By turns from each to each I roved,
And each by turns again I loved;
For ages ne'er could one have proved
More lovely than the rest.

"O blessed band, of birth divine,
What mortal task is like to mine!"-

And further had I spoke,

When, lo! there pour'd a flood of light
So fiercely on my aching sight,
I fell beneath the vision bright,

And with the pain awoke.

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.*

ALL hail! thou noble land,

Our fathers' native soil!
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore;
For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phœbus travels bright
The world o'er!

The genius of our clime,

From his pine-embattled steep, Shall hail the great sublime;

While the Tritons of the deep

With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim,

Then let the world combine

O'er the main our naval line,
Like the milky-way, shall shine
Bright in fame!

Though ages long have pass'd

Since our fathers left their home,

Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravell'd seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!

And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,

Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?

While the language free and bold
Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our MILTON told

How the vault of heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;

While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,

From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast;

THE SPANISH MAID.

FIVE weary months sweet Inez number'd
From that unfading bitter day
When last she heard the trumpet bray
That call'd her Isidor away-

That never to her heart has slumber'd;

She hears it now, and sees, far bending
Along the mountain's misty side,
His plumed troop, that, waving wide,
Seems like a rippling, feathery tide,
Now bright, now with the dim shore blending;
She hears the cannon's deadly rattle-
And fancy hurries on to strife,

And hears the drum and screaming fife
Mix with the last sad cry of life.
O, should he-should he fall in battle!
Yet still his name would live in story,
And every gallant bard in Spain
Would fight his battles o'er again.
And would not she for such a strain
Resign him to his country's glory?

Thus Inez thought, and pluck'd the flower
That grew upon the very bank
Where first her ear bewilder'd drank
The plighted vow-where last she sank
In that too bitter parting hour.

But now the sun is westward sinking;
And soon amid the purple haze,
That showers from his slanting rays,
A thousand loves there meet her gaze,
To change her high heroic thinking.

Then hope, with all its crowd of fancies,
Before her flits and fills the air;

And, deck'd in victory's glorious gear,
In vision Isidor is there.

Then how her heart mid sadness dances!

Yet little thought she, thus forestalling
The coming joy, that in that hour
The future, like the colour'd shower
That seems to arch the ocean o'er,
Was in the living present falling.

The foe is slain. His sable charger

All fleck'd with foam comes bounding on;
The wild Morena rings anon,

And on its brow the gallant Don,
And gallant steed grow larger, larger;

And now he nears the mountain-hollow;
The flowery bank and little lake
Now on his startled vision break-
And Inez there.-He's not awake-
Ah, what a day this dream will follow!

But no he surely is not dreaming.
Another minute makes it clear.
A scream, a rush, a burning tear
From Inez' cheek, dispel the fear
That bliss like his is only seeming.

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.

ON SEEING THE PICTURE OF ÆOLUS, BY
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.

ON THE DEATH OF COLERIDGE.

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.

THE TUSCAN MAID.

How pleasant and how sad the turning tide
Of human life, when side by side
The child and youth begin to glide

The

Along the vale of years;

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.

She sees the mottled moth come twinkling by, And sees it 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 shall prove,
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.

ROSALIE.

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.
No never came from aught below
This melody of wo,

That makes my heart to overflow
As from a thousand gushing springs
Unknown before; that with it brings
This nameless light-if light it be-
That veils the world I see.

For all I see around me wears
The hue of other spheres;
And something blent of smiles and tears
Comes from the very air I breathe.
O, 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.

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 wil lingly 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 fessor of the Latin Language, and in 1817, Profes Harvard University. In 1811, he was made Prosor 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.

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 check 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,

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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 share;

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

I'd watch beside her bed.

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.

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,-
Hath never ceased to bless

My soul, nor will it, through eternal years.

"How often has the thought

Of my mourn'd mother brought

Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power
The tempter to repel!

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, And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws, Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales, Alone, at night,-the Italian boatman sails. High o'er Mont' Alto walks, in maiden pride, Night's queen;-he sees her image on that tide, Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest; Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, Whose every sweep is echo'd from the shore; Now, far before him, on a liquid bed Of waveless water, rest her radiant head. How mild the empire of that virgin queen! How dark the mountain's shade! how still the scene! Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, Nor brush, with ruffling wind, that glassy river. "Hark! 't is a convent's bell: its midnight chime; For music measures even the march of time :O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, Gray turrets rise :-the eye can catch no more. The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, Suspends his oar :-a low and solemn swell,

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