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
Whose bounty gave whate'er the glebe did yield,
Whose smile the pleasant harvest might create-
So I to thee these numbers consecrate,
Thou who didst lead to Silo's pearly spring;

And if of hours well saved from revels late
And youthful riot, I these fruits do bring,
Accept my early vow, nor frown on what I sing.

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,
Seems empire's planet on its westward way,
Comes, in soft light from antique window's groin,
Thy pure ideal, mitred saint of Cloyne!

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!
How find me older every setting sun;
How merge my boyish heart in manliness;
How take my part upon the tricksy stage,
And wear a mask to seem what I am not!
Ah me-but I forgot; the mimicry
Will not be long, ere all that I had feign'd,
Will be so real, that my mask will fall,
And Age act Self, uncostumed for the play.
Now my first step I take, adown the valley,
But ere I reach the foot, my pace must change;
And I toil on, as man has ever done,
Treading the causeway, smooth with endless travel,
Since first the giants of old Time descended,
And Adam leading down our mother Eve,
In ages elder than Antiquity.

This voice, so buoyant, must be all unstrung,
Like harps, that chord by chord grow musicless;
These hands must totter on a smooth-topp'd staff,
That late could whirl the ball-club vigorously:
This eye grow glassy, that can sparkle now,
And on the dear Earth's hues look doatingly:
And these brown locks, which tender hands have
In loving curls about their taper-fingers, [twined
Must silver soon, and bear about such snows,
As freeze away all touch of tenderness.
And then, the end of every human story
Is ever this, whatever its beginning,

To wear the robes of being-in their rags;
To bear, like the old Tuscan's prisoners,
A corpse still with us, insupportable;
And then to sink in Earth, like dust to dust.

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:
From being unto being! I will snatch
This germ of comfort from departing youth;
And when the pictured primer's thrown aside,
I'll hoard its early lessons in my heart.
I shall go on through all Eternity;
Thank Gon! I only am an embryo still;
The small beginning of a glorious soul;
An atom that shall fill Immensity;

The bell hath toll'd! my birth-hour is upon me!
The hour that made me child, has made me man,
And bids me put all childish things away.
Keep me from evil, that it may not grieve me!
And grant me, LORD, with this, the Psalmist's prayer,
Remember not the follies of my youth,
But in thy mercy, think upon me, Lord!

OLD CHURCHES.

HAST been where the full-blossom'd bay-tree is blow-
With odours like Eden's around?
[ing
Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is grow-
And wild vines are fringing the ground? [ing,
Hast sat in the shade of catalpas, at noon,

And ate the cool gourds of their clime;
Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon,
And the mocking-bird sung her sweet rhyme?
And didst mark, in thy journey, at dew-dropping
Some ruin peer high o'er thy way,
With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave
A mantle for turrets so gray?

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,
Go kneel in their alleys and pray,

And not till their arches have echoed amen,
Rise up, and fare on in your way; [more,
Pray Gon that those aisles may be crowded once
Those altars surrounded and spread,
While anthems and prayers are upsent as of yore,
As they take of the wine-cup and bread.
Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane
They have left to the bat and the mole,
May sound with the loud-pealing organ again,

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
To the hall and hut:

Think you Death will stand a-knocking
Where the door is shut?
JESUS waiteth-waiteth-waiteth;
But thy door is fast!
Gricved, away thy Saviour goeth:
Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating
Christ to let thee in:

At the gate of heaven beating,
Wailing for thy sin.

Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,
Hast thou then forgot,
JESUS waited long to know thee,
But he knows thee not!

And then, those Easter bells, in spring!
Those glorious Easter chimes;
How loyally they hail thee round,
Old queen of holy times!
From hill to hill, like sentinels,

Responsively they cry,

And sing the rising of the LORD,
From vale to mountain high.

I love ye-chimes of Motherland,
With all this vul of mine,
And bless the Lonr that I am sprung
Of good old English line!
And like a son I sing the lay

That Eng'and's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the LORD,

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,
Of England green and old,

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,
Upon a Christmas morn,

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,
To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and gothic pile,

Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle ;
Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,

And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls!

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!

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,
Ill-fated! from thine orb'd fire struck back
Just as the parting clouds began to glow,

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?
Do human feelings in that world above
Unchanged survive? blest thought! but ah, I fear
That thou, dear sister, in some other sphere,
Distant from mine, will find a brighter home,
Where I, unworthy found, may never come;
Or be so high above me glorified,
That I, a meaner angel, undescried,
Seeking thine eyes, such love alone shall sce
As angels give to all bestowed on me;
And when my voice upon thy ear shall fall,
Hear only such reply as angels give to all.

Forgive me, sister, O forgive the love
Whose selfishness would reach the life above,
And even in heaven do its object wrong-
But should I see thee in the heavenly throng,
Bright as the star I love-the night's first star,
If, like that star, thou still must shine afar,
And in thy glory I must never see
A woman's, sister's look of love from thee,
Must never call thee by a sister's name,
I could but wish thee less, if thus, the same,
My sister still, dear Sarah! thou might'st be,
And I thy brother still, in that blest company

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 down she wander'd by its side
To hear the running song.

And sometimes it was soft and low,
A creeping music in the ground;
And then, if something check'd its flow,
A gurgling swell of sound.

And now, upon the other side,

She seeks her mother's cot;

And still the noise shall be her guide,
And lead her to the spot.

For to the blind, so little free

To move about beneath the sun,
Small things like this seem liberty-
Something from darkness won.
But soon she heard a meeting stream,
And on the bank she follow'd still,
It murmur'd on, nor could she tell
It was another rill.

Ah! whither, whither, my little maid?
And wherefore dost thou wander here?
I seek my mother's cot, she said,
And surely it is near.

There is no cot upon this brook,

In yonder mountains dark and drear,
Where sinks the sun, its source it took,
Ah, wherefore art thou here?

Oh! sir, thou art not true nor kind,
It is the brook, I know its sound;
Ah! why would you deceive the blind?
I hear it in the ground.

And on she stepp'd, but grew more sad,
And weary were her tender feet,
The brook's small voice seem'd not so glad,
Its song was not so sweet.

Ah! whither, whither, my little maid?
And wherefore dost thou wander here?
I seek my mother's cot she said,
And surely it is near.

There is no cot upon this brook;
I hear its sound, the maid replied,
With dreamlike and bewilder'd look-
I have not left its side.

O go with me, the darkness nears,
The first pale star begins to gleam;
The maid replied with bursting tears,
It is the stream! It is the stream!

A RIME,

WHICH IS YET REASON, AND TEACHETH, IN A LIGHT
MANNER, A GRAVE MATTER IN THE
LERE OF LOVE.

As Love sat idling beneath a tree,

A Knight rode by on his charger free,
Stalwart and fair and tall was he,

With his plume and his mantle, a sight to see
And proud of his scars, right loftily,

He cried, Young boy, will you go with me?
But Love he pouted and shook his head,
And along fared the Warrior, ill-bested
Love is not won by chivalry.

Then came a Minstrel bright of blee,
Blue were his eyes as the heavens be,
And sweet as a song-bird's throat sung he.
Of smiles and tears and ladie's eé,
Soft love and glorious chivalry,
Then cried, Sweet boy, will you go with me
Love wept and smiled, but shook his head,
And along fared the Minstrel ill-bested:
Love is not won by minstrelsy.

Then came a Bookman, wise as three,
Darker a scholar you shall not see
In Jewrie, Rome, or Araby.

But list, fair dames, what I rede to ye,
In love's sweet lere untaught was he,
For when he cried, Come, love, with me,

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
Of council and chambers high privity;
He could dispute yet seem to agree,
And soft as dew was his flatterie.
And with honied voice and low congee
Fair youth, he said, will you honour me!

In courteous wise Love shook his head,
And along fared the Courtier ill-bested:
Love is not won by courtesy.

Then came a Miser blinking his cé,
To view the bright boy beneath the tree;
His purse, which hung to his cringing knee,
The ransom held of a king's countree;
And a handful of jewels and gold showed he,
And cried, Sweet child, will you go with me?
Then loud laugh'd Love as he shook his head,
And along fared the Monger ill-bested:
Love is not won by merchandry.

O then to young Love beneath the tree,
Came one as young and as fair as he,
And as like to him as like can be,
And clapping his little wings for glee,
With nods and smiles and kisses tree,
He whisper'd, Come, Oh come with me:
Love pouted and flouted and shook his head,
But along with that winsome youth he sped,
And love wins love, loud shouted he!