ODE TO A MOUNTAIN OAK.

Proud mountain giant, whose majestic face,
From thy high watch-tower on the steadfast rock,
Looks calmly o'er the trees that throng thy base,
How long hast thou withstood the tempest's shock
How long hast thou look'd down on yonder vale
Sleeping in sun before thee;

Or bent thy ruffled brow, to let the gale
Steer its white, drifting sails just o'er thee?
Strong link 'twixt vanish'd ages!

Thou hast a sage and reverend look;

As if life's struggle, through its varied stages,
Were stamp'd on thee, as in a book.

Thou hast no voice to tell what thou hast seen,
Save a low moaning in thy troubled leaves;

And canst but point thy scars, and shake thy head,
With solemn warning, in the sunbeam's sheen;
And show how Time the mightiest thing bereaves,
By the sere leaves that rot upon thy bed.

poets of his class in a quality essential to an acted play,-spirit. His language also rises often to the highest point of energy, pathos, and beauty."-H. T. TUCKERMAN.

Mr. Boker's Ballad of Sir John Franklin is a beautiful production,-a happy imitation of the ancient ballad,-but too long for insertion here. It reminds ine, however, of the graceful "Ballad of the Tempest," by

JAMES T. FIELDS.

Mr. Fields was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, in 1820, and is a partner of the well-known publishing-house of Ticknor & Fields, Boston,-a house that never published an inferior book, nor any book in an inferior manner. Mr. Fields has won considerable reputation as a poet, by the volume of his poetical productions published in 1849, and by two volumes privately printed for friends in 1854 and 1858.

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,-
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.
'Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shatter'd in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shudder'd there in silence,-

For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,

And the breakers talk'd with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers,-
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he stagger'd down the stairs.
But his little daughter whisper'd,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kiss'd the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchor'd safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

*Their recent "Household Edition of the Waverley Novels"-the best published in this country-is highly creditable to their judgment and taste.

Type of long-suffering power!
Even in my gayest hour

Thou'dst still my tongue, and send my spirit far,
To wander in a labyrinth of thought;

For thou hast waged with Time unceasing war,
And out of pain hast strength and beauty brought.
Thou amidst storms and tempests hadst thy birth,
Upon these bleak and scantly-sheltering rocks,
Nor much save storm and wrath hast known on earth:
Yet nobly hast thou bode the fiercest shocks
That Circumstance can pour on patient Worth.

I see thee springing, in the vernal time,
A sapling weak, from out the barren stone,
To dance with May upon the mountain-peak;
Pale leaves put forth to greet the genial clime,
And roots shot down life's sustenance to seek,
While mere existence was a joy alone,-

Oh, thou wert happy then!

On Summer's heat thy tinkling leaflets fed,
Each fibre toughen'd, and a little crown
Of green upon thy modest brow was spread,
To catch the rain, and shake it gently down
But then came Autumn, when

Thy dry and tatter'd leaves fell dead;
And sadly on the gale

Thou drop'dst them one by one,-
Drop'dst them, with a low, sad wail,
On the cold, unfeeling stone.

Next Winter seized thee in his iron grasp,

And shook thy bruised and straining form;

Or lock'd thee in his icicles' cold clasp,

And piled upon thy head the shorn cloud's snowy fleece Wert thou not joyful, in this bitter storm,

That the green honors, which erst deck'd thy head,

Sage Autumn's slow decay, had mildly shed?

Else, with their weight, they'd given thy ills increase, And dragg'd thee helpless from thy uptorn bed.

Year after year, in kind or adverse fate,

Thy branches stretch'd, and thy young twigs put forth,
Nor changed thy nature with the season's date:
Whether thou wrestled'st with the gusty north,
Or beat the driving rain to glittering froth,
Or shook the snow-storm from thy arms of might,
Or drank the balmy dews on summer's night;—
Laughing in sunshine, writhing in the storm,
Yet wert thou still the same!

Summer spread forth thy towering form,
And Winter strengthen'd thy great frame.
Achieving thy destiny

On went'st thou sturdily,

Shaking thy green flags in triumph and jubilee!

From thy secure and sheltering branch

The wild bird pours her glad and fearless lay,

That, with the sunbeams, falls upon the vale,
Adding fresh brightness to the smile of day.

'Neath those broad boughs the youth has told love's tale
And thou hast seen his hardy features blanch,
Heard his snared heart beat like a prison'd bird,
Fluttering with fear, before the fowler laid;
While his bold figure shook at every word,-
The strong man trembling at a timid maid!
And thou hast smiled upon their children's play;
Seen them grow old, and gray, and pass away.
Heard the low prattle of the thoughtless child,
Age's cold wisdom, and the lessons mild
Which patient mothers to their offspring say;—
Yet art thou still the same!

Thou stretchest thy long arms above the earth,—
Type of unbending Will!

Type of majestic, self-sustaining Power!

Elate in sunshine, firm when tempests lower,

May thy calm strength my wavering spirit fill!
Oh, let me learn from thee,

Thou proud and steadfast tree,

To bear unmurmuring what stern Time may send;
Nor 'neath life's ruthless tempests bend:
But calmly stand like thee,

Though wrath and storm shake me,
Though vernal hopes in yellow Autumn end,
And, strong in Truth, work out my destiny.
Type of long-suffering Power!

Type of unbending Will!

Strong in the tempest's hour,

Bright when the storm is still;

Rising from every contest with an unbroken heart,

Strengthen'd by every struggle, emblem of might thou art! Sign of what man can compass, spite of an adverse state, Still, from the rocky summit, teach us to war with Fate!

TO ENGLAND.

I.

Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale

Before thy Shakspeare gave it deathless fame:
The times have changed, the moral is the same
So like an outcast, dowerless, and pale,
Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale
Spread her young banner, till its sway became
A wonder to the nations. Days of shame
Are close upon thee: prophets raise their wail.

When the rude Cossack with an outstretch'd hand
Points his long spear across the narrow sea,—
"Lo! there is England!" when thy destiny
Storms on thy straw-crown'd head, and thou dost stand
Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,—
God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!

II.

1852.

Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty!
Thou rock of shelter, rising from the wave,
Sole refuge to the overwearied brave
Who plann'd, arose, and battled to be free,
Fell undeterr'd, then sadly turn'd to thee;—
Saved the free spirit from their country's grave,
To rise again, and animate the slave,
When God shall ripen all things. Britons, ye
Who guard the sacred outpost, not in vain

Hold your proud peril! Freemen undefiled,
Keep watch and ward! Let battlements be piled
Around your cliffs; fleets marshall'd, till the main
Sink under them; and if your courage wane,

Through force or fraud, look westward to your child!

III.

At length the tempest from the North has burst,
The threaten'd storm, by sages seen of old;
And into jarring anarchy is roll'd

Harmonious peace, so long and fondly nursed

By watchful nations. Tyranny accursed

1853.

Has broken bounds,-the wolf makes towards the fold.
Up! ere your priceless liberties be sold

Into degrading slavery! The worst
That can befall you is the brunt of war,

Dealt on a shield that oft has felt the weight
Of foeman's blows.-Up! ere it be too late!

For God has squander'd all his precious store
Of right and mercy, if the time's so sore

That slaves can bring you to their own base state.

IV.

1854.

Far from the Baltic to the Euxine's strand,
Peals the vast clamor of commencing war;
And we, O England, on another shore,
Like brothers bound, with wistful faces stand,—
With shouts of cheer, with wavings of the hand,-
With eager throbbings of the heart, to pour
Our warlike files amid the battle's war,
And nerve the terrors of thy lifted brand.
Old wrongs have vanish'd in thy evil hours;

The blood that fell between us, in the fight,
Has dried away before a heavenly light.
We'll strew thy paths of victory with flowers,
Weep o'er thy woes, and cry, with all our powers,
Thy cause is God's, because thy cause is right!

SARA JANE LIPPINCOTT.

THIS gifted writer, who has won such an enviable reputation around the hearthstones of this country, under the name of "Grace Greenwood," was born in Pompey, Onondaga County, New York. Her maiden name was Sara Jane Clarke, which was changed by her marriage with Mr. Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia, in October, 1853; but the appellation by which she will be best known in American literature will be that under which she made her first appearance as an author,-" Grace Greenwood."

While she was a school-girl, her parents removed to Rochester, where she enjoyed the excellent educational advantages of that place. In 1843, she removed with her parents to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, where she resided until her marriage. Soon after her removal thither, she appeared as an authoress, under the signature of "Grace Greenwood," in the columns of the "New York Mirror," then under the editorial care of George P. Morris and N. P. Willis. Among her poetical pieces which attracted most admiration were Ariadne, The Horseback Ride, and Pygmalion. These were succeeded by various prose compositions, some of which appeared in "The National Era," published in Washington. In connection with her other literary labors, she was the editor of "The Lady's Book" for a year. Her first volume, entitled Greenwood Leaves, was published in 1850. In 1851, she published a volume of Poems, and an admirable juvenile story-book, called History of my Pets. A second series of Greenwood Leaves was issued the following year; and also another juvenile work, called Recollections of my Childhood. In the spring of 1852, she visited Europe, and spent fifteen months in England and on the Continent. Soon after her return, she published a record of her travels, entitled Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe. In October, 1853, she entered upon the editorship of "The Little Pilgrim," a monthly magazine for children, published in Philadelphia by Mr. Leander K. Lippincott, to whom about this time she was married. In the fall of 1855, she published Merrie England, the first of a series of books of foreign travel for children. In the spring of 1856, a volume, entitled A Forest Tragedy, and other Tales, appeared; and in the fall of 1857, Stories and Legends of History and Travel, being the second of the series mentioned above.

It will thus be seen that Mrs. Lippincott's life is any thing but an idle one; and we rejoice that she is thus keeping her talent bright by use, charming all her readers, both old and young, by her fine thoughts, expressed in a style of great ease, simplicity, and beauty.

THE HORSEBACK RIDE.

When troubled in spirit, when weary of life,

When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife,
When its fruits, turn'd to ashes, are mocking my taste,

And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste,

1 See some account of this in a note on page 427.