ON GREENOUGH'S GROUP OF THE ANGEL AND CHILD. I STOOD alone; nor word, nor other sound, That was not mine; and feelings undefined, And thoughts flow'd in upon me not my own. "I was that deep mystery-for aye unknown— The living presence of another's mind. Another mind was there-the gift of fewThat by its own strong will can all that's true In its own nature unto others give, And mingling life with life, seem there to live. I felt it now in mine; and oh! how fair, How beautiful the thoughts that met me thereVisions of Love, and Purity, and Truth! Though form distinct had each, they seem'd,as'twere, Imbodied all of one celestial air To beam for ever in coequal youth. And thus I learn'd—as in the mind they moved- E'en to the world of sense; bidding its cell, A being of the skies-with man to dwell. 'T was one of this our earth-though the warm blood Rays from within, and clothe it all in light. SONNETS. ON A FALLING GROUP IN THE LAST JUDG MENT OF MICHAEL ANGELO. How vast, how dread, o'erwhelming is the thought A circling weight that crushes into naught ON REMBRANT: OCCASIONED BY HIS PICTURE As in that twilight, superstitious age, ON THE PICTURES BY RUBENS, IN THE LUX- THERE is a charm no vulgar mind can reach, TO MY VENERABLE FRIEND THE PRESIDENT FROM one unused in pomp of words to raise Of selfishness, has been the manly race ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF ÆOLUS, BY FULL Well, TIBALDI, did thy kindred mind Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms. On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word ON THE DEATH OF COLERIDGE. AND thou art gone,most loved, most honour'dFriend! THE TUSCAN MAID. How pleasant and how sad the turning tide The pure twin-being for a little space, This turning tide is URSULINA'S now; And so are every thought and feeling join'd, The things that once she loved are still the same; She cannot call it gladness or delight; She sees the mottled moth come twinkling by, Yet not, as once, with eager cry She grasps the pretty thing; Her thoughts now mingle with its tranquil moodSo poised in air, as if on air it stood To show its gold and purple wing. She hears the bird without a wish to snare, To mount, and with it wander there As if it told her in its happy song Of pleasures strange, that never can belong Now the young soul her mighty power shall prove, And make the heart her home; Or to the meaner senses sink a slave, But, URSULINA, thine the better choice; And all its beauty love; But no, not all this fair, enchanting earth, ROSALIE. O, POUR upon my soul again That sad, unearthly strain, That makes my heart to overflow For all I see around me wears And something blent of smiles and tears So, at that dreamy hour of day, First fell the strain of him who stole LEVI FRISBIE. [Born 1784. Died 1822] PROFESSOR FRISBIE was the son of a respectable clergyman at Ipswich, Massachusetts. He entered Harvard University in 1798, and was graduated in 1802. His father, like most of the clergymen of New England, was a poor man, and unable fully to defray the costs of his son's education; and Mr. FRISBIE, while an under-graduate, provided in part for his support by teaching a school during vacations, and by writing as a clerk. His friend and biographer, Professor ANDREWS NORTON, alludes to this fact as a proof of the falsity of the opinion that wealth constitutes the only aristocracy in our country. Talents, united with correct morals, and good manners, pass unquestioned all the artificial barriers of society, and their claim to distinction is recognised more willingly than any other. Soon after leaving the university, Mr. FRISBIE commenced the study of the law; but an affection of the eyes depriving him of their use for the purposes of study, he abandoned his professional pursuits, and accepted the place of Latin tutor in Harvard University. In 1811, he was made Professor of the Latin Language, and in 1817, Professor of Moral Philosophy. The last office he held until he died, on the 19th of July, 1822. He was an excellent scholar, an original thinker, and a pure-minded man. An octavo volume, containing a memoir, some of his philosophical lectures, and a few poems, was published in 1823. A CASTLE IN THE AIR. The rose its blushes need not lend, To captivate my eyes. Features, where, pensive, more than gay, A form, though not of finest mould, But still her air, her face, each charm With mind her mantling cheek must glow, Ah! could I such a being find, To her myself, my all I'd give, Whene'er by anxious care oppress'd, At her sweet smile each care should cease, And drive my griefs away. In turn, I'd soften all her care, Each thought, each wish, each feeling share; Should sickness e'er invade, My voice should soothe each rising sigh, Should gathering clouds our sky deform, Together should our prayers ascend; To praise the Almighty name; My soul should catch the flame. Thus nothing should our hearts divide, But on our years serenely glide, And all to love be given; And, when life's little scene was o'er, We'd part to meet and part no more, But live and love in heaven. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. [Born, 1785. Died, 1842.] MR. WOODWORTH was a native of Scituate, in Massachusetts. After learning in a country town the art of printing, he went to New York, where he was editor of a newspaper during our second war with England. He subsequently published a weekly miscellany entitled "The Ladies' Literary Gazette," and in 1823, associated with Mr. GEORGE P. MORRIS, he established "The New York Mirror," long the most popular journal of literature and art in this country. For several years before his death he was an invalid, and in this period a large number of the leading gentlemen of New York acted as a committee for a complimentary benefit given for him at the Park Theatre, the proceeds of which made more pleasant his closing days. He died in the month of December, 1842, in the fifty-seventh year of his age, much respected by all who knew him, for his | modesty and integrity as well as for his literary abilities. Mr. WOODWORTH wrote many pieces for the stage, which had a temporary popularity, and two or three volumes of songs, odes, and other poems, relating chiefly to subjects of rural and domestic life. He dwelt always with delight upon the scenes of his childhood, and lamented that he was compelled to make his home amid the strife and tumult of a city. He was the poet of the "common people," and was happy in the belief that The Bucket" was read by multitudes who never heard of "Thanatopsis." Some of his pieces have certainly much merit, in their way, and a selection might be made from his voluminous writings that would be very honourable to his talents and his feelings. There has been no recent edition of any of his works. THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail'd as a treasure, For often at noon, when return'd, from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well- THE NEEDLE. THE gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; But give me the fair one, in country or city, Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, While plying the needle with exquisite art. The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. If Love have a potent, a magical token, A talisman, ever resistless and trueA charm that is never evaded or broken, A witchery certain the heart to subdue"Tis this-and his armoury never has furnish'd So keen and unerring, or polish'd a dart; Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnish'd, And Oh! it is certain of touching the heart. The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all; You never, whate'er be your fortune or station, Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, As gaily convened at a work-cover'd table, Each cheerfully active and playing her part, Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, And plying the needle with exquisite art. The bright little needle-the swift-flying needle, The needle directed by beauty and art. JOHN PIERPONT. [Born 1785.] THE author of the "Airs of Palestine," is a native of Litchfield, Connecticut, and was born on the sixth of April, 1785. His great-grandfather, the Reverend JAMES PIERPONT, was the second minister of New Haven, and one of the founders of Yale College; his grandfather and his father were men of intelligence and integrity; and his mother, whose maiden name was ELIZABETH COLLINS, had a mind thoroughly imbued with the religious sentiment, and was distinguished for her devotion to maternal duties. In the following lines, from one of his recent poems, he acknowledges the influence of her example and teachings on his own character: "She led me first to God; Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew. For, when she used to leave The fireside, every eve, I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew. "That dew, that bless'd my youth,Her holy love, her truth, Her spirit of devotion, and the tears That she could not suppress,— My soul, nor will it, through eternal years. How often has the thought Of my mourn'd mother brought Mother, thou knowest well That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!" Mr. PIERPONT entered Yale College when fifteen years old, and was graduated in the summer of 1804. During a part of 1805, he assisted the Reverend Doctor BACKUS, in an academy of which he was principal previous to his election to the presidency of Hamilton College; and in the autumn of the same year, following the example of many young men of New England, he went to the southern states, and was for nearly four years a private tutor in the family of Colonel WILLIAM ALLSTON, of South Carolina, spending a portion of his time in Charleston, and the remainder on the estate of Colonel ALLSTON, on the Waccamaw, near Georgetown. Here he commenced his legal studies, which he continued after his return to his native state in 1809, in the school of Justices REEVE and GOULD; and in 1812, he was admitted to the bar, in Essex county, Massachusetts. Soon after the commencement of the second war with Great Britain, being appointed to address the Washington Benevolent Society of Newburyport, his place of residence, he delivered and afterward published "The Portrait," the earliest of the poems in the recent edition of his works. In consequence of the general prostration of business in New England during the war, and of his health, which at this time demanded a more active life, he abandoned the profession of law, and became interested in mercantile transactions, first in Boston, and afterward in Baltimore; but these resulting disastrously, in 1816, he sought a solace in literary pursuits, and in the same year published "The Airs of Palestine." The first edition appeared in an octavo volume, at Baltimore; and two other editions were published in Boston, in the following year. The "Airs of Palestine" is a poem of about eight hundred lines, in the heroic measure, in which the influence of music is shown by examples, principally from sacred history. The religious sublimity of the sentiments, the beauty of the language, and the finish of the versification, placed it at once, in the judgment of all competent to form an opinion on the subject, before any poem at that time produced in America. As a work of art, it would be nearly faultless, but for the occasional introduction of double rhymes, a violation of the simple dignity of the ten-syllable verse, induced by the intention of the author to recite it in a public assembly. He says in the preface to the third edition, that he was "aware how difficult even a good speaker finds it to rehearse heroic poetry, for any length of time, without perceiving in his hearers the somniferous effects of a regular cadence," and "the double rhyme was, therefore, occasionally thrown in, like a ledge of rocks in a smoothly gliding river, to break the current, which, without it, might appear sluggish, and to vary the melody, which might otherwise become monotonous." The following passage, descriptive of a moonlight scene in Italy, will give the reader an idea of its manner: "On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, |