Of selfishness, has been the manly race ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF EOLUS, BY FULL Well, TIBALDI, did thy kindred mind Like one who, reading magic words, receives Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms. On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word ON THE DEATH OF COLERIDGE. AND thou art gone,most loved,most honour'd Friend! THE TUSCAN MAID How pleasant and how sad the turning tide The pure twin-being for a little space, This turning tide is URSULINA'S now; And so are every thought and feeling join'd, The things that once she loved are still the same; She cannot call it gladness or delight; She sees the mottled moth come twinkling by, Yet not, as once, with eager cry She grasps the pretty thing; Her thoughts now mingle with its tranquil mood.So poised in air, as if on air it stood To show its gold and purple wing. She hears the bird without a wish to snare, To mount, and with it wander there As if it told her in its happy song Of pleasures strange, that never can belong Now the young soul her mighty power shall prove, And make the heart her home; Or to the meaner senses sink a slave, But, URSULINA, thine the better choice; And all its beauty love; But no, not all this fair, enchanting earth, ROSALIE. O, POUR upon my soul again That sad, unearthly strain, That seems from other worlds to plain; Thus falling, falling from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs, And dropped them from the skies. No-never came from aught below This melody of wo, That makes my heart to overflow For all I see around me wears So, at that dreamy hour of day, First fell the strain of him who stole LEVI FRISBIE. [Bern 1781. Died 1822] PROFESSOR FRISBIE was the son of a respectable clergyman at Ipswich, Massachusetts. He entered Harvard University in 1798, and was graduated in 1802. His father, like most of the clergymen of New England, was a poor man, and unable fully to defray the costs of his son's education; and Mr. FRISHIE, while an under-graduate, provided in part for his support by teaching a school during vacations, and by writing as a clerk. His friend and biographer, Professor ANDREWS NORTON, alludes to this fact as a proof of the falsity of the opinion that wealth constitutes the only aristocracy in our country. Talents, united with correct morals, and good manners, pass unquestioned all the artificial barriers of society, and their claim to distinction is recognised more wil. lingly than any other. Soon after leaving the university, Mr. FRISBIE commenced the study of the law; but an affection of the eyes depriving him of their use for the purposes of study, he abandoned his professional pursuits, and accepted the place of Latin tutor in Harvard University. In 1811, he was made Pro fessor of the Latin Language, and in 1817, Professor of Moral Philosophy. The last office he held until he died, on the 19th of July, 1822. He was an excellent scholar, an original thinker, and a pure-minded man. An octavo volume, containing a memoir, some of his philosophical lectures, and a few poems, was published in 1823. A CASTLE IN THE AIR. Inspires my waking schemes, The rose its blushes need not lend, Features, where, pensive, more than gay, A form, though not of finest mould, A modesty and ease. But still her air, her face, each charm And mind inform the whole; With mind her mantling cheek must glow, Ah! couid I such a being find, And were her fate to mine but join'd To her myself, my all I'd give, For her consent to die. Whene'er by anxious care oppress'd, At her sweet smile each care should cease, And drive my griefs away. In turn, I'd soften all her care, Each thought, each wish, each feeling share; Should sickness e'er invade, My voice should soothe each rising sigh, Should gathering clouds our sky deform, Together should our prayers ascend; Thus nothing should our hearts divide, And all to love be given; JOHN PIERPON T. [Born 1785.] THE author of the "Airs of Palestine," is a native of Litchfield, Connecticut, and was born on the sixth of April, 1785. His great-grandfather, the Reverend JAMES PIERPONT, was the second minister of New Haven, and one of the founders of Yale College; his grandfather and his father were men of intelligence and integrity; and his mother, whose maiden name was ELIZABETH COLLINS, | had a mind thoroughly imbued with the religious sentiment, and was distinguished for her devotion to maternal duties. In the following lines, from one of his recent poems, he acknowledges the influence of her example and teachings on his own character: "She led me first to God; Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew. For, when she used to leave The fireside, every eve, I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew. "That dew, that bless'd my youth, Her holy love, her truth, Her spirit of devotion, and the tears That she could not suppress,— My soul, nor will it, through eternal years. How often has the thought Mother, thou knowest well That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!" Mr. PIERPONT entered Yale College when fifteen years old, and was graduated in the summer of 1804. During a part of 1805, he assisted the Reverend Doctor BACKUS, in an academy of which he was principal previous to his election to the presidency of Hamilton College; and in the autumn of the same year, following the example of many young men of New England, he went to the southern states, and was for nearly four years a private tutor in the family of Colonel WILLIAM ALLSTON, of South Carolina, spending a portion of his time in Charleston, and the remainder on the estate of Colonel ALLSTON, on the Waccamaw, near Georgetown. Here he commenced his legal #tudies, which he continued after his return to his native state in 1809, in the school of Justices REEVE and GOULD; and in 1812, he was admitted to the bar, in Essex county, Massachusetts. Soon after the commencement of the second war with Great Britain, being appointed to address the Washington Benevolent Society of Newburyport, his place of residence, he delivered and afterward published "The Portrait," the earliest of the poems in the recent edition of his works. In consequence of the general prostration of business in New England during the war, and of his health, which at this time demanded a more active life, he abandoned the profession of law. and became interested in mercantile transactions, first in Boston, and afterward in Baltimore; but these resulting disastrously, in 1816, he sought a solace in literary pursuits, and in the same year published "The Airs of Palestine." The first edition appeared in an octavo volume, at Baltimore; and two other editions were published in Boston, in the following year. The "Airs of Palestine" is a poem of about eight hundred lines, in the heroic measure, in which the influence of music is shown by examples, principally from sacred history. The religious sublimity of the sentiments, the beauty of the language, and the finish of the versification, placed it at once, in the judgment of all competent to form an opinion on the subject, before any poem at that time produced in America. As a work of art, it would be nearly faultless, but for the occasional introduction of double rhymes, a violation of the simple dignity of the ten-syllable verse, induced by the intention of the author to recite it in a public assembly. He says in the preface to the third edition, that he was "aware how difficult even a good speaker finds it to rehearse heroic poetry, for any length of time, without perceiving in his hearers the somniferous effects of a regular cadence," and "the double rhyme was, therefore, occasionally thrown in, like a ledge of rocks in a smoothly gliding river, to break the current, which, without it, might appear sluggish, and to vary the melody, which might otherwise become monotonous." The following passage, descriptive of a moonlight scene in Italy, will give the reader an idea of its manner: "On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, Soon after the publication of the "Airs of Palestine," Mr. PIERPONT entered seriously upon the study of theology, first by himself, in Baltimore, and afterward as a member of the theological school connected with Harvard College. He left that seminary in October, 1818, and in April, 1819, was ordained as minister of the Hollis Street Unitarian Church, in Boston, as successor to the Reverend Doctor HoLLEY, who had recently been elected to the presidency of the Transylvania University, in Kentucky. In 1835 and 1836, in consequence of impaired health, he spent a year abroad, passing through the principal cities in England, France, and Italy, and extending his tour into the East, visiting Smyrna, the ruins of Ephesus, in Asia Minor, Constantinople, and Athens, Corinth, and some of the other cities of Greece. In 1848 he became minister of the Unitarian church in Medford, with which he remained until April, 1856, when he finally retired from the pulpit. Mr. PIERPONT has written in almost every metre, 1 and many of his hymns, odes, and other brief poems, are remarkably spirited and melodious. Several of them, distinguished alike for energy of thought and language, were educed by events connected with the moral and religious enterprises of the time, nearly all of which are indebted to his constant and earnest advocacy for much of their prosperity. In the preface to the collection of his poems published in 1840, he says, "It gives a true, though an all too feeble expression of the author's feeling and faith, of his love of right, of freedom, and man, and of his correspondent and most hearty hatred of every thing that is at war with them; and of his faith in the providence and gracious promises of God. Nay, the book is published as an expression of his faith in man; his faith that every 'ine, written to rebuke high-handed or under-handed wrong, or to keep alive the fires of civil and religious liberty,-written for solace in affliction, for support under trial, or as an expression, or for the excitement of Christian patriotism or devotion; or even with no higher aim than to throw a little sunshine into the chamber of the spirit, while it is going through some of the wearisome passages of life's history,-will be received as a proof of the writer's interest in the welfare of his fellowmen, of his desire to serve them, and consequently of his claim upon them for a charitable judgment, at least, if not even for a respectful and grateful remembrance." "PASSING AWAY." Was it the chime of a tiny bell, That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,— Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light, And he, his notes as silvery quite, While the boatman listens and ships his oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore?Hark! the notes, on my ear that play, Are set to words :-as they float, they say, Passing away! passing away!" But no; it was not a fairy's shell, Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear, As I lay in my dream; yet, was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung; (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing ;) And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And, as she enjoy'd it, she seem'd to say, Passing away! passing away!" O, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow! While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimm'd,-as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face:-Yet one could n't but love her, For she look'd like a mother, whose first babe lay Rock'd on her breast, as she swung all day;And she seem'd, in the same silver tone to say "Passing away! passing away!" While yet I look'd, what a change there came! Her eye was quench'd, and her cheek was wan: Stooping and staff'd was her wither'd frame, Yet, just as busily, swung she on; From the shrivell'd lips of the toothless crone,- FOR THE CHARLESTOWN CENTEN NIAL CELEBRATION. Two hundred years! two hundred years! How much of human power and pride, What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide! The red man at his horrid rite, Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon; His dance, his yell, his council-fire, That still, strong tide hath borne away. And that pale pilgrim band is gone, That on this shore with trembling trod, Ready to faint, yet bearing on The ark of freedom and of God. And war-that since o'er ocean came, Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 'Tis like a dream when one awakes, This vision of the scenes of old; Tis like the moon when morning breaks, "T is like a tale round watchfires told. Then what are we? then what are we? Yes, when two hundred years have roll'd O'er our green graves, our names shall be A morning dream, a tale that's told. God of our fathers, in whose sight The thousand years that sweep away Man and the traces of his might Are but the break and close of dayGrant us that love of truth sublime, That love of goodness and of thee, That makes thy children in all time To share thine own eternity. MY CHILD. I CANNOT make him dead! Is ever bounding round my study chair; I walk my parlour floor, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; And then bethink me that-he is not there! A satchell'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colour'd hair : And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there! Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! So long watch'd over with parental care, Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that-he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Is but his wardrobe lock'd;--he is not there! He lives!-In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, Meeting at thy right hand, "T will be our heaven to find that he is there |