THE SUM OF LIFE. SEARCHER of gold, whose days and nights All waste away in anxious care, And strugglest in the foam; O! come and view this land of graves, And mark thee out thy home. Lover of woman, whose sad heart Wastes like a fountain in the sun, Here slumber forms as fair as those Lover of fame, whose foolish thought Steals onward o'er the wave of time, The spirit-mansion desolate, The absent soul in fear; Bring home thy thoughts and come with me, And see where all thy pride must be: Searcher of fame, look here! And, warrior, thou with snowy plume, ΤΟ ΑΝΝ. THOU wert as a lake that lieth In a bright and sunny way; I was as a bird that flieth O'er it on a pleasant day; When I look'd upon thy features Presence then some feeling lent; But thou knowest, most false of creatures, With a kiss my vow was greeted, But I saw that kiss repeated That thy heart should not be changed; I could blame thee for awaking Thoughts the world will but deride; Calling out, and then forsaking Flowers the winter wind will chide; Guiling to the midway ocean Barks that tremble by the shore; THE LOST AT SEA. WIFE, who in thy deep devotion Hope no more-his course is done. Dream not, when upon thy pillow, That he slumbers by thy side; For his corse beneath the billow Heaveth with the restless tide. Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, Laugh amid the sorrowing rains, Know ye many clouds are throwing Shadows on your sire's remains? Where the hoarse, gray surge is rolling With a mountain's motion on, Dream ye that its voice is tolling For your father lost and gone? When the sun look'd on the water, Where the giant current roll'd, And the silent sunbeams slanted, Wavering through the crystal deep, Till their wonted splendours haunted Those shut eyelids in their sleep. Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming, Sparkled through his raven hair; But the sleep that knows no dreaming Bound him in its silence there. So we left him; and to tell thee That thy heart-blood wildly flows, That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, Are the fruits of these new woes. Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring, That ye are an orphan race? THE DEATH-BED OF BEAUTY. SHE sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose Or like herself,-she will be dead to-morrow. How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl! And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles! Waving, almost in death, the raven curl That floats around her; and she most resembles The fall of night upon the ocean foam, Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed; And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home, Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted! O, bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven, And now she lies in ruins-look and weep! How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow! And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow. TO THE ICE-MOUNTAIN. GRAVE of waters gone to rest! Wandering on the trackless plain, Sailing mid the angry storm, Ploughing ocean's oozy floor, Piling to the clouds thy form! Wandering monument of rain, Is it that thou comest forth? Roamer in the hidden path, 'Neath the green and clouded wave! Trampling in thy reckless wrath, On the lost, but cherish'd brave; Parting love's death-link'd embraceCrushing beauty's skeletonTell us what the hidden race With our mourned lost have done! Floating isle, which in the sun Art an icy coronal; Wend thee to the southern main; Warm skies wait to welcome thee! Mingle with the wave again! THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. WHEN the summer sun was in the west, Some on the blue and changeful sea, And some in the prisoner's cell. And then his eye with a smile would beam, And the blood would leave his brain, And the verdure of his soul return, Like sere grass after rain! But when the tempest wreathed and spread A mantle o'er the sun, He gather'd back his woes again, And brooded thereupon; And thus he lived, till Time one day TO A WAVE. LIST! thou child of wind and sea, Wave! now on the golden sands, Thou hast leap'd on high to pilfer? And the mighty winds were risen, While the brave and fair were dying, Wave! didst mark a white hand clasp In thy folds, as thou wert flying? Hast thou seen the hallow'd rock Where the pride of kings reposes, Crown'd with many a misty lock, Wreathed with sapphire, green, and roses? Or with joyous, playful leap, Hast thou been a tribute flinging, Up that bold and jutty steep, Pearls upon the south wind stringing? Faded Wave! a joy to thee, Calm as thine, thou ocean-rover! THOMAS WARD. [Born, 1807.] DOCTOR WARD was born at Newark, in New Jersey, on the eighth of June, 1807. His father, General THOMAS WARD, is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most respectable citizens of that town; and has held various offices of public trust in his native state, and represented his district in the national Congress. Doctor WARD received his classical education at the academies in Bloomfield and Newark, and the college at Princeton. He chose the profession of physic, and, after the usual preparation, obtained his degree of Doctor of Medicine in the spring of 1829, at the Rutgers Medical College, in New York. In the autumn of the same year he went to Paris, to avail himself of the facilities afforded in that capital for the prosecution of every branch of medical inquiry; and, after two years' absence, during which he accomplished the usual tour through Italy, Switzerland, Holland, and Great Britain, he returned to New York, and commenced the practice of medicine in that city. In the course of two or three years, however, he gradually withdrew from business, his circumstances permitting him to exchange devotion to his profession for the more congenial pursuits of literature and general knowledge. He is married, and still resides in New York; spending his summers, however, in his native city, and among the more romantic and beautiful scenes of New Jersey. His first literary efforts were brief satirical pieces, in verse and prose, published in a country gazette, in 1825 and 1826. It was not until after his return from Europe, when he adopted the signature of "FLACCUS," and began to write for the "New York American," that he attracted much attention. His principal work, "Passaic, a Group of Poems touching that River," appeared in 1841. It contains some fine descriptive passages, and its versification is generally correct and musical. "The Monomania of Money-getting," a satire, and many of his minor poems, are more distinguished for vigour than for melody, though he rarely violates the rules of metre. MUSINGS ON RIVERS. BEAUTIFUL rivers! that adown the vale With graceful passage journey to the deep, Let me along your grassy marge recline At ease, and musing, meditate the strange Bright history of your life; yes, from your birth, Has beauty's shadow chased your every step; The blue sea was your mother, and the sun Your glorious sire: clouds your voluptuous cradle, Roof'd with o'erarching rainbows; and your fall To earth was cheer'd with shout of happy birds, With brighten'd faces of reviving flowers And meadows, while the sympathising west Took holiday, and donn'd her richest robes. From deep, mysterious wanderings your springs Break bubbling into beauty; where they lie In infant helplessness a while, but soon Gathering in tiny brooks, they gambol down The steep sides of the mountain, laughing, shouting, Teasing the wild flowers, and at every turn Meeting new playmates still to swell their ranks; Which, with the rich increase resistless grown, Shed foam and thunder, that the echoing wood Rings with the boisterous glee; whileo'er their heads, Catching their spirit blithe, young rainbows sport, The frolic children of the wanton sun. Nor is your swelling prime, or green old age, Though calm, unlovely; still, where'er ye move, Your train is beauty; trees stand grouping by To mark your graceful progress: giddy flowers, And vain, as beauties wont, stoop o'er the verge To greet their faces in your flattering glass; The thirsty herd are following at your side; And water-birds, in clustering fleets, convoy Your sea-bound tides; and jaded man, released Is record traced of Gon's exuberant grace Freighted with treasures bound for distant shores, THOMAS WARD. New riders spur them, and enraged they rush, As falls the blessing, how the satiate earth Bearing the wealth of commerce on your backs, Uprose to heaven in pride the princely tree, TO THE MAGNOLIA. WHEN roaming o'er the marshy field, Chaste blossom! such a balm as thou. So, in the dreary path of life, Through clogging toil and thorny care, Love rears his blossom o'er the strife, Like thine, to cheer the wanderer there: Which pours such incense round the spot, His pains, his cares, are all forgot. TO AN INFANT IN HEAVEN. THOU bright and star-like spirit! I see mid heaven's seraphic host- But have we cause to grieve? The little weeper, tearless, The sinner, snatch'd from sin; And I, thy earthly teacher, Would blush thy powers to see; And I, a child to thee! Thy brain, so uninstructed While in this lowly state, Thine eyes, so curb'd in vision, Now range the realms of space- Thy little hand, so helpless, That scarce its toys could hold, Thy feeble feet, unsteady, That totter'd as they trod, Nor is thy tongue less skilful, "T is pleading for a mother's weal, And now, still more to tempt our hearts, 2B2 JOHN H. BRYANT. [Born, 1807.] JOHN HOWARD BRYANT was born in Cumming- | ton, Massachusetts, on the twenty-second day of July, 1807. His youth was passed principally in rural occupations, and in attending the district and other schools, until he was nineteen years of age, when he began to study the Latin language, with a view of entering one of the colleges. In 1826, he wrote the first poem of which he retained any copy. This was entitled "My Native Village," and first appeared in the "United States Review and Literary Gazette," a periodical published simultaneously at New York and Boston, of which his brother, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, was one of the editors. It is included in the present collection. After this he gave up the idea of a university education, and placed himself for a while at the Rensselaer School at Troy, under the superintendance of Professor EATON. He subsequently applied himself to the study of the mathematical and natural sciences, under different instructors, and in his intervals of leisure produced several poems, which were published in the gazettes. In April, 1831, he went to Jacksonville, in Illinois; and in September of the next year went to Princeton, in the same state, where he sat himself down as a squatter, or inhabitant of the public lands not yet ordered to be sold by the government. When the lands came into the market, he purchased a farm, bordering on one of the fine groves of that country. He was married in 1833. He accepted soon afterward two or three public offices, one of which was that of Recorder of Bureau county; but afterward resigned them, and devoted himself to agricultural pursuits. Of his poems, part were written in Massachusetts, and part in Illinois. They have the same general characteristics as those of his brother. He is a lover of nature, and describes minutely and effectively. To him the wind and the streams are ever musical, and the forests and the prairies clothed in beauty. His versification is easy and correct, and his writings show him to be a man of refined taste and kindly feelings, and to have a mind stored with the best learning. THE NEW ENGLAND PILGRIM'S FUNERAL. It was a wintry scene, The hills were whiten'd o'er, And the chill north winds were blowing keen Gone was the wood-bird's lay, And the voice of the stream has pass'd away And the low sun coldly smiled They raised it gently up, They bore it away, with a solemn step, And grief was in each eye, When they laid his cold corpse low Weeping, they pass'd away, With no mark to tell where their dead friend lay, But the mossy forest-stone. When the winter storms were gone And o'er him giant trees When these were overspread These woods are perish'd now, And the yeoman sings, as he drives his plough O'er that once sacred spot. Two centuries are flown Since they laid his cold corpse low, And his bones are moulder'd to dust, and strown And they who laid him there, Their memory remains, And ever shall remain, More lasting than the aged fanes Of Egypt's storied plain. |