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He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encounter'd in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gush'd the life-blood of her braveGush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now, all is calm, and fresh, and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry;

O! be it never heard again.

Soon rested those who fought; but thou

Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weapon'd throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet, nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown-yet faint thou not,

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The hissing, sturging bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crush'd to earth, shall rise again: The eternal years of GoD are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who help'd thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove,
The wither'd leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust,
And to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown,
And from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow,
Through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers,
That lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs,
A beauteous sisterhood!
Alas! they all are in their graves;
The gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds,

With the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie,

But the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth,
The lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet,

They perish'd long ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died,
Amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod,
And the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook
In autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven,
As falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone,
From upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day,
As still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee

From out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, Though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light

The waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers
Whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood
And by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in

Her youthful beauty died,
The fair, meek blossom that grew up
And faded by my side;

In the cold, moist earth we laid her,
When the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely
Should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,

Should perish with the flowers.

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Ye shook from faded flowers the lingering dew; Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew,

Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound, Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might; The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. The clouds before you sweep like eagles past; The homes of men are rocking in your blast; Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast,

Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, Toscape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain;

The harvest field becomes a river's bed; And torrents tumble from the hills around, Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drown'd, And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, Rise, as the rushing floods close over head. Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; Ye fling its waters round you, as a bird

Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's

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Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. O, ye wild winds! a mightier power than yours In chains upon the shores of Europe lies; The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes: And armed warriors all around him stand, And, as he struggles, tighten every band, And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.

Yet, O, when that wrong'd spirit of our race, Shall break,as soon he must, his long-worn chains, And leap in freedom from his prison-place,

Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, To waste the loveliness that time could spare, To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair Unconscious breast with blood from human veins.

But may he, like the spring-time, come abroad, Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, When in the genial breeze, the breath of God,

Come spouting up the unseal'd springs to light; Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.

AUTUMN WOODS.

ERE, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of autumn, all around our vale
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold,

In their wide sweep, the colour'd landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-colour'd foliage, in the breeze, Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseat canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

O, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad?

Ah! 't were a lot too bless'd
Forever in thy colour'd shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft southwest
To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife

That makes men mad; the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.

JOHN NEAL.

[Born about 1794.]

JOHN NEAL is now, probably, not far from fortyseven years old. He is a native of Portland, in Maine, where he passed his early years. In 1815, he went to Baltimore, and was there, for a time, associated with JoHN PIERPONT in mercantile transactions; but these resulting disastrously, he turned his attention to literature, commencing his career by writing for "The Portico," a monthly magazine, a series of critical essays, on the works of Lord BYRON. In 1818, he published "Keep Cool, a Novel," and in the following year "The Battle of Niagara, Goldau the Maniac Harper, and other Poems, by Jehu O’Cataract,' " and "Otho, a Tragedy." He also wrote a large portion of "Allen's History of the American Revolution," which appeared early in 1821. In 1822, he published, in Philadelphia, "Logan, a Novel," which was reprinted soon after in London, in four volumes. This was followed, in 1823, by "Seventy-six," the most popular of his fictions; "Randolph," a story which attracted considerable attention at the time, from the fact that it contained notices of the most prominent politicians, authors, and artists then in this country; and "Errata, or the Works of Will Adams."

Near the close of 1823, Mr. NEAL went to England. Soon after his arrival in that country, he wrote for Blackwood's Magazine "Sketches of the five American Presidents, and the five Candidates for the Presidency," an article which was republished in many of the foreign and American periodicals. To correct the erroneous opinions which he found to be prevalent in regard to this country, he contributed to Blackwood's, and other British magazines, under the guise of an Englishman, numerous articles on the political and social condition of the United States, which attracted considerable attention, and led to his introduction

to many distinguished men, among whom was JEREMY BENTHAM. His acquaintance with this distinguished philosopher, it is said, had much influence on his subsequent conduct and opinions.

After passing four years in Great Britain and France, and publishing, besides his papers in the periodicals, the novel entitled "Brother Jonathan," Mr. NEAL returned to his native city of Portland, where he has since resided. The year after his return, he published "Rachel Dyer," a novel, and he has since that time given to the world "Authorship," "The Down Easters," and 66 Bentham's Morals and Legislation." He also conducted for two years "The Yankee," a weekly gazette, and he has written much in other periodicals.

Mr. NEAL is a man of uncommon natural abilities; and had he been thoroughly educated, he might have won an enduring and enviable reputation as an author. His works contain many brilliant passages, but they are written too carelessly, and with too little regard to the rules of art, to be long remembered.

I have heard an anecdote which illustrates the rapidity with which he throws off his compositions. When he lived in Baltimore, he went one evening to the rooms of PIERPONT, and read to him a poem which he had just completed. The author of 66 The Airs of Palestine" was always a nice critic, and he frankly pointed out the faults of the performance. NEAL promised to revise it, and submit it again on the following morning. At the appointed time he repaired to the apartment of his friend, and read to him a new poem, of three or four hundred lines; he had tried to improve his first attempt, but failing to do so, had chosen a new subject, a new measure, and produced an entirely new work, before he retired to sleep. True poetry is never so written.

THE SOLDIER'S VISIT TO HIS FAMILY.‡
AND there the stranger stays: beneath that oak,
Whose shatter'd majesty hath felt the stroke
Of heaven's own thunder-yet it proudly heaves
A giant sceptre, wreathed with blasted leaves,-

"JEHU O'CATARACT" was the name given to NEAL by the Delphian Club of Baltimore, of which PAUL ALLEN, Gen. BYND, the Rev. JOHN PIERPONT, Judge BRECKENRIDGE, NEAL, and other distinguished men, were then members. The second edition of the Battle of Niagara was published in 1819, and for "JEHU O'CATARACT" was substituted "JOHN NEAL."

In a note in Blackwood's Magazine, Mr. NEAL says he wrote "Randolph” in thirty-six days, with an interval of about a week between the two volumes, in which he wrote nothing; "Errata" in less than thirty-nine days; and "Seventy-six" in twenty-seven days. During this time he was engaged in professional business, and they were written in the leisure and idle hours of a lawyer. From "The Battle of Niagara."

As though it dared the elements, and stood
The guardian of that cot, the monarch of that wood.
Beneath its venerable vault he stands:

And one might think, who saw his outstretch'd hands,

That something more than soldiers e'er may feel,
Had touch'd him with its holy, calm appeal:
That yonder wave-the heaven-the earth-the air
Had call'd upon his spirit for her prayer.
His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene:
The oak-the cot-the wood-the faded green-
The moon-the sky-the distant moving light-
All, all are gathering on his dampen'd sight.
His warrior helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade
Beneath a window on the turf are laid;
The panes are ruddy through the clambering vines
And blushing leaves, that summer intertwines
In warmer tints than e'er luxuriant spring,
O'er flower-imbosom'd roof led wandering.

His pulses quicken; for a rude, old door
Is open'd by the wind; he sees the floor,
Strew'd with white sand, on which he used to trace
His boyhood's battles, and assign a place
To charging hosts, and give the Indian yell,
And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tell
How he had fought with savages, whose breath
He felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death.
Hark! that sweet song, how full of tenderness!
O! who would breathe in this voluptuous press
Of lulling thoughts! so soothing, and so low,
Like singing fountains in their faintest flow:
It is as if some holy, lovely thing,
Within our very hearts were murmuring.
The soldier listens, and his arms are press'd
In thankfulness, and trembling on his breast;
Now, on the very window where he stands,
Are seen a clambering infant's rosy hands;
And now-ah, Heaven! blessings on that smile!
Stay, soldier, stay! O, linger yet a while!
An airy vision now appears, with eyes
As tender as the blue of weeping skies,
Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue
When sunset glitters on its falling dew:
With form-all joy and dance-as bright and free
As youthful nymph of mountain liberty,
Or naked angels, dream'd by poesy;
A blooming infant to her heart is press'd,
And, ah! a mother's song is lulling it to rest.

A single bound! our chief is standing by,
Trembling from head to foot with ecstasy; [love!
"Bless thee!" at length he murmur'd, "bless thee,
My wife! my boy!" Their eyes are raised above.
His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone,
A choking transport drowns his manly tone.
He sees the closing of that mild, blue eye,
His bosom echoes to a faint, low cry,

His glorious boy springs freshly from his sleep,
Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eyebeams leap,
As half in fear, along the stranger's dress,
Then, half-advancing, yields to his caress;
Then peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye,
With the clear look of radiant infancy,
The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky,
The stranger now is kneeling by the side
Of that young mother, watching for the tide
Of her returning life: it comes; a glow
Goes faintly, slowly, o'er her cheek and brow:
A rising of the gauze that lightly shrouds
A snowy breast, like twilight's melting clouds,
In nature's pure, still eloquence, betrays
The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze.

THE BIRTH OF A POET.

Os a blue summer night,
When the stars were asleep,
Like gems of the deep,
In their own drowsy light;
While the newly-mown hay
On the green earth lay,

And all that came near it went scented away;
From a lone, woody place
There look'd out a face,

With large, blue eyes,

Like the wet, warm skies, Brim full of water and light; A profusion of hair

Flashing out on the air,

And a forehead alarmingly bright: "T was the head of a poet! He grew As the sweet, strange flowers of the wilderness grow, In the dropping of natural dew, Unheeded-alone

Till his heart had blown

As the sweet, strange flowers of the wilderness blow;
Till every thought wore a changeable strain,
Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain:
A proud and passionate boy was he,
Like all the children of Poesy;
With a haughty look, and a haughty tread,
And something awful about his head;
With wonderful eyes,

Full of wo and surprise,

Like the eyes of them that can see the dead. Looking about,

For a moment or two, he stood,

On the shore of the mighty wood;

Then ventured out,

With a bounding step and a joyful shout,
The brave sky bending o'er him!
The broad sea all before him!

AMBITION.

I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, wben-flaming high—
I saw our starry banners fly,
As challenging the haughty sky;

They went like battle o'er my soul:
For I was so ambitious then,

I burn'd to be the slave-of men.

I stood and saw the morning light,
A standard swaying far and free;
And loved it like the conquering flight
Of angels floating wide and bright,
Above the stars, above the fight

Where nations warr'd for liberty:
And thought I heard the battle-cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep,

And shouted to the eagle soaring;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And, O, my very soul would leap

To hear the gallant waters roaring;
For every sound and shape of strife
To me was but the breath of life.
But I am strangely alter'd now,—

I love no more the bugle's voice-
The rushing wave-the plunging prow―
The mountain, with his clouded brow-
The thunder, when his blue skies bow,

And all the sons of Gon rejoice,—
I love to dream of tears and sighs,
And shadowy hair, and half-shut eyes.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

[Born, 1795. Died, 1820.]

THE author of the "Culprit Fay" was born in the city of New York, on the seventh day of August, 1795. His father died while he was very young, and I believe left his family in possession of but little property. Young DRAKE, therefore, experienced some difficulties in acquiring his education. He entered Columbia College, however, at an early period, and passed through that seminary with a reputation for scholarship, taste, and admirable social qualities. He soon after made choice of the medical profession, and became a student, first, with Doctor ROMAINE, and subsequently with Doctor POWELL, both of whom were at that time popular physicians in New York.

Soon after completing his professional studies he was married to Miss SARAH ECKFORD, a daughter of the well-known marine architect, HENRY ECKFORD, through whom he inherited a moderate for

tune.

His health, about the same time, began to decline, and in the winter of 1819 he visited New Orleans, to which city his mother, who had married a second husband, had previously removed with his three sisters. He had anticipated some benefit from the sea-voyage, and the mild climate of Louisiana, but was disappointed, and in the spring of 1820 he returned to New York. His disease--consumption--was now too deeply seated for hope of restoration to be cherished, and he gradually withdrew himself from society, and sought quiet among his books, and in the companionship of his wife and most intimate friends. He lingered through the summer, and died near the close of September, in the twenty-sixth year of his age.

He began to write verses when very young, and was a contributor to several gazettes before he was sixteen years old. He permitted none but his most intimate friends to know his signatures, and sometimes kept the secrets of his authorship entirely to himself. The first four of the once celebrated series of humorous and satirical odes, known as the "Croaker Pieces," were written by him, for the New York "Evening Post," in which they appeared between the tenth and the twentieth of March, 1819. After the publication of the fourth number, DRAKE made HALLECK, then recently arrived in New York, a partner, and the remainder of the pieces were signed "Croaker and Co." The last one written by DRAKE was "The American Flag," printed on the twenty-ninth of May, and the last of the series, "Curtain Conversations," was contributed by HALLECK, on the twenty-fourth of July. These pieces related to persons, events, and scenes, with which most of the readers in New York were familiar, and as they were distinguished alike for playful humour, and an easy and spirited diction, they became very popular, and many efforts were made to find out the authors. Both DRAKE and HALLECK were unknown as poets, and, as they

kept the secret from their friends, a considerable period elapsed before they were discovered.

The "Croakers" are now, however, well nigh forgotten, save a few of the least satirical numbers, which HALLECK has preserved in the collections of his own and of his friend's writings; and the reputation of either author rests on more elaborate and ingenious productions. The longest poem by DRAKE is "The Culprit Fay," a story exhibiting the most delicate fancy, and much artistic skill, which was not printed until several years after his death. It was composed hastily among the highlands of the Hudson, in the summer of 1819. The author was walking with some friends, on a warm, moonlit evening, when one of the party remarked, that "it would be difficult to write a fairy poem, purely imaginative, without the aid of human characters." When the friends were reassembled, two or three days afterwards, "The Culprit Fay" was read to them, nearly as it is printed in this volume.

DRAKE placed a very modest estimate on his own productions, and it is believed that but a small portion of them have been preserved. When on his death-bed, a friend inquired of him what disposition he would have made with his poems? "O, burn them," he replied, "they are quite valueless." Written copies of a number of them were, however, in circulation, and some had been incorrectly printed in the periodicals; and, for this reason, Commodore DEKAY, the husband of the daughter and only child of the deceased poet, in 1836 published the single collection of them which has appeared. It includes, beside "The Culprit Fay," eighteen shorter pieces, some of which are very beautiful.

DRAKE was unassuming and benevolent in his manners and his feelings, and he had an unfailing fountain of fine humour, which made him one of the most pleasant of companions. HALLECK closes a tributary poem published soon after his death, in the New York Review," with the following

stanzas

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth.

And I, who woke each morrow

To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine,—
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vain essay'd it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fix'd too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

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