Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay, THE CORAL GROVE. DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; For the winds and waves are absent there, GENIUS SLUMBERING. HE sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame; And yet, not all forgotten, sleeps he there; Upward his daring pinions, till the air Seem'd living with the crown of light he wore; He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye He will not sleep forever, but will rise Fresh to more daring labours; now, even now, Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone; Keen as the famish'd eagle darts her wing; He rushes forth to conquer: shall they takeThey, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way, When he forgot the contest-shall they take, Now he renews the race, the victor's bay! Still let them strive-when he collects his might, He will assert his right. The spirit cannot always sleep in dust, Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust Dimly a while, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher. DECLINE OF THE IMAGINATION. WHY have ye linger'd on your way so long, Bright visions, who were wont to hear my call, And with the harmony of dance and song Keep round my dreaming couch a festival? Where are ye gone, with all your eyes of light, And where the flowery voice I loved to hear, When, through the silent watches of the night, Ye whisper'd like an angel in my ear? O! fly not with the rapid wing of time, But with your ancient votary kindly stay; And while the loftier dreams, that rose sublime In years of higher hope, have flown away: O! with the colours of a softer clime, Give your last touches to the dying day. GENIUS WAKING. SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound theeWhere is now thy fire? Feebler wings are gathering round thee- Can no power, no spell, recall thee With his burning beams! With a proud and sure dominion, Thou didst upward bear, Ever mounting, ever brightening, O, what rare and heavenly brightness Thou wert dazzling bright. When the warring winds were roaring Where is now that restless longing After higher things? Come they not, like visions, thronging Why should not their glow enchant thee Surely danger cannot daunt thee But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Like a dove in winter shivering, Or a feebler thing. Where is now thy might and motion, Where is now thy heart's devotion? Hark! his rustling plumage gathers Close, as when the storm-bird weathers Ocean's hurrying tide. Now his nodding beak is steady Wide his burning eye Now his open wings are ready, And his aim-how high! Now he curves his neck, and proudly Hark! his wings-they thunder loudly, Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee- With a bold, a fearless pinion, On thy starry road, None, to fame's supreme dominion, Mightier ever trode. NEW ENGLAND. HAIL to the land whereon we tread, The sepulchre of mighty dead, No slave is here; our unchain'd feet Our fathers cross'd the ocean's wave They left behind the coward slave They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quell'd; But souls like these, such toils impell'd To soar. Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height, And, fearless, stemm'd the invading flood, O, 'twas a proud, exulting day, There is no other land like thee, Thou art the shelter of the free; Ere I forget to think upon Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, And, rising from thy hardy stock, All, who the wreath of Freedom twine Are bless'd. We love thy rude and rocky shore, Let foreign navies hasten o'er, MAY. I FEEL a newer life in every gale; The winds, that fan the flowers, And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Of hours that glide unfelt away The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls And where his whispering voice in music falls, The bright ones of the valley break The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes. Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May; With the light dallying of the west-wind play; TO SENECA LAKE. Ox thy fair bosom, silver lake, On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er. THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. Now the growing year is over, And the shepherd's tinkling bell Faintly from its winter cover Rings a low farewell :Now the birds of Autumn shiver, Where the wither'd beech-leaves quiver, O'er the dark and lazy river, In the rocky dell. Now the mist is on the mountains, Now the flowers around the fountains Not a spire of grass is growing, With a mantle dun. Now the torrent brook is stealing Faintly down the furrow'd gladeNot as when in winter pealing, Such a din is made, That the sound of cataracts falling In the pine's black shade. Round the clifted rock's bare height- Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding In a torch's glare: Few the hours, her light is given- THE FLIGHT OF TIME. FAINTLY flow, thou falling river, Like a dream that dies away; Down to ocean gliding ever, Keep thy calm unruffled way: Time with such a silent motion, Floats along, on wings of air, To eternity's dark ocean, Burying all its treasures there. Roses bloom, and then they wither; Cheeks are bright, then fade and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither Then, like visions hurry by : Quick as clouds at evening driven O'er the many-colour'd west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest. IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE. O! IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending: Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending. Glory that never shall fade, never, O! never away. O! it is sweet for our country to die--how softly reposes Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love, Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands of roses, Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above. Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perish'd: HEBE awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile; There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherish'd; Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile. Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; Not to the isles of the bless'd, over the blue, rolling sea; But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted forever; I feel it-though the flesh is weak, I feel The wounds which it has suffer'd; folly claim'd 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, 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, There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 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. HOME. Mr place is in the quiet vale, The chosen haunt of simple thought; I seek not Fortune's flattering gale, I better love the peaceful lot. I leave the world of noise and show, I ask, in life's unruffled flow, Fancy can charm and feeling bless With sweeter hours than fashion knows; There is no calmer quietness Than home around the bosom throws. 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 ЕсKFORD, 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 24 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, To tell the world their worth. And I, who woke each morrow While memory bids me weep thee, That mourns a man like thee. 185 |