JAMES G. BROOKS. [Born, 1801. Died, 1841.] THE late JAMES GORDON BROOKS was born at Red Hook, near the city of New York, on the third day of September, 1801. His father was an officer in the revolutionary army, and, after the achievement of our independence, a member of the national House of Representatives. Our author was educated at Union College, in Schenectady, and was graduated in 1819. In the following year he commenced studying the law with Mr. Justice EMOTT, of Poughkeepsie; but, though he devoted six or seven years to the acquisition of legal knowledge, he never sought admission to the bar. In 1823, he removed to New York, where he was for several years an editor of the Morning Courier, one of the most able and influential journals in this country. Mr. BROOKS began to write for the press in 1817. Two years afterward he adopted the signature of "Florio," by which his contributions to the periodicals were from that time known. In 1828, he was married. His wife, under the signature of "Norna," had been for several years a writer for the literary journals, and, in 1829, a collection of the poetry of both was published, entitled "The Rivals of Este, and other Poems, by James G. and Mary E. Brooks." The poem which gave its title to the volume was by Mrs. BROOKS. The longest of the pieces by her husband was one entitled "Genius," which he had delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, in 1827. He wrote but little poetry after the appearance of this work. In 1830 or 1831, he removed to Winchester, in Virginia, where, for four or five years, he edited a political and literary gazette. He returned to the state of New York, in 1838, and established himself in Albany, where he remained until the 20th day of February, 1841, when he died. The poems of Mr. BROOKS are spirited and smoothly versified, but diffuse and carelessly written. He was imaginative, and composed with remarkable ease and rapidity; but was too indifferent in regard to his reputation ever to rewrite or revise his productions. GREECE-1832. LAND of the brave! where lie inurn'd And blazed upon the battle's fray: Land of the Muse! within thy bowers And every stream that flow'd along, Shall glory gild thy clime no more? Where proudly it hath swept before? Hath not remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm, And strike for freedom once again? No! coward souls, the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, The light which beam'd on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play; And thou art but a shadow now, Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dash'd down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom?— The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay Where death hath hush'd them into rest. Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled; Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance, In vain, in vain the hero calls- In ruin, Freedom's battle-shroud : Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires. Lost land! where Genius made his reign, Of ignorance hath brooded long, The sons of science and of song. Thy sun hath set--the evening storm And spread its pall upon the sky! And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece ! TO THE DYING YEAR. THOU desolate and dying year! Emblem of transitory man, Whose wearisome and wild career, Like thine, is bounded to a span; It seems but as a little day Since nature smiled upon thy birth, And Spring came forth in fair array, To dance upon the joyous earth. Sad alteration! now how lone, How verdureless is nature's breast, Thou desolate and dying year! As beauty stretch'd upon the bier, In death's clay-cold and dark caress; There's loveliness in thy decay, Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, Like memory's mild and cheering ray Beaming upon the night of ill. Yet, yet the radiance is not gone, Which shed a richness o'er the scene, Which smiled upon the golden dawn, When skies were brilliant and serene; O! still a melancholy smile Gleams upon Nature's aspect fair, To charm the eye a little while, Ere ruin spreads his mantle there! Thou desolate and dying year! Since time entwined thy vernal wreath, How often love hath shed the tear, And knelt beside the bed of death; How many hearts, that lightly sprung When joy was blooming but to die, Their finest chords by death unstrung, Have yielded life's expiring sigh, And, pillow'd low beneath the clay, Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burn; The proud, the gentle, and the gay, Gather'd unto the mouldering urn; Thou desolate and dying year! The musing spirit finds in thee Lessons, impressive and serene, Of deep and stern morality; Thou teachest how the germ of youth, Which blooms in being's dawning day, Planted by nature, rear'd by truth, Withers, like thee, in dark decay. Promise of youth! fair as the form Of Heaven's benign and golden bow, Whose origin is from on high, From the pure fountains of the sky; And bow before its gleaming shrine. Prophetic of our final fall; Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sear; A brilliancy upon thy prime, Time! Time! in thy triumphal flight, How all life's phantoms fleet away; Thy smile of hope, and young delight, Fame's meteor-beam, and Fancy's ray: They fade; and on the heaving tide, Rolling its stormy waves afar, There, in disorder, dark and wild, Are seen the fabrics once so high; Which mortal vanity had piled As emblems of eternity! And deem'd the stately piles, whose forms That gather'd round the brow of Time. Thou desolate and dying year! Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine; Like evening shadows disappear, And leave the spirit to repine. Its fresh and sparkling waters on, When life was an enchanted dream? Enveloped in the starless night Which destiny hath overspread; Enroll'd upon that trackless flight Where the death-wing of time hath sped! O! thus hath life its even-tide Of sorrow, loneliness, and grief; It withers like the yellow leaf: Which heralds man unto the tomb! TO THE AUTUMN LEAF. THOU faded leaf! it seems to be On field, on flower, and spray; Hope gilds each coming day. Her fond, delusive lay: Then the young, fervent heart beats high, With bright, unceasing play; Is beauty in her morning pride, And hope illumes its placid tide: When hope and bliss have died! And valour's laurel wreath must fade; Must lose the freshness, and the bloom On which the beam of glory play'd; The banner waving o'er the crowd, And warning tone in thy decay; THE LAST SONG. STRIKE the wild harp yet once again! Be hush'd in death for evermore. Creative fancy, be thou still; And let oblivious Lethe pour Upon my lyre its waters chill. Strike the wild harp yet once again! Then be its fitful chords unstrung, Silent as is the grave's domain, And mute as the death-moulder'd tongue; Which plays its pensive strings along! The hours of youth and song have pass'd, JOY AND SORROW. Joy kneels, at morning's rosy prime, Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low; And Joy hath dash'd it from his crest, ALBERT G. GREENE. [Born, 1802.] MR. GREENE was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the tenth day of February, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, at which he was graduated in 1820. He was soon after admitted to the bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he was elected to an office under the city government, in which he has since remained. One of his earliest metrical compositions was the familiar piece entitled "Old Grimes," which was written in the year in which he entered the university. His poems, except one delivered before a literary society, at Providence, were written for periodicals, and have never been published in a collected form. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'ER a low couch the setting sun A dying warrior lay, Whose fame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil 66 Its iron strength had spent. They come around me here, and say That I shall mount my noble steed Their own liege lord and master born,— "And what is death? I've dared him oft "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,And fire the culverin, Bid each retainer arm with speed,- Up with my banner on the wall,— With many a martial tread, Along the vaulted wall, Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, O'er the proud, old Gothic hall. TO THE WEATHERCOCK ON OUR STEEPLE. THE dawn has broke, the morn is up, And there thy poised and gilded spear Upon that steep and lofty tower Where thou thy watch hast kept, A true and faithful sentinel, While all around thee slept. For years, upon thee, there has pour'd And through the long, dark, starless night, By day and night the same, Still thou hast met and faced the storm, No chilling blast in wrath has swept But thou hast watch'd its onward course, Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes How oft I've seen, at early dawn, Or twilight's quiet hour, Come darting round thy tower, And catch his earliest light, And offer ye the morn's salute, Or bid ye both,-good-night. And when, around thee or above, Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight Till, after twittering round thy head Have settled on thy back. Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth, Men slander thee, my honest friend, They have no right to make thy name Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known But when thou changest sides, canst give Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course Which they do never know, Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod Through one more dark and cheerless night And now in glory o'er thy head The morning light has burst. And unto earth's true watcher, thus, When his dark hours have pass'd, Will come "the day-spring from on high," To cheer his path at last. Bright symbol of fidelity, Still may I think of thee: And may the lesson thou dost teach But still, in sunshine or in storm, Whatever task is mine, May I be faithful to my trust, STANZAS. O, THINK not that the bosom's light To feel its warmth and share its glow. On all around may coldly shine, But only genial warmth conveys To those who gather near the shrine. The hidden power which they enfold? Until the blow that woke it came, |