morous introduction, the tale of Mr. Green, and an imaginative version of the old Spanish fountain of youth story, entitled Boyuca. His last finished composition was a poem in the Commercial Advertiser, The Dead of 1832.

At the very instant of his death he was engaged upon an article of invention for the first number of the Knickerbocker Magazine upon Esquimaux Literature, for which he had filled his mind with the best reading on the country. It was while engaged on this article on the 17th December, 1832, that he was suddenly attacked by apoplexy. He had written with his pencil the line for one of the poems by which he was illustrating his topic,

Oh think not my spirit among you abides,

some uncertain marks followed from his stricken arm; he rose and fell on the threshold of his room, and lived but a few hours longer.

The residence of Sands for the latter part of his life was at Hoboken, then a rural village within sight of New York. In that quiet retreat, and in the neighborhood of the woods of Weehawken,

The Wood at Hoboken.

celebrated by his own pen as well as by the muse of Halleck, he drew his kindly inspirations of nature, which he hardly needed to temper his always charitable judgments of men. His character has been delicately touched by Bryant in the memoir in the Knickerbocker,* and drawn out with genial sympathy by Verplanck in the biography prefixed to his published writings.† Sands was a man of warm and tender feeling, a loving humorist whose laughter was the gay smile of profound sensibility; of a kindling and rapid imagination, which did not disdain the labor and acquisitions of mature scholarship. He died unmarried, having always lived at home in his father's house. It is related of him, in connexion with his love of nature, that he was so near-sighted that he had never seen the stars from his childhood to his sixteenth year, when he obtained appropriate glasses.

That American literature experienced a great loss in the early death of Sands, will be felt by the reader who makes acquaintance with his well cultivated, prompt, exuberant genius, which pro

mised, had life been spared, a distinguished career of genial mental activity and productiveness.

HOBOKEN.

For what is nature? ring her changes round, Her three flat notes are water, woods, and ground; Prolong the peal-yet, spite of all her clatter, The tedious chime is still-grounds, wood, and water. Is it so, Master Satirist?-does the all-casing air, with the myriad hues which it lends to and borrows again from the planet it invests, make no change in the appearance of the spectacula rerum, the visible exhibitions of nature? Have association and contrast nothing to do with them? Nature can afford to be satirized. She defies burlesque. Look at her in her barrenness, or her terrific majesty-in her poverty, or in her glory-she is still the mighty mother, whom man may superficially trick out, but cannot substantially alter. Art can only succeed by following her; and its most magnificent triumphs are achieved by a religious observance of her rules. It is a proud and primitive prerogative of man, that the physical world has been left under his control, to a certain extent, not merely for the purpose of raising from it his sustenance, but of modifying its appearance to gratify the eye of taste, and, by beautifying the material creation, of improving the spiritual elements of his own being.

When the Duke of Bridgewater's engineer was examined by the House of Commons as to his views on the system of internal communication by water, he gave it as his opinion that rivers were made by the Lord to feed canals; and it is true that Providence has given us the raw material to make what we can out of it.

This may be thought too sublime a flourish for an introduction to the luxuriant and delightful landscape by Weir, an engraving from which embellishes the present number of the Mirror. But, though it may be crudely expressed, it is germain to the subject. Good taste and enterprise have done for Hoboken precisely what they ought to have done, without violating the propriety of nature. Those who loved its wild haunts before the metamorphosis, were, it is true, not a little shocked at what they could not but consider a desecration; and thought they heard the nymphs screaming-"We are off," when carts, bullocks, paddies, and rollers came to clear the forest sanctuary. They were ready to exclaim with the poet, Cardinal Bernis

Quelle étonnante barbarie
D'asservir la varieté

Au cordeau de la symmetrie;
De polir la rusticité

D'un bois fait pour la reverie, Et d'orner la simplicité

De cette riante paririe !+

But "cette riante prairie" is now one of the prettiest places you may see of a summer's day. It is appropriately called the Elysian Fields, and does, indeed, remind the spectator of

Yellow meads of asphodel, And amaranthine bowers.

It is now clothed in vivid, transparent, emerald green; its grove is worthy of being painted by

First published in the New York Mirror, to accompany a landscape by Weir, of which the wood engraving in this article is a copy.

+ Oh, what a shocking thing to sacrifice
Variety to symmetry

In such a wise!

To polish the rusticity

Of that old wood, designed for revery,

And ornament the simple grace

Of that fair meadow's smiling face.-PRINTER'S DEVIL.

Claude Lorraine; and from it you may look, and cannot help looking, on one of the noblest rivers, and one of the finest cities in the universe.

as

Hoboken has been illustrated so often, in poetry and prose, and by the pencil of the limner, in late years, that it would be vain and superfluous to attempt a new description. A "sacred bard," one who will be held such in the appreciation of posterity, has spoken of the walk from this village to Weehawken one of the most beautiful in the world,"* and has given, in prose, a picture of its appearance. Another writer, whose modest genius (I beg your pardon, Messrs. Editors-he is one of your own gang) leavens the literary aliment of our town, and the best part of whom shall assuredly "escape libitina," has elegantly and graphically described the spot in illustrating another series of pictorial views. Halleck's lines are as familiar as household words. Francis Herbert has made the vicinity the scene of one of his tough stories. At least half a dozen different views have been taken of it within the last two years. They embraced, generally, an extensive view of the river, bay, and city. Weir has selected a beautiful spot, in one of the new walks near the mansion of Colonel Stevens, with a glimpse of the splendid sheet of water through the embowering foliage. That gentleman, and lady with a parasol, in front of the prim, and who look a little prim themselves, seem to enjoy the loveliness of the scene, as well as the society of one another. Our country has reason to reckon with pride the name of Weir among those of her artists.

The sunny Italy may boast

The beauteous hues that flush her skies;

he has seen, admired, studied, and painted them; but he can find subjects for his pencil as fair, in his own land, and no one can do them more justice.

It is a fact not generally known, that there is, or was, an old town in Holland called Hoboken, from which, no doubt, this place was named. There was also a family of that name in Holland. A copy of an old work on medicine, by a Dutch physician of the name of Hoboken, is in the library of one of the eminent medical men of this city. The oldest remaining house upon it, for it is insulated, forms the rear of Mr. Thomas Swift's hotel upon the green, and was built sixty years ago, as may be seen by the iron memorandums practicated in the walls. There is at present a superb promenade along the margin of the river, under the high banks and magnesia rocks which overlook it, of more than a mile in length, on which it is intended to lay rails, for the edification of our domestic cockneys and others, who might not else have a chance of seeing a locomotive in operation, and who may be whisked to the Elysian fields before they will find time to comb their whiskers, or count the seconds.

In this genial season of the year, a more appropriate illustration could not be furnished for the Mirror than a view of this pleasant spot. We say, with Horace, let others cry up Thessalian Tempe, &c., our own citizens have a retreat from the dust and heat of the metropolis more agreeable—

Quam domus Albuneæ resonantis,

Et præceps Anio, et Tiburzi lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis.

But, as some of your readers may not undertand Latin, let us imitate, travesty, and doggrelize the ode

*American Landscape. Edited by W. C. Bryant, No. 1. This work was projected by the New York artists; but the project has been abandoned.

Views of New York and its Environs. Published by Peabody & Co., and edited by T. S. Fay.

of Flaccus bodily. There is an abrupt transition in the middle of it, which critics have differed about; but I suppose it is preserved as he wrote it; the whole of the old rascal's great argument being, that with good wine you may be comfortable in any place, even in Communipaw.

Laudabunt alii clarum Rhodon, &c.
Let Willis tell, in glittering prose,
Of Paris and its tempting shows;
Let Irving while his fancy glows,

Praise Spain, renowned-romantic!
Let Cooper write, until it palls,
Of Venice, and her marble walls,
Her dungeons, bridges, and canals,
Enough to make one frantic!

Let voyageurs Macadamize,

With books, the Alps that climb the skies,
And ne'er forget, in anywise,

Geneva's lake and city;

And poor old Rome-the proud, the great,
Fallen-fallen from her high estate,
No cockney sees, but he must prate
About her what a pity!

Of travellers there is no lack,
God knows-each one of them a hack,
Who ride to write, and then go back
And publish a long story,
Chiefly about themselves; but each
Or in dispraise or praise, with breach
Of truth on either side, will preach
About some place's glory.

For me-who never saw the sun
His course o'er other regions run,
Than those whose franchise well was won
By blood of patriot martyrs-
Fair fertile France may smile in vain;
Nor will I seek thy ruins, Spain:
Albion, thy freedom I disdain,

With all thy monarch's charters.
Better I love the river's side,
Where Hudson's sounding waters glide,
And with their full majestic tide

To the great sea keep flowing:
Weehawk, I loved thy frowning height,
Since first I saw, with fond delight,
The wave beneath the rushes bright,
And the new Rome still growing.

[Here occurs the seeming hiatus above referred to He proceeds as follows:]

Though lately we might truly say,
"The rain it raineth every day,"
The wind can sweep the clouds away,
And open daylight's shutters:

So, Colonel Morris, my fine man,
Drink good champagne whene'er you can,
Regardless of the temperance plan,
Or what the parson utters.
Whether in regimentals fine,
Upon a spanking horse you shine,
Or supervise the works divine

Of scribblers like the present:
Trust me, the good old stuff, the blood
Of
generous grapes, well understood
On sea, on land, in town, in wood,
Will make all places pleasant.
For hear what Ajax Teucer said,*
Whose brother foolishly went dead
For spleen-to Salamis he sped,

Sans Telamon's dead body;
His father kicked him off the stoop-
Said he, "For this I will not droop;
The world has realms wherein to snoop,
And I am not a noddy.

"Come, my brave boys, and let us go,
As fortune calls, or winds may blow-
Teucer your guide, the way will show-
Fear no mishap nor sorrow:
Another Salamis as fine,

Is promised by the Delphic shrine:
So stuff your skins to-night with wine,
We'll go to sea to-morrow."

*The papa of the two Ajaces charged them, when they started for Troy, to bring one another home; or else he threatened not to receive the survivor. Ajax Telamon being miffed, because the armour of Achilles was awarded to Ulysses, went crazy, killed sheep, and made a holocaust of himself. When Teucer went home without him, the old gentleman shut the door in his face.—Free translation of Mad. Dacier,

PROEM TO YAMOYDEN.

Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, The last that either bard shall e'er essay ! The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, That first awoke them, in a happier day: Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave; And he who feebly now prolongs the lay, Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave; His harp lies buried deep, in that untimely grave! Friend of my youth, with thee began the love Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams, 'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove, O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams; Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, For ever lit by memory's twilight beams; Where the proud dead that iive in storied page, Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.

There would we linger oft, entranced, to hear, O'er battle fields, the epic thunders roll; Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole; There would we mark, uncurbed by all control, In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight; Or hold communion with the musing soul Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night, In loved Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light. Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but late Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast, Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate And kept the key, till three millenniums past; When, as creation's noblest work was last, Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast, And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be An empire and a home, most worthy for the free. And here, forerunners strange and meet were found,

Of that blessed freedom, only dreamed before ;Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. "Earth was their mother;"- -or they knew no

more,

Or would not that their secret should be told; For they were grave and silent, and such lore, To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.

Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew Their needful wants, and learned not how to hoard, And him whom strength and wisdom crowned, they knew,

But with no servile reverence, as their lord. And on their mountain summits they adored One great, good Spirit, in his high abode, And thence their incense and orisons poured To his pervading presence, that abroad They felt through all his works,-their Father, King, and God.

And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray,
The quivering forest, or the glassy flood,
Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day,
They imaged spirits beautiful and good;
But when the tempest roared, with voices rude,
Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine,
Or withering heats untimely seared the wood,
The angry forms they saw of powers malign;
These they besought to spare, those blest for aid di-
vine.

As the fresh sense of life, through every vein,
With the pure air they drank, inspiring came,

Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain,
And as the feet deer's agile was their frame;
Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name;
These simple truths went down from sire to son,—
To reverence age,—the sluggish hunter's shame,
And craven warrior's infamy to shun,-

And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.

From forest shades they peered, with awful dread,
When, uttering flame and thunder from its side,
The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread,
Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide.
Few years have passed, and all their forests' pride
From shores and hills has vanished, with the race,
Their tenants erst, from memory who have died,
Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace,
In each green thicket's depth, and lone, sequestered
place.

And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet
Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain,
Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet,
To people scenes, where still their names remain ;
And so began our young, delighted strain,
That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave,
And bid their martial hosts arise again,

Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave, And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the

wave.

Friend of my youth! with thee began my song, And o'er thy bier its latest accents die; Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,Though not to me the muse averse deny, Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry, Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er; And he who loved with thee his notes to try, But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore, And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more.

But, no! the freshness of the past shall still Sacred to memory's holiest musings be; When through the ideal fields of song, at will, He roved and gathered chaplets wild with thee; When, reckless of the world, alone and free, Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea; Their white apparel and their streamers gay, Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;

And downward, far, reflected in the clear
Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees;
So buoyant, they do seem to float in air,
And silently obey the noiseless breeze;
Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please,
They part for distant ports: the gales benign
Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees,
To its own harbour sure, where each divine
And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.
Muses of Helicon! melodious race

Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyné;
Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace,
Aud drives each scowling form of grief away!
Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay
Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove,
Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly

On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore, Whose honoured hand took not your gift in vain, Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,-* Farewell! a long farewell! I worship thee no more.

A MONODY MADE ON THE LATE MR. SAMUEL PATCH, BY AN ADMIRER OF THE BATHOS.

By waters shall he die, and take his end.—SHAKESPEARE. Toll for Sam Patch! Sam Patch, who jumps no

more,

This or the world to come. Sam Patch is dead! The vulgar pathway to the unknown shore

Of dark futurity he would not tread.

No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed; Nor with decorous woe, sedately stepped

Behind his corpse, and tears by retail shed;-The mighty river, as it onward swept,

In one great wholesale sob, his body drowned and kept.

Toll for Sam Patch! he scorned the common way
That leads to fame, up heights of rough ascent,
And having heard Pope and Longinus say,

That some great men had risen to falls, he went
And jumped, where wild Passaic's waves had rent
The antique rocks;-the air free passage gave,-
And graciously the liquid element
Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave;
And all the people said that Sam was very brave.
Fame, the clear spirit that doth to heaven upraise,
Led Sam to dive into what Byron calls
The hell of waters. For the sake of praise,

He wooed the bathos down great water-falls;
The dizzy precipice, which the eye appals
Of travellers for pleasure, Samuel found

Pleasant, as are to women lighted halls, Crammed full of fools and fiddles; to the sound Of the eternal roar, he timed his desperate bound. Sam was a fool. But the large world of such,

Has thousands-better taught, alike absurd, And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much, Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard. Alas for Sam! Had he aright preferred The kindly element, to which he gave

Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard

That it was now his winding-sheet and grave,
Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for
the brave.

He soon got drunk, with rum and with renown,
As many others in high places do ;-
Whose fall is like Sam's last-for down and down,
By one mad impulse driven, they flounder through
The gulf that keeps the future from our view,
And then are found not. May they rest in peace!
We heave the sigh to human frailty due--
And shall not Sam have his? The muse shall cease
To keep the heroic roll, which she began in Greece--
With demigods, who went to the Black Sea

For wool (and if the best accounts be straight,
Came back, in negro phraseology,

With the same wool each upon his pate), In which she chronicled the deathless fate Of him who jumped into the perilous ditch

Left by Rome's street commissioners, in a state Which made it dangerous, and by jumping which He made himself renowned, and the contractors rich

I say, the muse shall quite forget to sound
The chord whose music is undying, if

She do not strike it when Sam Patch is drowned.
Leander dived for love. Leucadia's cliff

* Hesiod. Theog. 1. 1. 60. 30.

The Lesbian Sappho leapt from in a miff, To punish Phaon; Icarus went dead,

Because the wax did not continue stiff; And, had he minded what his father said, He had not given a name unto his watery bed. And Helle's case was all an accident,

As everybody knows. Why sing of these? Nor would I rank with Sam that man who went Down into Ætna's womb-Empedocles,

I think he called himself. Themselves to please, Or else unwillingly, they made their springs; For glory in the abstract, Sam made his,

To prove to all men, commons, lords, and kings, That " some thi gs may be done, as well as other things."

I will not be fatigued, by citing more

Who jumped of old, by hazard or design, Nor plague the weary ghosts of boyish lore, Vulcan, Apollo, Phaeton--in fine

All Tooke's Pantheon. Yet they grew divine By their long tumbles; and if we can match Their hierarchy, shall we not entwine

One wreath? Who ever came " up to the scratch,"
And for so little, jumped so bravely as Sam Patch?
To long conclusions many men have jumped

In logic, and the safer course they took;
By any other, they would have been stumped,
Unable to argue, or to quote a book,

And quite dumb-founded, which they cannot
brook;

They break no bones, and suffer no contusion,
Hiding their woful fall, by hook and crook,
In slang and gibberish, sputtering and confusion ;
But that was not the way Sam came to his conclu-
sion.

He jumped in person. Death or Victory

Was his device," and there was no mistake," Except his last; and then he did but die,

A blunder which the wisest men will make. Aloft, where mighty floods the mountains break, To stand, the target of ten thousand eyes,

And down into the coil and water-quake,
To leap, like Maia's offspring, from the skies-
For this all vulgar flights he ventured to despise.
And while Niagara prolongs its thunder,

Though still the rock primæval disappears, And nations change their bounds--the theme of wonder

Shall Sam go down the cataract of long years;
And if there be sublimity in tears,

Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed

When his frail star gave way, and waked his fears Lest, by the ungenerous crowd it might be said, That he was all a hoax, or that his pluck had fled. Who would compare the maudlin Alexander, Blubbering, because he had no job in hand, Acting the hypocrite, or else the gander, With Sam, whose grief we all can understand? His crying was not womanish, nor planned For exhibition; but his heart o'erswelled With its own agony, when he the grand Natural arrangements for a jump beheld, And measuring the cascade, found not his courage quelled.

His last great failure set the final seal

Unto the record Time shall never tear,

While bravery has its honour,-while men feel

The holy natural sympathies which are

First, last, and mightiest in the bosom. Where

The tortured tides of Genesee descend,

He came his only intimate a bear,(We know not that he had another friend),

The martyr of renown, his wayward course to end.

The fiend that from the infernal rivers stole

Hell-draughts for man, too much tormented him, With nerves unstrung, but steadfast in his soul, He stood upon the salient current's brim; His head was giddy, and his sight was dim; And then he knew this leap would be his last,Saw air, and earth, and water wildly swim, With eyes of many multitudes, dense and vast, That stared in mockery; none a look of kindness

cast.

Beat down, in the huge amphitheatre

"I see before me the gladiator lie," And tier on tier, the myriads waiting there The bow of grace, without one pitying eyeHe was a slave--a captive hired to die ;Sam was born free as Cesar; and he might The hopeless issue have refused to try;

No! with true leap, but soon with faltering flight,—— Deep in the roaring gulf, he plunged to endless night."

But, ere he leapt, he begged of those who made
Money by his dread venture, that if he

Should perish, such collection should be paid

As might be picked up from the "company"
To his Mother. This, his last request, shall be,—
Tho' she who bore him ne'er his fate should know,-
An iris, glittering o'er his memory-

When all the streams have worn their barriers low,
And, by the sea drunk up, for ever cease to flow.
On him who chooses to jump down cataracts,
Why should the sternest moralist be severe ?
Judge not the dead by prejudice-but facts,
Such as in strictest evidence appear.
Else were the laurels of all ages sere.
Give to the brave, who have passed the final goal,-
The gates that ope not back,-the generous tear;
And let the muse's clerk upon her scroll,

In coarse, but honest verse, make up the judgment roll.

Therefore it is considered, that Sam Patch

Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme; His name shall be a portion in the batch

Of the heroic dough, which baking Time Kneads for consuming ages--and the chime Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring,

Shall tell of him; he dived for the sublime, And found it. Thou, who with the eagle's wing Being a goose, would'st fly,-dream not of such a thing!

THE DEAD OF 1832.

Oh Time and Death! with certain pace,
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning in your awful race,
The cot, the palace, and the throne!

Not always in the storm of war,

Nor by the pestilence that sweeps From the plague-smitten realms afar, Beyond the old and solemn deeps: In crowds the good and mighty go,

And to those vast dim chambers hie:Where mingled with the high and low, Dead Cæsars and dead Shakespeares lie! Dread Ministers of God! sometimes

Ye smite at once, to do His will, In all earth's ocean-severed climes,

Those whose renown ye cannot kill!
When all the brightest stars that burn
At once are banished from their spheres,

Men sadly ask, when shall return
Such lustre to the coming years?

For where is he*-who lived so long

Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, And showed his fate, in powerful song, Whose soul for learning's sake was lost? Where he who backwards to the birth Of Time itself, adventurous trod, And in the mingled mass of earth

Found out the handiwork of God?† Where he who in the mortal head,‡

Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace The soul's vast features, that shall tread The stars, when earth is nothingness? Where he who struck old Albyn's lyre,§ Till round the world its echoes roll, And swept, with all a prophet's fire, The diapason of the soul?

Where he who read the mystic lore,||

Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep? Where he who with a poet's eye¶ Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, And made even sordid Poverty

Classic, when in HIS numbers glazed? Where that old sage so hale and staid,** The "greatest good" who sought to find; Who in his garden mused, and made

All forms of rule, for all mankind?
And thou-whom millions far removed++
Revered the hierarch meek and wise,
Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved,
Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.

He too-the heir of glory-where
Hath great Napoleon's scion fled?
Ah! glory goes not to an heir!

Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!
But hark! a nation sighs! for he,‡‡
Last of the brave who perilled all
To make an infant empire free,
Obeys the inevitable call!

They go, and with them is a crowd,
For human rights who THOUGHT and DID,
We rear to them no temples proud,
Each hath his mental pyramid.

All earth is now their sepulchre,

The MIND, their monument sublimeYoung in eternal fame they are

Such are YOUR triumphs, Death and Time.

GRENVILLE MELLEN.

GRENVILLE MELLEN Was born at Biddeford, Maine, June 19, 1799. He was the eldest son of the eminent Chief-justice Mellen, of the Supreme Court in that state. He was graduated at Harvard in 1818; studied law with his father, and settled at Portland, Maine. In 1823 he removed to North Yarmouth, in the same state, where he remained for five years. His poems at this period and subsequently to his death, appeared frequently in the periodicals, the magazines and annuals, of the time. In 1826 he pronounced before the Peace Society of Maine, at Portland, a poem, The Rest of Empires, and in 1828 an Anniversary Poem, before the Athenian