reap his fields, but let his doctrine die, Yet, let him stand: the world will note it well, And Time shall thank them for the chronicle By such confess'd, COLUMBUS of new homes For song, and Science with her thousand tomes. Yes-pure apostle of our western lore, Spoke the full heart, that now may breathe it more, Still in those halls, where none without a speer Name the dear title of thy ghostly fear, Stand up, bold bishop-in thy priestly vest; Proof that the Church bore letters to the West! In the autumn of the same year appeared Mr. COXE's "Christian Ballads," a collection of religious poems, of which the greater number had previously been given to the public through the columns of "The Churchman." They are ele gant, yet fervent expressions of the author's love for the impressive and venerable customs, ceremonies, and rites of the Protestant Episcopal Church. man. While in the university, Mr. Cox had, besides acquiring the customary intimacy with ancient literature, learned the Italian language; and he now, under Professor NORDHEIMER, devoted two years to the study of the Hebrew and the GerAfter passing some time in the Divinity School at Chelsea, he was admitted to deacon's orders, by the Bishop of New York, on the twenty-eighth of June, 1841. In the following July, on receiving the degree of Master of Arts from the appointment of the faculty; and in August he University, he pronounced the closing oration, by accepted a call to the rectorship of Saint Anne's church, then recently erected by Mr. GOUVERNEUR MORRIS, on his domain of Morrisiana. He was mar ried the same year to his third cousin, Miss CATHERINE CLEVELAND, daughter of Mr. SIMEON HYDE Mr. CoxE was several years rector of St. John's Church, in Hartford; in 1851 he visited Europe, and in 1854 became minister of Grace Church, in Baltimore. He has published, besides the works already mentioned, in verse, "Saul, a Mystery," and "Halloween;" and in prose, Sympathies of the Continent." "Impressions of England," "Sermons," and, from the French of the Abbe LaBORDE, The New Dogma of Rome." MANHOOD. BOYHOOD hath gone, or ever I was 'ware: Gone like the birds that have sung out their season, And fly away, but never to return: Gone-like the memory of a fairy vision; Gone-like the stars that have burnt out in heaven: Like flowers that open once a hundred years, And have just folded up their golden petals: Like maidenhood, to one no more a virgin; Like all that's bright, and beautiful, and transient, And yet, in its surpassing loveliness, And quick dispersion into empty nothing, Like its dear self alone, like life, like Boyhood. Now, on the traversed scene I leave for ever, Doth memory cast already her pale look, And through the mellow light of by-gone summers, Gaze, like the bride, that leaveth her home-valley, And like the Patriarch, goes she knows not where. She, with faint heart, upon the bounding hill-top Turns her fair neck, one moment, unbeheld, And through the sun-set, and her tearful eye, Far as her father's dwelling, strains her sight, To bless the roof-tree, and the lawn, and gardens, Where romp her younger sisters, still at home. I have just waken'd from a darling dream, And fain would sleep once more. I have been roving In a sweet isle, and thither would return. I have just come, methinks, from Fairyland, And yearn to see Mab's kingdom once again, And roam its landscapes with her! Ah, my soul, Thy holiday is over-play-time gone, And a stern Master bids thee to thy task. How shall I ever go through this rough world! This voice, so buoyant, must be all unstrung, To wear the robes of being-in their rags; 35 And hearse for ever from the gaze of men, [relics! What long they thought-now dare to call-our Glory to him who doth subject the same, In hope of Immortality! I go from strength to strength, from joy to joy: The bell hath toll'd! my birth-hour is upon me! OLD CHURCHES. HAST been where the full-blossom'd bay-tree is blow- And ate the cool gourds of their clime; Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind [eve, Lived there, when the country was young? And burn'd not the blood of a Christian, to find How there the old prayer-bell had rung? And did ye not glow, when they told ye-the LORD Had dwelt in that thistle-grown pile; And that bones of old Christians were under its sward, That once had knelt down in its aisle ? And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep When ye thought-o'er your country so broad, The bard seeks in vain for a mouldering heap, Save only these churches of Gon! O ye that shall pass by those ruins agen, And not till their arches have echoed amen, And the full swelling voice of the soul. [by Peradventure, when next thou shalt journey there Even-bells shall ring out on the air, And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye The snowy-robed pastor at praver. THE HEART'S SONG. Is the silent midnight watches, List-thy bosom-door! How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, Knocketh evermore! Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating; 'Tis thy heart of sin: "Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Rise, and let me in! Death comes down with reckless footstep Think you Death will stand a-knocking Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating At the gate of heaven beating, Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin, And then, those Easter bells, in spring! Responsively they cry, And sing the rising of the LORD, I love ye-chimes of Motherland, That Eng'and's glory tells; For you, ye Christian bells! And heir of her ancestral fame, And happy in my birth, Thee, too, I love, my forest-land, The joy of all the earth; For thine thy mother's voice shall be, And here where Gon is king, With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring. THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, That out from fane and ivied tower A thousand years have toll'd; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallow'd day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray! Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time! And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime; At bridal and at burial, For cottager and king Those chimes-those glorious Christian chimes, How blessedly they ring! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Outbreaking, as the angels did, For a Redeemer born; How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly deck'd and mistletoe, The chimes of England, how they peal Where hymn and swelling anthem fill And stain the florid tracery MARCH. MARCH-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho! how they step. Going down to the dead! Every stride, every tramp, Every footfall is nearer; And dimmer each lamp, As darkness grows drearer; But ho! how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho! how they step, Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Making sounds as they tread, Ho-ho, how they laugh, Going down to the dead' How they whirl--how they trip, How they smile, how they dally, How blithesome they skip. Going down to the valley; Oh-ho, how they march, Making sounds as they tread; Ho-ho, how they skip, Going down to the dead! March-march-march! Earth groans as they tread! Each carries a skull; Going down to the dead! Every stride-every stamp, Every footfall is bolder; "Tis a skeleton's tramp, With a skull on his shoulder! But ho, how he steps With a high-tossing head, That clay cover'd bone, Going lown to the dead! WILLIAM W. LORD. Born about 1818.] MR. LORD is a native of Western New York, and is descended through both his parents from the New England Puritans. His father was a Presbyterian clergyman, and his mother, who now resides with her eldest son, the Rev. Dr. LORD of Buffalo, is a woman of refinement and cultivation. He had therefore the advantages of a good domestic training. He exhibited at a very early age a love of letters, and soon became familiar with SHAKSPEARE and the other great writers of the Elizabethan age, and probably few men are now more familiar with English literature in all its departments. During his college life his health failed, and his friends, yielding to a desire for a sea voyage, committed him to the care of the master of a whale ship, owned by a family friend at New London. After being a few weeks at sea he grew weary of the monotony of a cabin passage, and, against the remonstrances of the captain, forced his way into the forecastle, where he soon became a sturdy seaman, and, during four years of service in the Pacific, endured all the hardships, privations and perils of that adventurous life, exhibiting on every occasion the boldest traits of character. On returning home he resolved to devote his time to the study of moral science, and with this view, in 1841, entered the theological school at Auburn; but the death of the Rev. Dr. RICHARDS, president of that institution, occurring in 1843, he joined the senior class of the Princeton Theological Seminary, in which he completed his course of study, with much credit, early in the following year. He subsequently took orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church, and is now (1855) rector of an Episcopal Church in Vicksburg, Mississippi. In 1845, Mr. LORD published his first volume of poems. They were all written the preceding year, and have marks of haste and carelessness, but such proofs of poetical taste and power as won praise from judicious critics. In 1851 appeared his Christ in Hades," a poem of eight books, in blank verse, written with finished elegance, sustained elevation, and much original force. Its express character is indicated by its title. The pervading tone of his poetry is that of reverent meditation, but some of his shorter pieces are in a vein of graceful playfulness. He has been a laborious and successful student; is familiar with the ancient languages and literatures; has been a diligent reader of the best German writers; and has cultivated an acquaintance with the arts of design. Philosophy is his favourite study, however, and COLERIDGE and WORDSWORTH are his nost familiar authors. KEATS.* On gold Hyperion, love-lorn Porphyro, And stars, like sparks, to bicker in thy track! Alas! throw down, throw down, ye mighty dead, The leaves of oak and asphodel That ye were weaving for that honour'd head,— In vain, in vain, your lips would seek a spell In the few charmed words the poet sung, Te lure him upward in your seats to dwell,— As vain your grief! O! why should one so young Sit crown'd midst hoary heads with wreaths divine? Though to his lips Hymettus' bees had clung, His lips shall never taste the immortal wine, Who sought to drain the glowing cup too soon, For he hath perish'd, and the moon Hath lost Endymion-but too well The shaft that pierced him in her arms was sped :Into that gulf of dark and nameless dread, Star-like he fell, but a wide splendour shed Through its deep night, that kindled as he fell. From "An Ode to England." TO MY SISTER. AND shall we meet in heaven, and know and love? Forgive me, sister, O forgive the love THE BROOK. A LITTLE blind girl wandering, While daylight pales beneath the moon, And with a brook meandering, To hear its gentle tune. The little blind girl by the brook, It told her something-you might guess, To see her smile, to see her look Of listening eagerness. Though blind, a never silent guide Flow'd with her timid feet along; And sometimes it was soft and low, And now, upon the other side, She seeks her mother's cot; And still the noise shall be her guide, For to the blind, so little free To move about beneath the sun, Ah! whither, whither, my little maid? There is no cot upon this brook, In yonder mountains dark and drear, Oh! sir, thou art not true nor kind, And on she stepp'd, but grew more sad, Ah! whither, whither, my little maid? There is no cot upon this brook; O go with me, the darkness nears, A RIME, WHICH IS YET REASON, AND TEACHETH, IN A LIGHT As Love sat idling beneath a tree, A Knight rode by on his charger free, With his plume and his mantle, a sight to see He cried, Young boy, will you go with me? Then came a Minstrel bright of blee, Then came a Bookman, wise as three, But list, fair dames, what I rede to ye, Tired of the parle he was nodding his head, And along fared the Scholar ill-bested: Love is not won by pedantry. Then came a Courtier wearing the key In courteous wise Love shook his head, Then came a Miser blinking his cé, O then to young Love beneath the tree, |