FEW persons in private life, who have died so young, have been mourned by so many warm friends as was JONATHAN LAWRENCE. Devoted to a profession which engaged nearly all his time, and regardless of literary distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them.

He was born in New York, in November, 1807, and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered Columbia College, at which he was graduated before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after became a student in the office of Mr. W. SLOSSON, an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, and the undeviating purity and honourableness of his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered into a partnership with Mr. SLOSSON, and daily added confirmation to the promise of his probational career, until he was suddenly called to a better life, in April, 1833.

The industry with which he attended to his professional duties did not prevent him from giving considerable attention to general literature; and in moments to use his own language

"Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes at my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude,❞—

he produced many poems and prose sketches of considerable merit. These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence of which he was for several years an active member. After his death, in compliance with a request by this society, his brother made a collection of his writings, of which a very small edition was printed, for private circulation. Their character is essentially meditative. Many of them are devotional, and all are distinguished for the purity of thought which guided the life of the

man.

THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT.

MANY a sad, sweet thought have I,
Many a passing, sunny gleam,
Many a bright tear in mine eye,

Many a wild and wandering dream,
Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes by my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude.

Oft, when the south wind's dancing free
Over the earth and in the sky,

And the flowers peep softly out to see

The frolic Spring as she wantons by; When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin

To slight their voice, and away I'm straying
Over the hills and vales a-Maying.

Then can I hear the earth rejoice,
Happier than man may ever be;
Every fountain hath then a voice,

That sings of its glad festivity;
For it hath burst the chains that bound
Its currents dead in the frozen ground,
And, flashing away in the sun, has gone
Singing, and singing, and singing on.
Autumn hath sunset hours, and then
Many a musing mood I cherish;

Many a hue of fancy, when

The hues of earth are about to perish;
Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween,
Hath real sunset never seen,
Sad as the faces of friends that die,
And beautiful as their memory.

Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep,
Visions the mind may not control,
Waking, as fancy does in sleep,

The secret transports of the soul;
Faces and forms are strangely mingled,
Till one by one they're slowly singled,
To the voice, and lip, and eye of her
I worship like an idolater.

Many a big, proud tear have I,

When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky,

And spring, and love, I hurry back;
Then what a dismal, dreary gloom
Settles upon my loathed room,
Darker to every thought and sense
Than if they had never travell'd thence.
Yet, I have other thoughts, that cheer
The toilsome day and lonely night,
And many a scene and hope appear,

And almost make me gay and bright.
Honour and fame that I would win,
Though every toil that yet hath been
Were doubly borne, and not an hour
Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.

And, though I sometimes sigh to think

Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimm'd by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine,

That toil, and study, and care are mine.

SEA-SONG.

OVER the far blue ocean-wave,
On the wild winds I flee,

Yet every thought of my constant heart
Is winging, love, to thee;

For each foaming leap of our gallant ship
Had barb'd a pang for me,

Had not thy form, through sun and storm,
Been my only memory.

O, the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast,
As he dips in the dancing spray;
But fleeter and faster the thoughts, I ween,
Of dear ones far away!

And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue,
As it lights the tinted sea,

Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams
Of the heart that throbs for thee.

And when moon and stars are asleep on the waves,
Their dancing tops among,

And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour
By the music of his song;

When our sail is white in the dark midnight,

And its shadow is on the sea,

O, never knew hall such festival
As my fond heart holds with thee!

LOOK ALOFT.

Is the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each wo,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are
array'd,

"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,

Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And, O! when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and depart!

TO MAY.

COME, gentle May!

Come with thy robe of flowers,

Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day, From their imprisoning and mysterious night, The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.

Come, wondrous May!

For, at the bidding of thy magic wand,
Quick from the caverns of the breathing land,

In all their green and glorious array
They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail
Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.

Come, vocal May!

Come with thy train, that high

On some fresh branch pour out their melody;
Or, carolling thy praise the livelong day,
Sit perch'd in some lone glen, on echo calling,
Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.

Come, sunny May!

Come with thy laughing beam,
What time the lazy mist melts on the stream,

Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power.

Come, holy May!

When, sunk behind the cold and western hill, His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay; Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be Like a pure temple consecrate to thee.

Come, beautiful May! Like youth and loveliness,

Like her I love; O, come in thy full dress,

The drapery of dark winter cast away;
To the bright eye and the glad heart appear
Queen of the spring, and mistress of the year.

Yet, lovely May!
Teach her whose eyes shall rest upon this rhyme
To spurn the gilded mockeries of time,

The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see,

As fade thy beauties, all the vanity

Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay

In his short winter bury beauty's frame,

In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another spring shall bloom, eternal and the same.

Few persons in private life, who have died so young, have been mourned by so many warm friends as was JONATHAN LAWRENCE. Devoted to a profession which engaged nearly all his time, and regardless of literary distinction, his productions would have been known only to his associates, had not a wiser appreciation of their merits withdrawn them from the obscurity to which his own low estimate had consigned them.

He was born in New York, in November, 1807, and, after the usual preparatory studies, entered Columbia College, at which he was graduated before he was fifteen years of age. He soon after became a student in the office of Mr. W. SLOSSON, an eminent lawyer, where he gained much regard by the assiduity with which he prosecuted his studies, the premature ripeness of his judgment, and the undeviating purity and honourableness of his life. On being admitted to the bar, he entered into a partnership with Mr. SLOSSON, and daily added confirmation to the promise of his probational career, until he was suddenly called to a better life, in April, 1833.

The industry with which he attended to his professional duties did not prevent him from giving considerable attention to general literature; and in moments-to use his own language

"Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes at my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude,"-

he produced many poems and prose sketches of considerable merit. These, with one or two exceptions, were intended not for publication, but as tributes of private friendship, or as contributions to the exercises of a literary society-still in existence of which he was for several years an active member. After his death, in compliance with a request by this society, his brother made a collection of his writings, of which a very small edition was printed, for private circulation. Their character is essentially meditative. Many of them are devotional, and all are distinguished for the purity of thought which guided the life of the

man.

THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT.

MANY a sad, sweet thought have I,
Many a passing, sunny gleam,
Many a bright tear in mine eye,

Many a wild and wandering dream,
Stolen from hours I should have tied
To musty volumes by my side,
Given to hours that sweetly woo'd
My heart from study's solitude.

Oft, when the south wind's dancing free
Over the earth and in the sky,

And the flowers peep softly out to see

The frolic Spring as she wantons by; When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin

To slight their voice, and away I'm straying
Over the hills and vales a-Maying.

Then can I hear the earth rejoice,
Happier than man may ever be;
Every fountain hath then a voice,

That sings of its glad festivity;
For it hath burst the chains that bound
Its currents dead in the frozen ground,
And, flashing away in the sun, has gone
Singing, and singing, and singing on.
Autumn hath sunset hours, and then
Many a musing mood I cherish;

Many a hue of fancy, when

The hues of earth are about to perish;
Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween,
Hath real sunset never seen,
Sad as the faces of friends that die,
And beautiful as their memory.

Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep,
Visions the mind may not control,
Waking, as fancy does in sleep,

The secret transports of the soul;
Faces and forms are strangely mingled,
Till one by one they're slowly singled,
To the voice, and lip, and eye of her
I worship like an idolater.

Many a big, proud tear have I,

When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky,

And spring, and love, I hurry back;
Then what a dismal, dreary gloom
Settles upon my loathed room,
Darker to every thought and sense
Than if they had never travell'd thence.
Yet, I have other thoughts, that cheer
The toilsome day and lonely night,
And many a scene and hope appear,

And almost make me gay and bright.
Honour and fame that I would win,
Though every toil that yet hath been
Were doubly borne, and not an hour
Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.

And, though I sometimes sigh to think

Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimm'd by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine,

That toil, and study, and care are mine.

SEA-SONG.

OVER the far blue ocean-wave,

On the wild winds I flee,

Yet every thought of my constant heart
Is winging, love, to thee;

For each foaming leap of our gallant ship
Had barb'd a pang for me,

Had not thy form, through sun and storm,
Been my only memory.

O, the sea-mew's wings are fleet and fast,
As he dips in the dancing spray;
But fleeter and faster the thoughts, I ween,
Of dear ones far away!

And lovelier, too, than yon rainbow's hue,
As it lights the tinted sea,

Are the daylight dreams and sunny gleams
Of the heart that throbs for thee.

And when moon and stars are asleep on the waves,
Their dancing tops among,

And the sailor is guiling the long watch-hour
By the music of his song;

When our sail is white in the dark midnight,
And its shadow is on the sea,

O, never knew hall such festival
As my fond heart holds with thee!

LOOK ALOFT.

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, "Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy and a tear for each wo, Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are array'd,

"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,

Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And, O! when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and depart!

TO MAY.

COME, gentle May!

Come with thy robe of flowers,

Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day, From their imprisoning and mysterious night, The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.

Come, wondrous May!

For, at the bidding of thy magic wand,
Quick from the caverns of the breathing land,

In all their green and glorious array
They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail
Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.

Come, vocal May!

Come with thy train, that high

On some fresh branch pour out their melody;
Or, carolling thy praise the livelong day,
Sit perch'd in some lone glen, on echo calling,
Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.

Come, sunny May!

Come with thy laughing beam,
What time the lazy mist melts on the stream,

Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power.

Come, holy May!

When, sunk behind the cold and western hill, His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay; Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be Like a pure temple consecrate to thee.

Come, beautiful May! Like youth and loveliness,

Like her I love; O, come in thy full dress,

The drapery of dark winter cast away;
To the bright eye and the glad heart appear
Queen of the spring, and mistress of the year.

Yet, lovely May!
Teach her whose eyes shall rest upon this rhyme
To spurn the gilded mockeries of time,

The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see,

As fade thy beauties, all the vanity

Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay

In his short winter bury beauty's frame,

In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another spring shall bloom, eternal and the same.

Or the life of ELIZABETH PARK, now Mrs. HALL, I have been able to learn but few particulars. I believe she was born and educated in Boston, and that she belongs to a highly respectable family. In 1841 she was married to Mr. HALL, a clergyman of Providence, and now resides in that city. Her reputation as an author rests principally on "Miriam," a dramatic poem, published in 1837. The story of Miriam" is simple, the characters well drawn and sustained, and the incidents happily invented, though not always in keeping with the situations and qualities of the actors. THRASENO, a Christian exile from Judea, dwells with his family in Rome. He has two children, EUPHAS, and a daughter of remarkable beauty and a heart and mind in which are blended the highest attributes of her sex and her religion. She is seen and loved by PAULUS, a young nobleman, whose father, Piso, had in his youth served in the armies in Palestine. The passion is mutual, but secret; and having failed to win the Roman to her faith, the Christian maiden resolves to part from him forever. While THRASENO and her brother are attending the funeral of an aged friend, the lovers meet; and

A SCENE FROM "MIRIAM."

EUPHAS AND PISO, IN THE HALL OF A ROMAN PALACE.

Euphas. LET me but die

First of thy victims

Piso. Would that among themWhere is the sorceress ? I fain would see The beauty that hath witch'd Rome's noblest youth. Euphas. Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. Piso. I will: on her shall fall my worst revenge; And I will know what foul and magic arts—

[Miriam glides in. A pause.
Beautiful shadow! in this hour of wrath,
What dost thou here? In life thou wert too meek,
Too gentle for a lover stern as I.
And, since I saw thee last, my days have been
Deep steep'd in sin and blood! What seekest thou?
I have grown old in strife, and hast thou come,
With thy dark eyes and their soul-searching glance,
To look me into peace? It cannot be.

Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms!
He whose young love thou didst reject on earth,
May tremble at this visitation strange,
But never can know peace or virtue more!
Thou wert a Christian, and a Christian dog
Did win thy precious love. I have good cause
To hate and scorn the whole detested race;
And till I meet that man, whom most of all
My soul abhors, will I go on and slay!
Fade, vanish, shadow bright! In vain that look!
That sweet, sad look! My lot is cast in blood!
Miriam. O, say not so!

as MIRIAM is declaring to PAULUS her determination, they are interrupted by EUPHAS, who suddenly returns to inform his sister that the funeral party had been surprised by a band of Roman soldiers, some slain, and others, among whom was their father, borne to prison. The indignation of EUPHAS is excited by finding PAULUS with MIRIAM, and, by the aid of a body of Christians, armed for the emergency, he seizes him as a hostage, and goes to the palace of Piso to claim the liberation of THRASENO. MIRIAM, who had fainted during this scene, on her recovery follows him on his hopeless errand; and we are next introduced to the palace, where the young Christian is urging, on the ground of humanity, the release of his father, in a manner finely contrasted with the contemptuous fierceness of the hardhearted magistrate. The scene which follows, is that in which MIRIAM first meets Piso. The tyrant promises to restore THRASENO to his children, but they receive at their home only his dead body. PAULUS rejects his parent and his religion; and while a dirge is sung over the martyr, the soul of his lamented and suffering daughter ascends to heaven.

Piso. The voice that won me first!

O, what a tide of recollections rush
Upon my drowning soul! my own wild love-
Thy scorn-the long, long days of blood and guilt
That since have left their footprints on my fate!
The dark, dark nights of fever'd agony,
When, mid the strife and struggling of my dreams,
The gods sent thee at times to hover round,
Bringing the memory of those peaceful days
When I beheld thee first! But never yet
Before my waking eyes hast thou appear'd
Distinct and visible as now! Spirit!
What wouldst thou have?

Miriam. O, man of guilt and wo!
Thine own dark phantasies are busy now,
Lending unearthly seeming to a thing
Of earth, as thou art!

Piso. How! Art thou not she?

I know that face! I never yet beheld
One like to it among earth's loveliest.
Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art
A thing of mortal mould? O, better meet
The wailing ghosts of those whose blood doth clog
My midnight dreams, than that half-pitying eye!

Miriam. Thou art a wretched man! and I do feel
Pity even for the suffering guilt hath brought.
But from the quiet grave I have not come,
Nor from the shadowy confines of the world
Where spirits dwell, to haunt thy midnight hour.
The disembodied should be passionless,

And wear not eyes that swim in earth-born tears, As mine do now. Look up, thou conscience-struck!