THEODORE S. FAY. And, lo! the Catskills print the distant sky, Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below Till earth receive him never can forget. Blow, scented gale, the snowy canvass swell, rise. Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired But see! the broadening river deeper flows, May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, snow. bends, And radiantly upon the glittering mass But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee! SONG. A CARELESS, simple bird, one day Unhurt-at length away he flew. And now from every fond regret And idle anguish free, False girl! another trap for me." ADDRESS TO BLACK HAWK. THERE's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full, dark eye Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of time; Ambition, that survives the battle-rout. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds, that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapp'd in fierce hate, and high, unconquer'd pride. Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yetVanquish'd and captive-dost thou deem that here The glowing day-star of thy glory set Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest-lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the lifeblood flowing fast Of thy crush'd victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, [thers? And kill, old Turk! thy harmless, pale-faced broFor it was cruel, BLACK HAWK, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, [will To crush the hordes who have the power and To rob thee of thy hunting-grounds and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains. Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, [wonder; There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and widespread wings, That sweep the waters as birds sweep the sky; Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or, if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion? Thou'st seen our museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces? Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage, Seen their eyes glisten,and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down, Pass in a moment from a king-to clown. Thou seest these things unmoved! sayst so, old fellow? Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow slaves; And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey, And lives of misery, and early graves. For, by their power, believe me, not a day goes But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes. Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away, To the deep bosom of thy forest-home? The hill-side, where thy young pappooses play, And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come? Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws For their lost warrior loud upon thine ear, Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas, That, yell'd at every corner, meet thee here? The wife who made that shell-deck'd wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her-and melt. Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast Led, like a walking bear, about the town, And stared at, gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout! Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came, Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun, EDWARD SANFORD. And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree Is blanch'd, and bare, and sear'd, and leafless Nor drive,with careless hand, the ruthless plough Rich, warm, and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, New, barren earth; no life sustains it there, Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature, Thou little siren, when the nymphs of yore As if to lull our senses to repose, The very moment we begin to doze; Nature is full of music, sweetly sings The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too. Through the wide circuit of created things, Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. Nature is full of thee; on every shore, 'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, From warm Peru to icy Labrador, The world's free citizen, thou roamest wild. Wherever" mountains rise or oceans roll," And thy curl'd lip speaks scorn for our democracy. Thy voice is heard, from «Indus to the Pole." Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow; The incarnation of Queen MAB art thou, The fairies' midwife;"-thou dost nightly si For thou mayst here become, with strict propriety, (Though that they "straight on kisses dream," I A leader in our city good society. TO A MUSQUITO. His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.-King Lear. THOU Sweet musician, that around my bed Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn? Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse Of lessons from some master of the lyre? Of song developed in thy little skull? Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song. Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer, A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, 66 In maiden meditation, fancy free?" doubt-) On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snoat” "Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep; And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, "On the forefinger of an alderman." Yet thou canst glory in a noble birth. As rose the sea-born VENUS from the wave, Meant thee to feed on music or on air. The hues of dying sunset are most fair, And twilight's tints just fading into night, By far the sweetest when thou takest thy flight. Whelms the toss'd mariner in its watery tomb Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. THOMAS WARD. [Born, 1807.] DOCTOR WARD was born at Newark, in New Jersey, on the eighth of June, 1807. His father, General THOMAS WARD, is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respectable citizens of that town; and has held various offices of public trust in his native state, and represented his district in the national Congress. Doctor WARD received his classical education at the academies in Bloomfield and Newark, and the college at Princeton. He chose the profession of physic, and, after the usual preparation, obtained his degree of Doctor of Medicine in the spring of 1829, at the Rutgers Medical College, in New York. In the autumn of the same year he went to Paris, to avail himself of the facilities afforded in that capital for the prosecution of every branch of medical inquiry; and, after two years' absence, during which he accomplished the usual tour through Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and Great Britain, he returned to New York, and commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the course MUSINGS ON RIVERS. BEAUTIFUL rivers! that adown the vale With graceful passage journey to the deep, Let me along your grassy marge recline At ease, and musing, meditate the strange Bright history of your life; yes, from your birth, Has beauty's shadow chased your every step; The blue sea was your mother, and the sun Your glorious sire: clouds your voluptuous cradle, Roof'd with o'erarching rainbows; and your fall To earth was cheer'd with shout of happy birds, With brighten'd faces of reviving flowers And meadows, while the sympathising west Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. From deep, mysterious wanderings your springs Break bubbling into beauty; where they lie In infant helplessness a while, but soon Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks; Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood Rings with the boisterous glee; whileo'er their heads, Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, The frolic children of the wanton sun. Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, Though calm, unlóvely; still, where'er ye move, Your train is beauty; trees stand grouping by To mark your graceful progress: giddy flowers, And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge To greet their faces in your flattering glass; The thirsty herd are following at your side; And water-birds, in clustering fleets, convoy of two or three years, however, he gradually withdrew from business, his circumstances permitting him to exchange devotion to his profession for the more congenial pursuits of literature and general knowledge. He is married, and still resides in New York; spending his summers, however, in his native city, and among the more romantic and beautiful scenes of New Jersey. His first literary efforts were brief satirical pieces, in verse and prose, published in a country gazette, in 1825 and 1826. It was not until after his return from Europe, when he adopted the signature of "FLACCUS," and began to write for the "New York American," that he attracted much attention. His principal work, "Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that River," appeared in 1841. It contains some fine descriptive passages, and its versification is generally correct and musical. "The Monomania of Money-getting," a satire, and many of his minor pieces, are more distinguished for vigour and sprightliness, than for mere poetical qualities. Your sea-bound tides; and jaded man, released As placidly as when an infant dies; Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores, Where, overhanging wide the arid plain, THOMAS WARD. New riders spur them, and enraged they rush, As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs, Back to the primal chaos fancy sweeps mould Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree, And earth was fitted for her coming lord. TO THE MAGNOLIA. WHEN roaming o'er the marshy field, Through tangled brake and treacherous slough, We start, that spot so foul should yield, Chaste blossom! such a balm as thou. Such lavish fragrance there we meet, That all the dismal waste is sweet. So, in the dreary path of life, Through clogging toil and thorny care, Love rears his blossom o'er the strife, Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there: Which pours such incense round the spot, His pains, his cares, are all forgot. TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN. And pride arrests my sighs; But have we cause to grieve? The little weeper, tearless, The sinner, snatch'd from sin; And I, thy earthly teacher, Would blush thy powers to see; And I, a child to thee! Thy brain, so uninstructed While in this lowly state, Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision, Now range the realms of space- That totter'd as they trod, Our Gon, to call us homeward, now, still more to tempt our hearts, |