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MENT OF MICHAEL ANGELO. I stood alone; nor word, nor other sound, Broke the mute solitude that closed me round; How vast, how dread, o’erwhelming is the thought As when the air doth take her midnight sleep, Of space interminable! to the soul Leaving the wintry stars her watch to keep, A circling weight that crushes into naught So slept she now at noon. But not alone Her mighty faculties! a wond'rous whole, My spirit then: a light within me shone

Without or parts, beginning, or an end ! That was not mine; and feelings undefined, How fearful then on desp’rate wings to send And thoughts flow'd in upon me not my own. The fancy e'en amid the waste profound ! "T was that deep mystery—for aye unknown Yet, born as if all daring to astound, The living presence of another's mind. Thy giant hand, O Angelo, hath hurld

E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight, Another mind was there—the gift of few

Down the dread void-fall endless as their fate! That by its own strong will can all that's true

Already now they seem from world to world In its own nature unto others give,

For ages thrown; yet doom'd, another past, And mingling life with life, seem there to live.

Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last ! I felt it now in mine; and oh! how fair, How beautiful the thoughts that met me there

ON REMBRANT: OCCASIONED BY HIS PICTURE Visions of Love, and Purity, and Truth! Though form distinct had each, they seem'd,as'twere, Imbodied all of one celestial air

As in that twilight, superstitious age, To beam for ever in coequal youth.

When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind

Seem'd fraught with meanings of supernal kind, And thus I learn'd—as in the mind they moved— When e'en the learned philosophic sage, These stranger Thoughts the one the other loved ; Wont with the stars thro' boundless space to range, That Purity loved Truth, because 't was true, Listen’d with reverence to the changeling's tale ; And Truth, because 't was pure, the first did woo; E’en so, thou strangest of all beings strange! While Love, as pure and true, did love the twain; | E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail; Then Love was loved of them, for that sweet chain | That like the rambling of an idiot's speech,

That bound them all. Thus sure, as passionless, No image giving of a thing on earth, Their love did grow, till one harmonious strain Nor thought significant in reason's reach, Of melting sounds they seem’d; then, changed again, | Yet in their random shadowings give birth

One angel form they took-Self-Happiness. To thoughts and things from other worlds that come, This angel form the gifted Artist saw,

And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb. That held me in his spell. "T was his to draw The veil of sense, and see the immortal race,


EMLOURG GALLERY. 'The Forms spiritual, that know not place. He saw it in the quarry, deep in earth,

THERE is a charm no vulgar mind can reach, And stay'd it by his will, and gave it birth No critic thwart, no mighty master teach;

E'en to the world of sense; bidding its cell, A charm how mingled of the good and ill! The cold, hard marble, thus in plastic girth

Yet still so mingled that the mystic whole The shape ethereal fix, and body forth

Shall captive hold the struggling gazer's will, A being of the skies-with man to dwell.

Till vanquish'd reason own its full control.

And such, 0 Robers, thy mysterious art, And then another form beside it stood;

The charm that vexes, yet enslaves the heart ! 'T was one of this our earth—though the warm blood Thy lawless style, from timid systems free, Had from it pass’d-exhaled as in a breath

Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea, Drawn from its lips by the cold kiss of Death.

High o'er the rocks of reason's lofty verge Its little « dream of human life” had fled;

Impending hangs; yet, ere the foaming surge And yet it seem'd not number'd with the dead,

Breaks o'er the bound, the refluent ebb of taste But one emerging to a life so bright

Back from the shore impels the wat'ry waste. That, as the wondrous nature o'er it spread, Its very consciousness did seem to shed

TO MY VENERABLE FRIEND THE PRESIDENT Rays from within, and clothe it all in light.

OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY. Now touch'd the Angel Form its little hand, From one unused in pomp of words to raise Turning upon it with a look so bland,

A courtly monument of empty praise, And yet so full of majesty, as less

Where self, transpiring through the flimsy pile, Than boly natures never may impress

Betrays the builder's ostentatious guile, And more than proudest guilt unmoved may brook. Accept, О West, these unaffected lays, The Creature of the Earth now felt that look, Which genius claims and grateful justice pays.

And stood in blissful awe—as one above Still green in age, thy vig'rous powers impart Who saw his name in the Eternal Book,

The youthful freshness of a blameless heart : And Him that open'd it; e'en Him that took For thine, unaided by another's pain,

The Little Child, and bless'd it in his love. The wiles of envy, or the sordid train

And sees

Of selfishness, has been the manly race
Of one who felt the purifying grace
Of honest fame; nor found the effort vain
E'en for itself to love thy soul-ennobling art.


PELIGRINO TIBALDI. Full well, TIBALDI, did thy kindred mind The mighty spell of BonAROTI own. Like one who, reading magic words, receives The gift of intercourse with worlds unknown, 'T was thine, deciph’ring Nature's mystic leaves, To hold strange converse with the viewless wind; To see the spirits, in imbodied forms, Of gales and whirlwinds, hurricanes and storms. For, lo! obedient to thy bidding, teems Fierce into shape their stern, relentless lord: His form of motion ever-restless seems; Or, if to rest inclined his turbid soul, On Hecla's top to stretch, and give the word To subject winds that sweep the desert pole.

She sees the mottled moth come twinkling by,

sip the flowret nigh; Yet not, as once, with eager cry

She grasps the pretty thing;
Her thoughts now mingle with its tranquil mood-
So 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,

But rather on the azure air
To mount, and with it wander there

To some untrodden land;
As if it told her in its happy song
Of pleasures strange, that never can belong

To aught of sight or touch of hand.
Now the young soul her mighty power

And outward things around her move,
Pure ministers of purer love,

And make the heart her home;
Or to the meaner senses sink a slave,
To do their bidding, though they madly crave

Through hateful scenes of vice to roam.
But, URSULINA, thine the better choice;

Thine eyes so speak, as with a voice :
Thy heart may still in earth rejoice

And all its beauty love;
But no, not all this fair, enchanting earth,
With all its spells, can give the rapture birth

That waits thy conscious soul above.

shall prove,


And thou art gone,most loved, most honour'dFriend!
No never more thy gentle voice shall blend
With air of earth its pure ideal tones-
Binding in one, as with harmonious zones,
The heart and intellect. And I no more
Shall with thee gaze on that unfathom'd deep,
The human soul; as when, push'd off the shore,
Thy mystic bark would through the darkness sweep,
Itself the while so bright! For oft we seem'd
As on some starless sea—all dark above,
All dark below-yet, onward as we drove,
To plough up light that ever round us stream'd.
But he who mourns is not as one bereft
Of all he loved: thy living truths are left.



O, POUR upon my soul again

That sad, unearthly strain, That seems from other worlds to plain; Thus falling, falling from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs,

And dropped them from the skies. Na-never came from aught below

This melody of wo, That makes my heart to overflow As froin a thousand gushing springs Unknown before ; that with it brings This nameless light—if light it be

That veils the world I see.

How pleasant and how sad the turning tido

of human life, when side by side
The child and youth begin to glide

Along the vale of years ;
The pure twin-being for a little space,
With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face,

Too young for wo, though not for tears.
This turning tide is Ursulina's now;

The time is mark'd upon her brow;
Now every thought and feeling throw

Their shadows on her face ; And so are every thought and feeling join'd, "T were hard to answer whether heart or mind

Of either were the native place.
The things that once she loved are still the same;

Yet now there needs another name
To give the feeling which they claim,

While she the feeling gives;
She cannot call it gladness or delight;
And yet there seems a richer, lovelier light

On e'en the humblest thing that lives.

For all I see around me wears

The hue of other spheres;
And something blent of smiles and tears
Comes froin the very air I breathe.
0, nothing, sure, the stars beneath,
Can mould a sadness like to this

So like angelic bliss.
So, at that dreamy hour of day,

When the last lingering ray
Stops on the highest cloud to play-
So thought the gentle ROSALIE
As on her maiden revery
First fell the strain of him who stole

In music to her soul.


(Bora 1784. Died 1822)

PROFESSOR FRISBIE was the son of a respect- | their claim to distinction is recognised more wil. able clergyman at Ipswich, Massachusetts. He lingly than any other. entered Harvard University in 1798, and was gradu Soon after leaving the university, Mr. FRISBIE ated in 1802. His father, like most of the cler- | commenced the study of the law; but an affection gymen of New England, was a poor man, and of the eyes depriving him of their use for the unable fully to defray the costs of his son's edu purposes of study, he abandoned his professional cation; and Mr. FRISBIE, while an under-graduate, pursuits, and accepted the place of Latin tutor in provided in part for his support by teaching a Harvard University. In 1811, he was made Proschool during vacations, and by writing as a clerk. fessor of the Latin Language, and in 1817, ProfesHis friend and biographer, Professor ANDREWS sor of Moral Philosophy. The last office he held Nortox, alludes to this fact as a proof of the until he died, on the 19th of July, 1822. He was falsity of the opinion that wealth constitutes the an excellent scholar, an original thinker, and a only aristocracy in our country. Talents, united pure-minded man. An octavo volume, containing with correct morals, and good manners, pass un a memoir, some of his philosophical lectures, and questioned all the artificial barriers of society, and a few poems, was published in 1823.


To her myself, my all I'd give,
For her alone delighted live,

For her consent to die.

Whene'er by anxious care oppress’d,
On the soft pillow of her breast

My aching head I'd lay;
At her sweet smile each care should cease,
Her kiss infuse a balmy peace,

And drive my griefs away.
In turn, I'd soften all her care,
Each thought, each wish, each feeling

Should sickness e'er invade,
My voice should soothe each rising sigh,
My hand the cordial should supply;

I'd watch beside her bed.

I'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife,
Whene'er I scan this scene of life,

Inspires my waking schemes,
And when I sleep, with form so light,
Dances before my ravish'd sight,

In sweet aerial dreams.
The rose its blushes need not lend,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,

To captivate my eyes.
Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays

Its feelings as they rise;
Features, where, pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,

The sober thought you see;
Eyes that all soft and tender seem,
And kind affections round them beam,

But most of all on me;
A form, though not of finest mould,
Where yet a something you behold

Unconsciously doth please ;
Manners all graceful without art,
That to each look and word impart

A modesty and ease.
But still her air, her face, each charm
Must speak a heart with feeling warm,

And mind inform the whole;
With mind her mantling cheek must glow,
Her voice, her beaming eye must show

An all-inspiring soul.
Ah! could I such a being find,
And were her fate to mine but join'd

By Hymen's silken tie,

Should gathering clouds our sky deform,
My arms should shield her from the storm;

And, were its fury hurl'd,
My bosom to its bolts I'd bare ;
In her defence undaunted dare

Defy the opposing world.
Together should our prayers ascend;
Together would we humbly bend,

To praise the Almighty name;
And when I saw her kindling eye
Beam upwards in her native sky,

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.


(Born, 1785. Died, 1842.1

Mr. Woonworth was a native of Scituate, in modesty and integrity as well as for his literary Massachusetts. After learning in a country town abilities. the art of printing, he went to New York, where Mr. Woodworth wrote many pieces for the he was editor of a newspaper during our second stage, which had a temporary popularity, and two war with England. He subsequently published or three volumes of songs, odes, and other poems, a weekly miscellany entitled “The Ladies' Lite relating chiefly to subjects of rural and domestic rary Gazette,” and in 1823, associated with Mr. life. He dwelt always with delight upon the GEORGE P. Morris, he established « The New scenes of his childhood, and lamented that he was York Mirror," long the most popular journal of compelled to make his home amid the strife and literature and art in this country. For several tumult of a city. He was the poet of the “ comyears before his death he was an invalid, and in mon people," and was happy in the belief that this period a large number of the leading gentle The Bucket" was read by multitudes who never men of New York acted as a committee for a heard of " Thanatopsis.” Some of his pieces have complimentary benefit given for him at the Park certainly much merit, in their way, and a selection Theatre, the proceeds of which made more plea- might be made from his voluminous writings that sant his closing days. He died in the month of would be very honourable to his talents and his December, 1842, in the fifty-seventh year of his feelings. There has been no recent edition of any age, much respected by all who knew him, for his of his works.

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How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling

When fond recollection presents them to view! In waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille; The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And seek admiration by vauntingly telling

And every loved spot which my infancy knew! Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, But give me the fair one, in country or city,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, Why cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well While plying the needle with exquisite art. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. The needle directed by beauty and art.

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail'd as a treasure, If Love have a potent, a magical token,

For often at noon, when return'd from the field, A talisman, ever resistless and trueI found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, A charm that is never evaded or broken,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. A witchery certain the heart to subdue How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 'Tis this—and his armoury never has furnish'd

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; So keen and unerring, or polish'd a dart; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnishid,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well And Oh! it is certain of touching the heart. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle, The moss-cover'd bucket, arose from the well. The needle directed by beauty and art.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration

As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all; Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, You never, whate'er be your fortune or station, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, And now, far removed from the loved habitation, As gaily convened at a work-cover'd table, The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

Each cheerfully active and playing her part, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well And plying the needle with exquisite art. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The bright little needle—the swift-flying needle, The moss-cover'd bucket that hangs in the well! The needle directed by beauty and art.


[Born 1785.]

Tas author of the “ Airs of Palestine,” is a his health, which at this time demanded a more native of Litchfield, Connecticut, and was born on active life, he abandoned the profession of law, the sixth of April, 1785. His great-grandfather, the and became interested in mercantile transactions, Reverend JAMES PIERPONT, was the second minis first in Boston, and afterward in Baltimore; but ter of New Haven, and one of the founders of Yale these resulting disastrously, in 1816, he sought a College ; his grandfather and his father were men solace in literary pursuits, and in the same year of intelligence and integrity; and his mother, published “The Airs of Palestine.” The first whose maiden name was ELIZARETH Collins, edition appeared in an octavo volume, at Baltihad a mind thoroughly imbued with the religious more; and two other editions were published in sentiment, and was distinguished for her devotion Boston, in the following year. to maternal duties. In the following lines, from The “Airs of Palestine” is a poem of about one of his recent poems, he acknowledges the in- eight hundred lines, in the heroic measure, in which fluence of her example and teachings on his own the influence of music is shown by examples, princharacter:

cipally from sacred history. The religious sub“She led me first to God;

limity of the sentiments, the beauty of the language, Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew.

and the finish of the versification, placed it at once, For, when she used to leave

in the judgment of all competent to form an opinion The fireside, every eve,

on the subject, before any poem at that time proI knew it was for prayer that she withdrew.

duced in America. As a work of art, it would be

nearly faultless, but for the occasional introduction "That dew, that bless'd my youth,Her holy love, her truth,

of double rhymes, a violation of the simple dignity Her spirit of devotion, and the tears

of the ten-syllable verse, induced by the intention That she could not suppress,

of the author to recite it in a public assembly. Hath never ceased to bless

He says in the preface to the third edition, that he My soul, nor will it, through eternal years.

was “aware how difficult even a good speaker

finds it to rehearse heroic poetry, for any length - How often has the thought Of my mourn'd mother brought

of time, without perceiving in his hearers the Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power

somniferous effects of a regular cadence,” and The tempter to repel!

the double rhyme was, therefore, occasionally Mother, thou knowest well

thrown in, like a ledge of rocks in a smoothly That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour!"

gliding river, to break the current, which, without

it, might appear sluggish, and to vary the melody, Mr. PIERPONT entered Yale College when fifteen

which might otherwise become monotonous.” The years old, and was graduated in the summer of

following passage, descriptive of a moonlight scene 1804. During a part of 1805, he assisted the

in Italy, will give the reader an idea of its manner: Reverend Doctor Backus, in an academy of which he was principal previous to his election to the “On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, presidency of Hamilton College; and in the au And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws, tumn of the same year, following the example of

Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales,

Alone,--at night,-the Italian boatman sails. many young men of New England, he went to

High o'er Mont' Alto walks, in maiden pride, the southern states, and was for nearly four years

Night's queen ;-he sees her image on that tide, a private tutor in the family of Colonel WILLIAM

Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest Allston, of South Carolina, spending a portion Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest ; of his time in Charleston, and the remainder on Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, the estate of Colonel Allstox, on the Waccamaw,

Whose every sweep is echo'd from the shore ;

Now, far before him, on a liquid bed near Georgetown. Here he commenced his legal

Of waveless water, rest her radiant head. studies, which he continued after his return to his

How mild the empire of that virgin queen! native state in 1809, in the school of Justices How dark the monntain's shade! how still the scene! REEVE and Gould; and in 1812, he was ad Ilush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep mitted to the bar, in Essex county, Massachusetts.

On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep,

Nor dare in whisper through the boughs, ror stir Soon after the commencement of the second war

The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, with Great Britain, being appointed to address

Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, the Washington Benevolent Society of Newbu Nor brush, with ruffling wind, that glossy river. ry port, his place of residence, he delivered and “ Hark!-'t is a convent's bell : its midnight chime; afterward published “The Portrait,” the earliest

For music measures even the march of linie :

O’er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, of the poems in the recent edition of his works.

Gray turrets rise :--the eye can catch no inore. In consequence of the general prostration of

The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, business in New England during the war, and of Suspends his oar :-a low and solenın swell,

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