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,
To let thy tribe commit such fierce and utter
Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers.
Though thine be old, hereditary hate,
Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until
It had become a madness, 'tis too late

[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
By a sly cup or so of our fire-waters?
They are thy people's deadliest poison. They
First make them cowards, and then white men's

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
Of the caged bird against his prison-bars,
That thou, the crowned warrior of the West,
The victor of a hundred forest-wars,
Shouldst in thy age become a raree-show,

Led, like a walking bear, about the town,
A new-caught monster, who is all the go,

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,

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
From worldly thraldom, here his dwelling plants,
Here pauses in your pleasant neighbourhood,
Sure of repose along your tranquil shores.
And when your end approaches, and ye blend
With the eternal ocean, ye shall fade

As placidly as when an infant dies;
And the death-angel shall your powers withdraw
Gently as twilight takes the parting day,
And, with a soft and gradual decline
That cheats the senses, lets it down to night.
Bountiful rivers! not upon the earth
Is record traced of Gon's exuberant grace
So deeply graven as the channels worn
By ever-flowing streams: arteries of earth,
That, widely branching, circulate its blood:
Whose ever-throbbing pulses are the tides.
The whole vast enginery of Nature, all
The roused and labouring elements combine
In their production; for the mighty end
Is growt, is life to every living thing.
The sun himself is charter'd for the work:
His arm uplifts the main, and at his smile
The fluttering vapours take their flight for heaven,
Shaking the briny sea-dregs from their wings;
Here, wrought by unseen fingers, soon is wove
The cloudy tissue, till a mighty fleet,

Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores,
Floats waiting for the breeze; loosed on the sky
Rush the strong tempests, that, with sweeping
Impel the vast flotilla to its port; [breath,

Where, overhanging wide the arid plain,
Drops the rich mercy down; and oft, when summer
Withers the harvest, and the lazy clouds
Drag idly at the bidding of the breeze.

New riders spur them, and enraged they rush,
Bestrode by thunders, that, with hideous shouts
And crackling thongs of fire, urge them along.

As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth
And all her race shed grateful smiles!-not here
The bounty ceases: when the drenching streams
Have, inly sinking, quench'd the greedy thirst
Of plants, of woods, some kind, invisible hand
In bright, perennial springs draws up again
For needy man and beast; and, as the brooks
Grow strong, apprenticed to the use of man,
The ponderous wheel they turn, the web to weave,
The stubborn metal forge; and, when advanced
To sober age at last, ye seek the sea,

Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs,
Ye seem the unpaid carriers of the sky
Vouchsafed to earth for burden; and your host
Of shining branches, linking land to land,
Seem bands of friendship-silver chains of love,
To bind the world in brotherhood and peace.

Back to the primal chaos fancy sweeps
To trace your dim beginning; when dull earth
Lay sunken low, one level, plashy marsh,
Girdled with mists; while saurian reptiles, strange,
Measureless monsters, through the cloggy plain
Paddled and flounder'd; and the Almig' ty voice,
Like silver trumpet, from their hidden dens
Summon'd the central and resistless fires,
That with a groan from pole to pole upheave
The mountain-masses, and, with dreadful rent,
Fracture the rocky crust; then Andes rose,
And Alps their granite pyramids shot up,
Barren of soil; but gathering vapours round
Their stony scalps, condensed to drops, from drops
To brooks, from brooks to rivers, which set out
Over that rugged and untravell'd land,
The first exploring pilgrims, to the sea.
Tedious their route, precipitous and vague,
Secking with humbleness the lowliest paths:
Oft shut in valleys deep, forlorn they turn
And find no vent; till, gather'd into lakes,
Topping the basin's brimming lip, they plunge
Headlong, and hurry to the level main,
Rejoicing: misty ages did they run,
And, with unceasing friction, all the while
Fritter'd to granular atoms the dense rock,
And ground it into soil-then dropp'd (O! sure
From heaven) the precious seed: first mosses, lichens
Seized on the sterile flint, and from their dust
Sprang herbs and flowers: last from the deepening

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.
THOU bright and star-like spirit!
That, in my visions wild,
I see mid heaven's seraphic host-
O! canst thou be my child?
My grief is quench'd in wonder,

And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.
Our hopes of thee were lofty,

But have we cause to grieve?
O! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?

The little weeper, tearless,

The sinner, snatch'd from sin;
The babe, to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin.

And I, thy earthly teacher,

Would blush thy powers to see;
Thou art to me a parent now,

And I, a child to thee!

Thy brain, so uninstructed

While in this lowly state,
Now threads the mazy track of spheres,
Or reads the book of fate.

Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision,

Now range the realms of space-
Look down upon the rolling stars,
Look up to Gon's own face.
Thy little hand, so helpless,
That scarce its toys could hold,
Now clasps its mate in holy prayer,
Or twangs a harp of gold.
Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That totter'd as they trod,
With angels walk the heavenly paths,
Or stand before their Gon.
Nor is thy tongue less skilful,
Before the throne divine
'Tis pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she pray'd for thine.
What bliss is born of sorrow!
"T is never sent in vain-
The heavenly surgeon maims to save,
He gives no useless pain.

Our Gon, to call us homeward,
His only Son sent down:
And

now, still more to tempt our hearts,
Has taken up our own.