ALONE ONCE MORE. ALONE once more!--but with such deep emotion, My bosom seems a dreary lake of tears: Channel a bed, and set its waters free! This wearing of a truthful heart to dust- SONNETS. I. TO WHAT though our dream is broken? Yet again Such as they only who have grieved can share ; Lurks in each flower-cell which the spring-time As music rests upon the quiet lip, And power to soar yet lives in folded wings— So let the love on which your spirits glide Flow deep and strong beneath its bridge of sighs, Whose heavenward current baffles human eyes, II. COURAGE AND PATIENCE. COURAGE and patience! elements whereby Far, far above this realm of wasting pain- And turning from the richest lures of time, III. ALL HEARTS ARE NOT DISLOTAL ALL hearts are not disloyal: let thy trust Be deep, and clear, and all-confiding still, For though Love's fruit turn on the lips to dist She ne'er betrays her child to lasting ill: Through leagues of desert must the pilgrim go Ere on his gaze the holy turrets rise; Through the long, sultry day the stream must f Ere it can mirror twilight's purple skies. Fall back unscathed from contact with the vain, Keep thy robes white, thy spirit bold and free, And calmly launch Affection's bark again, Hopeful of golden spoils reserved for thee! Though lone the way as that already trod, Cling to thine own integrity and GOD! IV. LIKE A FAIR SEA. LIKE the fair sea that laves Italia's strand, Affection's flood is tideless in my breast; No ebb withdraws it from the chosen land, Haven'd too richly for enamour'd quest: Thus am I faithful to the vanish'd grace Embodied once in thy sweet form and name, And though love's charm no more illumes thy face, In Memory's realm her olden pledge I claim. It is not constancy to haunt a shrine From which devotion's lingering spark has fed; Insensate homage only wreaths can twine Around the pulseless temples of the dead: Thou from thy better self hast madly flown, While to that self allegiance still I own. THINK уe the desolate must live apart, By solemn vows to convent-walls confined? Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloister'd heart, And in a crowd the isolated mind; Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate, The world sees not how sorrowful they stand, Gazing so fondly through the iron grate, Upon the promised, yet forbidden land; In which unseen their meek devotions burn; the wave-toss'd seamen and the harvest crew, When on their golden sheaves the quivering dew Hangs like pure tears-all fear beguile, en glancing from their task to thy maternal smile! The mist of hilltops undulating wreathes, At thy enchanting touch, a magic woof, Slow heaving from the northern main, [roof. With thy mild presence on the ruin'd fane, Columns time-stain'd, dim frieze, and ivied walls, As if a fond delight thou didst attain To mingle with the Past, And o'er her trophies lone a holy mantle cast! And then in sparkling mirth dissolve away; And on the mossy clumps its rays fantastic play. What reverent joy to pace the temple floor, O'er statue, tomb, and arch, its solemn radiance pour! The untamed waters in their ebb and flow, The maniac raves beneath thy pallid ray, And poet's visions glow. Madonna of the stars! through the cold prison-grate Thou stealest, like a nun on mercy bent, [spent! To cheer the desolate, And nations deem'd thee arbitress of Fate, And wistful gazed upon thy queenly state, A lofty peace is thine!-the tides of life Flow gently when thy soothing orb appears, And Passion's fever'd strife [spheres! From thy chaste glow imbibes the calmness of the O twilight glory! that doth ne'er awake Exhausting joy, but evenly and fond Allays the immortal thirst it cannot slake, And heals the chafing of the work-day bond; Give me thy patient spell!-to bear With an unclouded brow the secret pain (That floods my soul as thy pale beams the air) Of hopes that Reason quells, for Love to wake again! TASSO TO LEONORA. IF to love solitude because my heart May undisturbed upon thy image dwell, And in the world to bear a cheerful part To hide the fond thoughts that its pulses swell; If to recall with credulous delight Affection's faintest semblances in thee, To feel thy breath upon my cheek at night, And start in anguish that it may not be; If in thy presence ceaselessly to know Delicious peace, a feeling as of wings, Content divine within my bosom glow, A noble scorn of all unworthy things- Or with impatient longings waste the day, And chiefly sorrow that but half reveal'd That holiest pleasure must be all conceal'dShrinking from heartless scoff or base surmise; If, as my being's crowning grace, to bless The hour we recognised each other's truth, And with calm joy unto my soul confess That thou hast realized the dreams of youthMy spirit's mate, long cherish'd, though unknown, Friend of my heart bestow'd on me by GoD, At whose approach all visions else have flown From the vain path which I so long have trod; If from thy sweet caress to bear new life As one possess'd by a celestial spell, That armeth me against all outward strife, And ever breathes the watchword-all is well; If with glad firmness, casting doubt aside, To bare my heart to thee without disguise, And yield up as to my chosen bride, Feeling that life vouchsafes no dearer prize; If thus to blend my very soul with thine By mutual consecration, watching o'er The hallow'd bond with loyalty divineIf this be love,-I love forevermore! FROM THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THE LAW OF BEAUTY. READ the great law in Beauty's cheering reign, Blent with all ends through matter's wide domain; She breathes Hope's language, and with boundless [change, range Sublimes all forms, smiles through each subtle And with insensate elements combined Ordains their constant ministry to mind. The breeze awoke to waft the feather'd seed, And the cloud-fountains with their dew to feed. HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. Upon its many errands might have flown, COLUMBUS. HEROIC guide! whose wings are never furl'd, FLORENCE. PRINCES, when softened in thy sweet embrace, And watch the violets peeping from the grass, Or down long vistas hail the mountain snow, POETRY IMMORTAL. FOR fame life's meaner records vainly strive, By her bold minstrel's necromantic art! ONE of the most truly American of our poets, that is, one of those whose characteristics are most directly and obviously results of a lifelong familiarity with the scenery, traditions, and institutions of our own country, is WILLIAM HENRY CUYERL HOSMER, of Avon, in western New York. His father, a distinguished lawyer, descended from a New England family which had furnished many eminent names to the bench and bar, emigrated at an early period from Connecticut; and his materanal ancestors were the first settlers among the Senecas, whose language he learned in infancy from his mother's lips, and whose mythology and public and private life he has understood as familiarly as if they were his natural inheritance. He was born at Avon, on the fifth of May, 1814, and was educated at the Temple Hill Academy, Geneseo, of which the learned Professor C. C. FELTON, now e of Harvard University, was the principal, and at Geneva College. For his literary productions he had already received the honorary degree of master of arts, from Hamilton College and the University of Vermont, before it was conferred in course by his alma mater. He subsequently studied the law, in the office of his father, and on being admitted to practice became his partner. The rank he has held in his profession is indicated by the fact that he succeeded the late Honorable JOHN YOUNG as master in chancery. In 1836, while Wisconsin was still in almost undisturbed possession of the Indians, he spent some time in that territory, and for several months during the southern border war of 1838 and 1839, accompanied by his wife, to whom he had just been married, he was an invalid among the everglades of Florida. In these excursions he had ample opportunity of studying the Indian character as it is displayed in those regions, and of comparing it with that of the Iroquois. Mr. HOSMER began to write verses at a very early age, and has been an industrious and a prolific author. In 1830 he composed a drama entitled "The Fall of TECUMSEH." His first publication, except contributions to the journals and magazines, was "The Themes of Song," containing about six hundred and fifty lines; this appeared in 1834, and was followed by "The Pioneers of Western New York," in 1838; "The Prospects of the Age," in 1841; "Yonnondio, or the Warriors of the Genesee," in 1844; "The Months," in 1847; "Bird Notes," "Legends of the Senecas," and "Indian Traditions and Songs," in 1850; and a complete collection of his "Poetical Works," in two volumes, in 1853. The longest if not the most important of these productions of Mr. HOSMER is "Yonnondio," a tale of the French domination in America in the seventeenth century. It is in octo-syllabic verse, occasionally varied to suit the requirements of his subject; the narrative is spirited and interesting; and all the details of Indian customs, costumes, superstitions, and character, as well as the delineations of external nature, studiously correct. It is a defect in the construction of the story, that no sufficient cause is presented for the conduct of one of the principal actors, DE GRAI: a quarrel on an unjust imputation affording no proper ground for his leaving France; generally, however, the dramatic proprieties of the piece are as well preserved as the descriptive; and it abounds with picturesque touches which betray a very careful observation, and unusual felicity in coloring. In the account of an Indian march, we are told: "The red-breast, perch'd in arbour green, So hushed, so noiseless was their pace." In a similar vein is the following finely finished passage describing the passage of an Indian maiden through the valley of the Genesee: "Treading upon the grassy sod As if her feet with moss were shod, Before her darkly lay: Boldly she plunged their depth's within To gain the covert of his lair; W. H. C. HOSMER. author. These lines, from the seventh canto, are "Thou phantom, military fame! How long will Genius laud thy name, Tempting his victim to draw near? Guide beardless boy and gray-haired sire? Of murder, orphanage, and crime!" In a preface to his poems relating to the Indians, Mr. HOSMER reminds us of the extrordinary advantages he has enjoyed, "by their campfires, and THE IMMORTALITY OF GENIUS.* An Orphic tongue would be too weak an agent To paint an outline of the gorgeous pageant, The meagre written record of the closet [more The queen of Beauty and her blushing daughters Thus thoughts that send and will send on forever, When done with life, its fever, din, and jostle, Though grazing herd and hosts with clanging sabres Oh, Genius! dowered with privilege immortal, Death knows thee not, tho' long ago were blended Thy visible forms with undistinguished clay; in their councils," for becoming acquainted their characteristics and traditions, and disc eloquently the suitableness of his theme for ical treatment. To such poems, however, most readers will: apt to prefer the simpler effusions in which has echoed the "Notes of the Birds," or ed the varying phenomena of "The Months these, too, he has faithfully subjected his t to the requirements of truth. He accompl his task of description by felicities in selection a combination from nature. An AUDUBON or a CHAUX would search in vain for an error in plumage or foliage, and a COLE might give t finishing touches to the lights and shadows his landscapes from the poet's observation of almospheric effects or the changing influence of the seasons. the In 1854 Mr. HOSMER removed to the city tom-house. New York, where he occupies a place in the cus Heard on the honeyed lip of JULIET melting- Heard in the organ-swell of MILTON pealing In GRAY's elegaic sorrow for the past- In DRYDEN'S bugle's blast: In those deep awful tones of inspiration That baffle death's eclipse. THE SOLDIER OF THE CLOSET.* Nor they alone work faithfully who labor On the dull, dusty thoroughfare of life; The clerkly pen can vanquish, when the sabre Is useless in the strife. In cloistered gloom the quiet man of letters Launching his thoughts, like arrows from the Oft strikes the traitor and his base abettors, [bow, Bringing their grandeur low. Armed with a scroll, the birds of evil omen, That curse a country, he can scare away, Impatient for the fray. Scorn not the sons of Song! nor deem them only They have their tasks sublime. When tyrants tread the hill-top and the valley, The dead are they whose mission here is ended Around the tomb of Liberty they rally, Thy voice is heard to-day. And roll away the stone! *From a poem on "The Utility of Imagination." From "The Ideal." |