On these a dawn of glory springs,
These trophies of her brightest fame;
Away the long-chain'd city flings

Her weeds, her shackles, and her shame;
Again her ancient souls awake,

Harmodius bears anew his sword; Her sons in wrath their fetters break, And freedom is their only lord.

CONSUMPTION.

There is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone,
And darted around its glance of power,

And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower
That ever in Pæstum's1 garden blew,
Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.
Oh, there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays,
And a veil of spotless purity

Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye;
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones, that sweetly speak
Of a spirit who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.

In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments, that pleasure hath,
Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound,
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er

1 Biferique rosaria Pasti.-VIRGIL, Geor. iv. 119.

With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast:
In this enliven'd and gladsome hour.
The spirit may burn with a brighter power;
But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.

And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,
And the whisper, that tells of early death,
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose,
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose;
And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow;

And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair,-
But the hectic spot that flushes there,
When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush is deeply swelling,
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too,
As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory met
To honor the sun at his golden set:
Oh, then, when the spirit is taking wing,
How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,
As if she would blend her soul with his

In a deep and long imprinted kiss!

So fondly the panting camel flies,

Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes,
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires

With a woman's love and a saint's desires,
And her last fond, lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to heaven;
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.

NIGHT.

Am I not all alone?-The world is still
In passionless slumber,-not a tree but feels
The far-pervading hush, and softer steals

The misty river by.-Yon broad bare hill
Looks coldly up to heaven, and all the stars
Seem eyes deep fix'd in silence, as if bound
By some unearthly spell,-no other sound
But the owl's unfrequent moan.-Their airy cars
The winds have station'd on the montain-peaks.

Am I not all alone?-A spirit speaks

From the abyss of night, "Not all alone,-
Nature is round thee with her banded powers,
And ancient genius haunts thee in these hours,—
Mind and its kingdom now are all thy own."

LOVE OF STUDY.1

And wherefore does the student trim his lamp,
And watch his lonely taper, when the stars
Are holding their high festival in heaven,
And worshipping around the midnight throne?
And wherefore does he spend so patiently,

In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming hours
Of youth and joyance, when the blood is warm,
And the heart full of buoyancy and fire?

He has his pleasures,—he has his reward:
For there is in the company of books,
The living souls of the departed sage,
And bard and hero; there is in the roll
Of eloquence and history, which speak
The deeds of early and of better days;
In these and in the visions that arise
Sublime in midnight musings, and array
Conceptions of the mighty and the good,
There is an elevating influence,

That snatches us a while from earth, and lifts
The spirit in its strong aspirings, where
Superior beings fill the court of heaven.
And thus his fancy wanders, and has talk
With high imaginings, and pictures out
Communion with the worthies of old time.

With eye upturn'd, watching the many stars,
And ear in deep attention fix'd, he sits,
Communing with himself, and with the world,
The universe around him, and with all

The beings of his memory and his hopes;

Till past becomes reality, and joys,

That beckon in the future, nearer draw,

And ask fruition,-oh, there is a pure,

A hallow'd feeling in these midnight dreams!

They have the light of heaven around them, breathe

The odor of its sanctity, and are

Those moments taken from the sands of life,

Where guilt makes no intrusion, but they bloom

Like islands flowering on Arabia's wild.

And there is pleasure in the utterance

Of pleasant images in pleasant words,

"There are many youths, and some men, who most earnestly devote themselves to solitary studies, from the mere love of the pursuit. I have here attempted to give some of the causes of a devotion which appears so unaccountable to the stirring world."

Melting like melody into the ear,
And stealing on in one continual flow
Unruffled and unbroken.

It is joy
Ineffable to dwell upon the lines

That register our feelings, and portray,
In colors always fresh and ever new,
Emotions that were sanctified, and loved,
As something far too tender, and too pure,
For forms so frail and fading.

EXTRACT FROM PROMETHEUS.

Our thoughts are boundless, though our frames are frail,
Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay;
Though darken'd in this poor life by a veil
Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play
In truth's eternal sunbeams; on the way
To heaven's high capitol our cars shall roll;
The temple of the Power whom all obey,
That is the mark we tend to, for the soul
Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.
I feel it, though the flesh is weak, I feel

The spirit has its energies untamed

By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal
The wounds which it has suffer'd; folly claim'd
Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed
Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly,
And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed
Elijah, when the chariot, rushing by,

Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky.

We are as barks afloat upon the sea,

Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled
The spirit, whose strong influence can free
The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead
Cold night of mortal darkness; from the bed
Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call,

And, kindling in the blaze around him shed,
Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall,

And gives to God his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.
Our home is not on earth; although we sleep,
And sink in seeming death a while, yet, then,
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life, and energy, and light, again;
We cannot slumber always in the den
Of sense and selfishness; the day will break,
Ere we forever leave the haunts of men;
Even at the parting hour the soul will wake,

Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey take.

How awful is that hour, when conscience stings
The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears,
Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,
In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years;

And, screaming like a vulture in his ears,
Tells, one by one, his thoughts and deeds of shame,
How wild the fury of his soul careers!

His swart eye flashes with intensest flame,

And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame.

MARIA BROOKS, 1795-1845.

MARIA GOWEN (known by the name of " Maria del Occidente," given to her by the poet Southey) was descended from a Welsh family, and born in Medford in 1795. She early displayed uncommon powers of mind, which were judiciously cultivated and directed by an intelligent and educated father. She was married very early in life to Mr. John Brooks, a merchant-tailor of Boston, who, a few years after their marriage, lost the greater part of his property, when Mrs. Brooks resorted to poetry for her amusement and consolation. In 1820, she gave to the public a small volume, entitled Judith, Esther, and other Poems, by a Lover of the Fine Arts. It contained much that was beautiful, and gave promise of far higher excellence. In 1823, Mr. Brooks died, and she went to reside with a paternal uncle in Cuba, where, in 1824, she completed her first canto of Zophiel, or The Bride of Seven, which she had planned and nearly written before leaving Boston. It was published in Boston in 1825: other cantos were written from time to time, and the sixth was published in 1829.

Mrs. Brooks's uncle having died, leaving her an ample income, she returned soon after to the United States, and in 1831 visited England, where she was cordially welcomed by the poet Southey, who pronounced her "the most impassioned and most imaginative of all poetesses." When she left England, she intrusted to his care her completed work, which he carried through the press, in London, in 1833. After returning home, she had printed, for private circulation, Idomen, or the Vale of the Yumuri, being simply her own history, under a different name. In 1843, she sailed for Matanzas, in Cuba, where she died on the 11th of November, 1845.

Zophiel, or The Bride of Seven, Mrs. Brooks's chief poem, is a beautiful tale of an exiled Jewish maiden in Media, and is evidently suggested by the Book of Tobit in the Apocrypha. Sara, the heroine in Tobit, is married to seven busbands successively, who all die on entering the bridal chamber, being killed by Asmodeus, the evil spirit. At last Tobias, the son of Tobit, being instructed by the angel Raphael how to overcome the evil spirit, marries Sara, and drives off Asmodeus by means of "a smoke" made of "the liver and heart of a fish." In Mrs. Brooks's poem, The Bride of Seven, Zophiel is Asmodeus, and Egla is Sara, a maiden of exquisite beauty, grace, and tenderness; but though the poem shows much artistic skill and has many passages of great beauty and power, it is deficient in simplicity and true human feeling, and receives rather the homage of the intellect than of the heart. Hence, while it commands the warm approbation of the few, it will never please or interest the many. Some of Mrs. Brooks's minor poems, however, have all the finish of Zophiel, and at the same time interest our feelings.