There is much merit in some passages of the fragment of the "Age of Benevolence." WILCOX was pious, gentle-hearted, and unaffected and retiring in his manners. The general character of his poetry is religious and sincere. He was a lover of nature, and he described rural sights and sounds with singular clearness and fidelity. In the ethical and narrative parts of his poems, he was less successful than in the descriptive; but an earnestness and simplicity pervaded all that he wrote. SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND.* LONG Swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds Start at the touch of vivifying beams. On the first morn, light as an open plain Is lovely Nature, as in her bless'd prime. This and the four following extracts are from "The Age of Benevolence." Close to the door, repairs to build again And on its top a trembling moment stand, And the fair prospect of a fruitful year, He follows slow and silent, stopping oft A SUMMER NOON. A SULTRY noon, not in the summer's prime, When all is fresh with life, and youth, and bloom, But near its close, when vegetation stops, And fruits mature stand ripening in the sun, Soothes and enervates with its thousand charms, Its images of silence and of rest, The melancholy mind. The fields are still; The husbandman has gone to his repast, And, that partaken, on the coolest side Of his abode, reclines in sweet repose. Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand, The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone, And panting quick. The fields, for harvest ripe, No breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, While with their motion, dim and bright by turns, The sunshine seems to move; nor e'en a breath Brushes along the surface with a shade Fleeting and thin, like that of flying smoke. The slender stalks their heavy bended heads Support as motionless as oaks their tops. O'er all the woods the topmost leaves are still; E'en the wild poplar leaves, that, pendent hung By stems elastic, quiver at a breath, Rest in the general calm. The thistle down, Seen high and thick, by gazing up beside Some shading object, in a silver shower Plumb down, and slower than the slowest snow, Through all the sleepy atmosphere descends; And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct From the resplendent sky, a single cloud, On the soft bosom of the air becalm'd, Drops a lone shadow, as distinct and still, On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side; Or in the polish'd mirror of the lake, In which the deep reflected sky appears A calm, sublime immensity below. No sound nor motion of a living thing The stillness breaks, but such as serve to soothe, Or cause the soul to feel the stillness more. The yellow-hammer by the way-side picks, Mutely, the thistle's seed; but in her flight, So smoothly serpentine, her wings outspread Powder'd with gold; while on the jutting twigs SEPTEMBER. THE sultry summer past, September comes, Soft twilight of the slow-declining year. All mildness, soothing loneliness, and peace; The fading season ere the falling come, More sober than the buxom, blooming May, And therefore less the favourite of the world, But dearest month of all to pensive minds. "Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams, Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, Checker'd by one night's frost with various hues, While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, The yellow, red, or purple of the trees That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side Of some high mount reflected far below, With its bright colours, intermix'd with spots Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad To wander in the open fields, and hear, E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past, The lulling insects of the summer's night; To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, A lonely bee long roving here and there To find a single flower, but all in vain; Then rising quick, and with a louder hum, In widening circles round and round his head, Straight by the listener flying clear away, SUNSET IN SEPTEMBER.* THE sun now rests upon the mountain topsBegins to sink behind-is half conceal'dAnd now is gone: the last faint, twinkling beam Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. Sweet to the pensive is departing day, When only one small cloud, so still and thin, So thoroughly imbued with amber light, And so transparent, that it seems a spot Of brighter sky, beyond the farthest mount, Hangs o'er the hidden orb; or where a few Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain, At each end sharpen'd to a needle's point, With golden borders,sometimes straight and smooth, And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, A half-hour's space above the mountain lie; Or when the whole consolidated mass, That only threaten'd rain, is broken up Into a thousand parts, and yet is one, One as the ocean broken into waves; And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed Every person, who has witnessed the splendour of the sunset scenery in Andover, will recognise with delight the local as well as general truth and beauty of this description. There is not, perhaps, in New England, a spot where the sun goes down, of a clear summer's evening, amidst so much grandeur reflected over earth and sky. In the winter season, too, it is a most magnificent and impressive scene. The great extent of the landscape; the situation of the hill, on the broad, level summit of which stand the buildings of the Theological Institution; the vast amphitheatre of luxuriant forest and field, which rises from its base, and swells away into the heavens; the perfect outline of the horizon; the noble range of blue mountains in the background, that seem to retire one beyond another almost to infinite distance; together with the magnificent expanse of sky visible at once from the elevated spot,-these features constitute at all times a scene on which the lover of nature can never be weary with gazing. When the sun goes down, it is all in a blaze with his descending glory. The sunset is the most perfectly beautiful when an afternoon shower has just preceded it. The gorgeous clouds roll away like masses of amber. The sky, close to the horizon, is a sea of the richest purple. The setting sun shines through the mist, which rises from the wet forest and meadow, and makes the clustered foliage appear invested with a brilliant golden transparency. Nearer to the eye, the trees and shrubs are sparkling with fresh rain-drops, and over the whole scene, the parting rays of sunlight linger with a yellow gleam, as if reluctant to pass entirely away. Then come the varying tints of twilight, "fading, still fading," till the stars are out in their beauty, and a cloudless night reigns, with its silence, shadows, and repose. In the summer, Andover combines almost every thing to charm and elevate the feelings of the student. In winter, the north-western blasts, that sweep fresh from the snow banks on the Grand Monadnock, make the invalid, at least, sigh for a more congenial climate.-Rev. G. B. CHEEVER. Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark, Along the level ridge, o'er which the sun With shapely form, looks beautiful alone; But now the twilight mingles into one SUMMER EVENING LIGHTNING. FAR off and low In the horizon, from a sultry cloud, THE CASTLE OF IMAGINATION.* JUST in the centre of that wood was rear'd When the low moon shot in her rays between green. Through this wide interval the roving eye Of some sweet wood-note or some whispering pine Through this wide interval, the mountain side Now stretch'd a blue, and now a golden zone A spangled veil of leaves, seems heaven and earth to bind. Above the canopy, so thick and green, And spread so high o'er that enchanted vale, Through scatter'd openings oft were glimpses seen Of fleecy clouds, that, link'd together, sail In moonlight clear before the gentle gale:' Sometimes a shooting meteor draws a glance; Sometimes a twinkling star, or planet pale, Long holds the lighted eye, as in a trance; And oft the milky-way gleams through the white expanse. That castle's open windows, though half-hid With flowering vines, show'd many a vision fair: A face all bloom, or light young forms, that thrid Some maze within, or lonely ones that wear The garb of joy with sorrow's thoughtful air, Oft caught the eye a moment: and the sound Of low, sweet music often issued there, And by its magic held the listener bound, And seem'd to hold the winds and forests far around. This and the two extracts which follow are from "The Religion of Taste." Within, the queen of all, in pomp or mirth, While glad attendants at her glance unfold Their shining wings, and fly through heaven and earth, Oft took her throne of burning gems and gold, Adorn'd with emblems that of empire told, And rising in the midst of trophies bright, That bring her memory from the days of old, And help prolong her reign, and with the flight Of every year increase the wonders of her might. In all her dwelling, tales of wild romance, Of terror, love, and mystery dark or gay, Were scatter'd thick to catch the wandering glance, And stop the dreamer on his unknown way; There, too, was every sweet and lofty lay, The sacred, classic, and romantic, sung As that enchantress moved in might or play; And there was many a harp but newly strung, Yet with its fearless notes the whole wide valley rung. There, from all lands and ages of her fame, Were marble forms, array'd in order due, In groups and single, all of proudest name; In them the high, the fair, and tender grew To life intense in love's impassion'd view, And from each air and feature, bend and swell, Each shapely neck, and lip, and forehead threw O'er each enamour'd sense so deep a spell, The thoughts but with the past or bright ideal dwell. The walls around told all the pencil's power; There proud creations of each mighty hand Shone with their hues and lines, as in the hour When the last touch was given at the command Of the same genius that at first had plann'd, Exulting in its great and glowing thought: Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land, Of love and glory, to new life were wrought, From history, from fable, and from nature brought. With these were others all divine, drawn all From ground where oft, with signs and accents dread, The lonely prophet doom'd to sudden fall Proud kings and cities, and with gentle tread Bore life's quick triumph to the humble dead, And where strong angels flew to blast or save, Where martyr'd hosts of old, and youthful bled, And where their mighty LORD o'er land and wave Spread life and peace till death, then spread them through the grave. From these fix'd visions of the hallow'd eye, Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast, To the bless'd calm of an abstracted mind, Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet, As drawn from all the charms which in that valley meet. In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wander'd o'er its stripes of light and shade And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. "T was thus in nature's bloom and solitude He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; "T was thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. ROUSSEAU AND COWPER. ROUSSEAU Could weep-yes, with a heart of stone On its small running waves, in purple dyed Was he but justly wretched from his crimes? tween The earth and skies, to darken human hope? Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene To render vain faith's lifted telescope, And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope? He, too, could give himself to musing deep; And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY. AND thou, to whom long worshipp'd nature lends With deeds of virtue to embalm his name, bright, All intervening mists far off are driven; The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven. Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold: "Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not when, all unroll'd, Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy number'd hours Some high or humble enterprise of good |