Alas for SAM! Had he aright preferr'd The kindly element, to which he gave

Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard
That it was now his winding-sheet and grave,
Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for
the brave.

He soon got drunk, with rum and with renown,
As many others in high places do ;-
Whose fall is like SAM's last-for down and down,
By one mad impulse driven, they flounder through
The gulf that keeps the future from our view,
And then are found not. May they rest in peace!
We heave the sigh to human frailty due-
And shall not SAM have his? The muse shall cease
To keep the heroic roll, which she began in Greece-

With demigods, who went to the Black Sea

For wool, (and, if the best accounts be straight, Came back, in negro phraseology,

With the same wool each upon his pate,) In which she chronicled the deathless fate Of him who jump'd into the perilous ditch

Left by Rome's street commissioners, in a state Which made it dangerous, and by jumping which He made himself renown'd, and the contractors

rich

I say, the muse shall quite forget to sound

The chord whose music is undying, if

She do not strike it when SAM PATCH is drown'd.
LEANDER dived for love. Leucadia's cliff
The Lesbian SAPPHо leap'd from in a miff,
To punish PHAON; ICARUS went dead,

Because the wax did not continue stiff;
And, had he minded what his father said,
He had not given a name unto his watery bed.
And HELLE's case was all an accident,

As everybody knows. Why sing of these?
Nor would I rank with SAM that man who went
Down into Etna's womb-EMPEDOCLES,
I think he call'd himself. Themselves to please,
Or else unwillingly, they made their springs;
For glory in the abstract, SAM made his,
To prove to all men, commons, lords, and kings,
That "some things may be done, as well as other
things."

I will not be fatigued, by citing more

Who jump'd of old, by hazard or design, Nor plague the weary ghosts of boyish lore, VULCAN, APOLLO, PHAETON-in fine,

All TOOKE's Pantheon. Yet they grew divine By their long tumbles; and if we can match Their hierarchy, shall we not entwine One wreath? Who ever came "up to the scratch," And, for so little, jump'd so bravely as SAM PATCH? To long conclusions many men have jump'd In logic, and the safer course they took; By any other, they would have been stump'd, Unable to argue, or to quote a book, And quite dumb-founded, which they cannot They break no bones, and suffer no contusion,

[brook;

Hiding their woful fall, by hook and crook, In slang and gibberish, sputtering and confusion; But that was not the way SAM came to his conclusion.

.He jump'd in person. Death or Victory

Was his device, "and there was no mistake," Except his last; and then he did but die,

A blunder which the wisest men will make. Aloft, where mighty floods the mountains break To stand, the target of ten thousand eyes, And down into the coil and water-quake To leap, like MAIA's offspring, from the skiesFor this, all vulgar flights he ventured to despise. And while Niagara prolongs its thunder, Though still the rock primeval disappears, And nations change their bounds-the theme of wonder

Shall SAM go down the cataract of long years And if there be sublimity in tears,

Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed

When his frail star gave way, and waked his fears Lest by the ungenerous crowd it might be said, That he was all a hoax, or that his pluck had filed. Who would compare the maudlin ALEXANDER, Blubbering, because he had no job in hand, Acting the hypocrite, or else the gander, With SAM, whose grief we all can understand? His crying was not womanish, nor plann'd For exhibition; but his heart o'erswell'd

With its own agony, when he the grand Natural arrangements for a jump beheld, And, measuring the cascade, found not his courage quell'd.

His last great failure set the final seal

Unto the record Time shall never tear,

While bravery has its honour,-while men feel
The holy, natural sympathies which are
First, last, and mightiest in the bosom. Where
The tortured tides of Genessee descend,

He came his only intimate a bear,-
(We know not that he had another friend,)
The martyr of renown, his wayward course to end.
The fiend that from the infernal rivers stole

Hell-draughts for man, too much tormented him, With nerves unstrung, but steadfast in his soul, He stood upon the salient current's brim; His head was giddy, and his sight was dim; And then he knew this leap would be his last,— Saw air, and earth, and water wildly swim, With eyes of many multitudes, dense and vast, That stared in mockery; none a look of kindness

cast.

Beat down, in the huge amphitheatre

"I see before me the gladiator lie,"
And tier on tier, the myriads waiting there
The bow of grace, without one pitying eye-
He was a slave-a captive hired to die;-
SAM was born free as CESAR; and he might
The hopeless issue have refused to try;
No! with true leap, but soon with faltering flight,-
Deep in the roaring gulf, he plunged to endless
night."

But, ere he leap'd, he begg'd of those who made
Money by his dread venture, that if he
Should perish, such collection should be paid
As might be pick'd up from the " company"

To his mother. This, his last request, shall be,Though she who bore him ne'er his fate should [knowAn iris, glittering o'er his memory, When all the streams have worn their barriers low, And, by the sea drunk up, forever cease to flow. On him who chooses to jump down cataracts,

Why should the sternest moralist be severe ? Judge not the dead by prejudice-but facts, Such as in strictest evidence appear; Else were the laurels of all ages sere. Give to the brave, who have pass'd the final goal,— The gates that ope not back,—the generous tear; [roll. And let the muse's clerk upon her scroll, In coarse, but honest verse, make up the judgment

Therefore it is consider'd, that SAM PATCH

Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme; His name shall be a portion in the batch

Of the heroic dough, which baking Time Kneads for consuming ages-and the chime Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring,

Shall tell of him; he dived for the subline, And found it. Thou, who with the eagle's wing, Being a goose, wouldst fly,-dream not of such a thing!

EVENING.

HAIL! sober evening! thee the harass'd brain
And aching heart with fond orisons greet;
The respite thou of toil; the balm of pain;
To thoughtful mind the hour for musing meet:
"Tis then the sage, from forth his lone retreat,
The rolling universe around espies;

"Tis then the bard may hold communion sweet
With lovely shapes, unkenn'd by grosser eyes,
And quick perception comes of finer mysteries.
The silent hour of bliss! when in the west
Her argent cresset lights the star of love :-
The spiritual hour! when creatures bless'd
Unseen return o'er former haunts to rove;
While sleep his shadowy mantle spreads above,
Sleep, brother of forgetfulness and death,
Round well-known couch, with noiseless tread
they rove,

In tones of heavenly music comfort breathe, And tell what weal or bale shall chance the moon beneath.

Hour of devotion! like a distant sea,
The world's loud voices faintly murmuring die;
Responsive to the spheral harmony,
While grateful hymns are borne from earth on high.
O! who can gaze on yon unsullied sky,
And not grow purer from the heavenward view?
As those, the Virgin Mother's meek, full eye,
Who met, if uninspired lore be true,
Felt a new birth within, and sin no longer knew.

Let others hail the oriflamme of morn,
O'er kindling hills unfurl'd with gorgeous dyes.
O, mild, blue Evening! still to thee I turn,
With holier thought, and with undazzled eyes;-

* From "Yamoyden."

WEEHAWKEN.

EVE o'er our path is stealing fast;
Yon quivering splendours are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.

The mountain's mirror'd outline fades
Amid the fast-extending shades;
Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,
Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide;
For the great stream a bulwark meet
That leaves its rock-encumber'd feet.

River and mountain! though to song
Not yet, perchance, your names belong;
Those who have loved your evening hues
Will ask not the recording muse
What antique tales she can relate,
Your banks and steeps to consecrate.

Yet, should the stranger ask, what lore
Of by-gone days, this winding shore,
Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,-
The varying legend might rehearse
Fit themes for high, romantic verse.

O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sol
Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod;
Or pcer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark
The progress of the glancing bark.
Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,
Have lurk'd in yon obstructed caves.
When the great strife for Freedom rose,
Here scouted oft her friends and foes,
Alternate, through the changeful war,
And beacon-fires flash'd bright and far;
And here, when Freedom's strife was won,
Fell, in sad feud, her favour'd son:-

Her son, the second of the band,
The Romans of the rescued land.
Where round yon capes the banks ascend,
Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;
There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,
There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.

There last he stood. Before his sight
Flow'd the fair river, free and bright;
The rising mart, and isles, and bay,
Before him in their glory lay,-
Scenes of his love and of his fame,-
The instant ere the death-shot came.

THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS.

THEY say that, afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green Isle of Lovers.

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom, Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume; And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd,

All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east; There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers: "Tis the land of the sunbeam,-the green Isle of Lovers!

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs

Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires The dance and the revel, mid forests that cover On high with their shade the green Isle of the Lover.

But fierce as the snake, with his eyeballs of fire, When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire, Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, Whose law is their will, and whose life is their smile; From beauty there valour and strength are not

rovers,

And peace reigns supreme in the green Isle of
Lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore,
In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more;
It flcets on the vision, deluding the view,
Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue;
O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover
The home undisturb'd, the green Isle of the Lover!

THE DEAD OF 1832.

O, TIME and Death! with certain pace,
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning, in your awful race,
The cot, the palace, and the throne!

Not always in the storm of war,

Nor by the pestilence that sweeps From the plague-smitten realms afar, Beyond the old and solemn deeps:

In crowds the good and mighty go,

And to those vast, dim chambers hie: Where, mingled with the high and low, Dead CESARs and dead SHAKSPEARES lie!

Dread ministers of God! sometimes
Ye smite at once to do his will,

In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes,
Those whose renown ye cannot kill!

When all the brightest stars that burn
At once are banish'd from their spheres,
Men sadly ask, when shall return

Such lustre to the coming years!

For where is he*-who lived so long

Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, And show'd his fate in powerful song,

Whose soul for learning's sake was lost? Where he who backward to the birth

Of Time itself, adventurous trod, And in the mingled mass of earth

Found out the handiwork of Gon?†

Where he who in the mortal head,‡

Ordain'd to gaze on heaven, could trace The soul's vast features, that shall tread

The stars, when earth is nothingness? Where he who struck old Albyn's lyre,§

Till round the world its echoes roll, And swept, with all a prophet's fire,

The diapason of the soul?

Where he who read the mystic lore

Buried where buried PHARAOHS sleep; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep!

Where he who, with a poct's eye¶

Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, And made even sordid Poverty

Classic, when in his numbers glazed? Where that old sage so hale and staid," The "greatest good" who sought to find Who in his garden mused, and made

All forms of rule for all mankind? And thou-whom millions far removedt† Revered--the hierarch meek and wise, Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,

Near where thy WESLEY'S coffin lies. He, too-the heir of glory-where t Hath great NAPOLEON'S Scion fled? Ah! glory goes not to an heir!

Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!
But hark! a nation sighs! for he,§§
Last of the brave who perill'd all
To make an infant empire free,
Obeys the inevitable call!

They go and with them is a crowd,
For human rights who thought and did:
We rear to them no temples proud,

Each hath his mental pyramid.

PARTING.

SAY, when afar from mine thy home shall be,
Still will thy soul unchanging turn to me?
When other scenes in beauty round thee lie,
Will these be present to thy mental eye?
Thy form, thy mind, when others fondly praise,
Wilt thou forget thy poet's humbler lays?
Ah me! what is there, in earth's various range,
That time and absence may not sadly change!
And can the heart, that still demands new ties,
New thoughts, for all its thousand sympathies—
The waxen heart, where every seal may set,
In turn, its stamp-remain unalter'd yet,
While nature changes with each fleeting day,
And seasons dance their varying course away?
Ah! shouldst thou swerve from truth, all else must
part,

That yet can feed with life this wither'd heart!
Whate'er its doubts, its hopes, its fears may be,
"T were, even in madness, faithful still to thee;
And shouldst thou snap that silver chord in twain,
The golden bowl no other links sustain;
Crush'd in the dust, its fragments then must sink,
And the cold earth its latest life-drops drink.
Blame not, if oft, in melancholy mood,
This theme, too far, sick fancy hath pursued;
And if the soul, which high with hope should beat,
Turns to the gloomy grave's unbless'd retreat.

Majestic nature! since thy course began,
Thy features wear no sympathy for man;
The sun smiles loveliest on our darkest hours;
O'er the cold grave fresh spring the sweetest flowers,
And man himself, in selfish sorrows bound,
Heeds not the melancholy ruin round.
The crowd's vain roar still fills the passing breeze
That bends above the tomb the cypress-trees.
One only heart, still true in joy or wo,

Is all the kindest fates can e'er bestow.
If frowning Heaven that heart refuse to give,
O, who would ask the ungracious boon--to live?
Then better 't were, if longer doom'd to prove
The listless load of life, unbless'd with love,
To seek midst ocean's waste some island fair,—
And dwell, the anchorite of nature, there;-
Some lonely isle, upon whose rocky shore
No sound, save curlew's scream, or billow's roar,
Hath echoed ever; in whose central woods,
With the quick spirit of its solitudes,
In converse deep, strange sympathies untried,
The soul might find, which this vain world denied.

But I will trust that heart, where truth alone,
In loveliest guise, sits radiant on her throne;
And thus believing, fear not all the power
Of absence drear, or time's most tedious hour.
If e'er I sigh to win the wreaths of fame,
And write on memory's scroll a deathless name,
"Tis but thy loved, approving smile to meet,
And lay the budding laurels at thy feet.
If e'er for worldly wealth I heave a sigh,
And glittering visions float on fancy's eye,
"Tis but with rosy wreaths thy path to spread,
And place the diadem on beauty's head.
Queen of my thoughts, each subject to thy sway,
Thy ruling presence lives but to obey;

And shouldst thou e'er their bless'd allegiance slight,
The mind must wander, lost in endless night.
Farewell! forget me not, when others gaze
Enamour'd on thee, with the looks of praise;
When weary leagues before my view are cast,
And each dull hour seems heavier than the last,
Forget me not. May joy thy steps attend,
And mayst thou find in every form a friend;
With care unsullied be thy every thought;
And in thy dreams of home, forget me not!

CONCLUSION TO YAMOYDEN.

SAD was the theme, which yet to try we chose, In pleasant moments of communion sweet: When least we thought of earth's unvarnish'd

woes,

And least we dream'd, in fancy's fond deceit, That either the cold grasp of death should meet, Till after many years, in ripe old age; Three little summers flew on pinions fleet, And thou art living but in memory's page, And earth seems all to me a worthless pilgrimage. Sad was our theme; but well the wise man sung, "Better than festal halls, the house of wo;" "Tis good to stand destruction's spoils among, And muse on that sad bourne to which we go. The heart grows better when tears freely flow; And, in the many-colour'd dream of earth, One stolen hour, wherein ourselves we know, Our weakness and our vanity,--is worth Years of unmeaning smiles, and lewd, obstreperous mirth.

"Tis good to muse on nations pass'd away, Forever, from the land we call our own; Nations, as proud and mighty in their day, Who deem'd that everlasting was their throne. An age went by, and they no more were known Sublimer sadness will the mind control, Listening time's deep and melancholy moan; And meaner griefs will less disturb the soul; And human pride falls low, at human grandeur's goal.

PHILIP! farewell! thee King, in idle jest, Thy persecutors named; and if indeed, The jewell'd diadem thy front had press'd, It had become thee better, than the breed Of palaces, to sceptres that succeed, To be of courtier or of priest the tool, Satiate dull sense, or count the frequent Lead, Or pamper gormand hunger; thou wouldst rule Better than the worn rake, the glutton, or the fool!

I would not wrong thy warrior shade, could I Aught in my verse or make or mar thy fame; As the light carol of a bird flown by [name: Will pass the youthful strain that breathed thy But in that land whence thy destroyers came, A sacred bard thy champion shall be found; He of the laureate wreath for thee shall claim The hero's honours, to earth's farthest bound. Where Albion's tongue is heard, or Albion's songs resound.

INVOCATION.

On quick for me the goblet fill,
From bright Castalia's sparkling rill;
Pluck the young laurel's flexile bough,
And let its foliage wreathe my brow;
And bring the lyre with sounding shell,
The four-string'd lyre I loved so well!
Lo! as I gaze, the picture flies
Of weary life's realities;

Behold the shade, the wild wood shade,
The mountain steeps, the checker'd glade;
And hoary rocks and bubbling rills,
And painted waves and distant hills.

Oh! for an hour, let me forget
How much of life is left me yet;
Recall the visions of the past,
Fair as these tints that cannot last,
That all the heavens and waters o'er
Their gorgeous, transient glories pour.
Ye pastoral scenes, by fancy wrought!
Ye pageants of the loftier thought!
Creations proud! majestic things!
Heroes, and demigods, and kings!
Return, with all of shepherds' lore,
Or old romance that pleased before!
Ye forms that are not of the earth,
Of grace, of valour, and of worth!
Ye bright abstractions, by the thought
Like the great master's pictures, wrought
To the ideal's shadowy mien,
From beauties fancied, dreamt or seen!
Ye speaking sounds, that poet's car
Alone in nature's voice can hear!
Thou full conception, vast and wide.
Hour of the lonely minstrel's pride,
As when projection gave of old
Alchymy's visionary gold!
Return! return! oblivion bring

Of cares that vex, and thoughts that sting'
The hour of gloom is o'er my soul;
Disperse the shades, the fiends control,
As David's harp had power to do,
If sacred chronicles be true.
Oh come! by every classic spell,
By old Pieria's haunted well;
By revels on the Olmeian height
Held in the moon's religious light;
By virgin forms that wont to lave,
Permessus! in thy lucid wave!

In vain! in vain! the strain has pass'd;
The laurel leaves upon the blast
Float, wither'd, ne'er again to bloom,
The cup is drain'd-the song is dumb-
And spell and rhyme alike in vain
Would woo the genial muse again.

GOOD-NIGHT.

Goon night to all the world! there's none,
Beneath the "over-going" sun,
To whom I feel or hate or spite,
And so to all a fair good-night.

Would I could say good night to pain,
Good night to conscience and her train,
To cheerless poverty, and shame
That I am yet unknown to fame!
Would I could say good night to dreams
That haunt me with delusive gleams,
That through the sable future's veil
Like meteors glimmer, but to fail.
Would I could say a long good-night
To halting between wrong and right,
And, like a giant with new force,
Awake prepared to run my course!
But time o'er good and ill sweeps on,
And when few years have come and gone,
The past will be to me as naught,
Whether remember'd or forgot.
Yet let me hope one faithful friend,
O'er my last couch shall tearful bend;
And, though no day for me was bright,
Shall bid me then a long good-night.

FROM A MONODY ON J. W. EASTBURN
BUT now, that cherish'd voice was near;
And all around yet breathes of him;-
We look, and we can only hear

The parting wings of cherubim !
Mourn ye, whom haply nature taught

To share the bard's communion high; To scan the ideal world of thought,

That floats before the poet's eye;— Ye, who with ears o'ersated long,

From native bards disgusted fly, Expecting only, in their song,

The ribald strains of calumny;Mourn ye a minstrel chaste as sweet, Who caught from heaven no doubtful fire, But chose immortal themes as meet

Alone for an immortal lyre.

O silent shell! thy chords are riven !

That heart lies cold before its prime !
Mute are those lips, that might have given
One deathless descant to our clime!
No laurel chaplet twines he now;

He sweeps a harp of heavenly tone,
And plucks the amaranth for his brow

That springs beside the eternal throne.
Mourn ye, whom friendship's silver chain
Link'd with his soul in bonds refined;
That earth had striven to burst in vain,--
The sacred sympathy of mind.
Still long that sympathy shall last:

Still shall each object, like a spell,
Recall from fate the buried past,

Present the mind beloved so well.
That pure intelligence-Oh where

Now is its onward progress won?
Through what new regions does it dare
Push the bold quest on earth begun!
In realms with boundless glory fraught,
Where fancy can no trophies raise-
In blissful vision, where the thought
Is whelm'd in wonder and in praise!