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When doomed to Poverty's sequestered dell,
The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell,
Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame,
Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same-
Oh, there, prophetic Hope! thy smile bestow,
And chase the pangs that worth should never know-
There, as the parent deals his scanty store
To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more,
Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage
Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age.


HOPE, THE MOTHER'S INSPIRATION. Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy :“Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy; No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine; No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; Bright as bis manly sire the son shall be In form and soul; but ah! more blest than he! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past, With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. “ And say, when summoned from the world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree, Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near? Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, And think on all my love, and all my woe ?”



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Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale
That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail;
She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore,
Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore,
Knew the pale form, and shrieking in amaze,
Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze;
Poor widowed wretch ! 'twas there she wept in vain,
Till Memory fled her agonizing brain ;-
But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe,

that Truth could ne'er bestow; Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream.



Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime;
Thy handmaid Arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song,
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk,
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray,
And shepherds dance at summer's opening day



Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour
There dwelt no juy

in Eden's

bower! In vain the viewless seraph lingering there, At starry midnight, charmed the silent air:


In vain the wild-bird caroled on the steep,'
To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep
In vain, to soothe the solitary shade,
Aërial notes in mingling measure played ;
The summer wind that shook the spangled tree,
The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ;-
Still slowly passed the melancholy day,
And still the stranger wist not where to stray.
The world was sad !—the garden was a wild !
And man, the hermit, sighed-till woman smiled.



Oh ! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse,
One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance,
Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;
Who, moldering earthward 'reft of every trust,
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this world sufficient bliss ?—
Ah, me! the laureled wr

th that murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted and so dread
As waves the nightshade round the skeptic head.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ?
I smile on death, if heavenward HOPE remain !



Unfading HOPE! when life's last embers burn,
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return !
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!
Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!

What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day-
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the phoenix-spirit burns within !
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The dawn of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody.



Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be,
The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee!
If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell,
If that faint murmur be the last farewell,
If Fate unite the faithful but to part,
Why is their memory sacred to the heart?
Why does the brother of my childhood seem
Restored awhile in every pleasing dream ?
Why do I joy the lonely spot view,
By artless friendship blessed when life was new?



Eternal HOPE! when yonder spheres sublime
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,
Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade,
When all the sister planets have decayed;
When rapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below;
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile !


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER, the great American novelist, was born in Bur. lington, New Jersey, September 15th, 1789, aud died at Cooperstown, New York, September 14th, 1851. While yet a child, he went with his family to reside on the borders of Otsego Lake, where his father had acquired a title to some large tracts of land. Here he lived, till his thirteenth year, amid the scehes and circumstances incidental to frontier life. At that early age he was taken out of the midst of home influences, and sent to Yale College. After continuing his connection with the college for three years, he left it of his own accord, and entered the navy: serving for six years, successively, as common sailor, midshipman, and lieutenant. It was during this part of his lite, that he acquired that wonderful familiarity with nautical affairs, which is so prominent a characteristic in some of his works. In 1811 he was married, and soon after went to reside in Mamaroneck, in Westchester county, New York, having previously resigned his post in the navy. Here he commenced that splendid career of authorship, which has given him a reputation wide as the world, and enduring as time, and which was continued, both at home and abroad, at comparatively short intervals, till the rapid decline that, by a few months, preceded his death, arrested, and forever, the progress of his pen. His salient points, as a writer, are well shown in the following short sketch hy Griswo'd.

Rupus W. GRISWOLD was born in Rutland County, Vermont, in the year 1815, and died in August, 1857. Though otherwise a large contributor to the literary stock of the country, he is chiefly known by his works on American Literature. These consist of specimens from American authors, with notes biographical and critical, and, as a general thing, display a fair, appreciative spirit in estimating literary merit. Mr. Griswold has doce much to bring American authors into deserved notice.


RUFUS W. GRISWOLD 1. Cooper has the faculty of giving to his pictures an astonishing reality. They are not mere transcripts of nature, though as such they would possess extraordinary merit, but actual creations, embodying the very spirit of intelligent and genial experience and observation. His Indians, notwithstanding all that has been written to the contrary, are no more inferior in fidelity than they are in poetical interest to those of his most successful imitators or rivals.

2. His hunters and trappers have the same vividness and freshness, and, in the whole realm of fiction, there is nothing more actual, harmonious, and sustained. They evince not only

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